"Thomas Greer died four months ago," I said flatly. "His notary stamp was never surrendered to the state registry. Harlan keeps Greer’s old desk in the basement annex, right across from the boiler room."
Cross typed a rapid update into his tablet. "That gives us a fraudulent instrument under color of authority, but digital records here are legally rebuttable only if we produce the physical register before the county judge signs the ex parte possession order. Harlan has Judge Douglas sitting in chambers right now, waiting for Briggs to log your custody transfer."
"Judge Douglas won't sign an order without the ledger if I'm standing there to demand it," I replied, feeling my spine straighten despite the throb behind my ribs. "The county charter mandates that no land seizure can be finalized without the primary bound parchment ledger presented for physical inspection in open court. Harlan knows that. That's why he’s in the vault right now, preparing to destroy Volume Fourteen."
The convoy cut through the service alley behind the county complex at seven minutes before five. The granite courthouse was quiet, its loading bay screened by overgrown privet. The public doors out front were chained for the weekend, but the yellow maintenance light above the service door hummed in the evening air.
Cross killed our headlights fifty yards out. "Two agents on the alley exit. Three with us. Mrs. Mercer, stay behind my shield until we clear the basement corridor."
"I know the lock tumblers better than your men do," I whispered, reaching for the brass key. "The service door has a double-throw deadlock. If you force it with a ram, the internal bolt drops and welds the latch shut from the inside. Let me open it."
We moved swiftly across the damp gravel. My hands were shaking, not with terror, but with the cold fury of a woman who had seen sixty-one years of peace ripped away in broad daylight. I slipped the brass key into the lower cylinder, turned it clockwise until the counterweight dropped with a soft thud, and pulled the handle. The heavy door swung open silently on greased hinges.
The basement corridor was cold, lit only by recessed safety bulbs caged in iron wire. Down here, the air smelled of old parchment and leather bindings that had absorbed ninety years of humidity. Thirty yards down the hall, the heavy vault door stood ajar by three inches, a strip of sharp yellow light spilling across the floor. From inside, the scrape of metal shelves echoed into the corridor.
Cross drew his sidearm, keeping it lowered against his thigh, and signaled his men to stack against the concrete wall. I followed close behind his shoulder as Cross pushed the heavy steel door open.
Inside the vault, standing beside an industrial shredder and a zinc cart stacked with bound ledgers, was County Commissioner Harlan Sterling. He had his suit jacket off, his sleeves rolled up, and a heavy utility blade in his hand, slicing the buckram binding of a thick volume. At the sight of federal tactical vests and drawn badges, Sterling froze, the blade hovering an inch above the parchment.
"Commissioner Sterling," Cross said, his voice dropping into an icy register that echoed off the steel shelves. "Step away from the table, drop the blade, and keep your hands where my team can see them."
"You have no jurisdiction over county property records," Sterling snarled, though his fingers began to tremble around the plastic handle of the utility knife. "I am the chairman of the county board of commissioners."
"Step away from the table," Cross repeated, taking a half-step forward that closed the distance between them.
I stepped directly into the glare of the overhead fluorescent tube, setting my bruised face and bloodstained blouse directly in Harlan’s line of sight.
"Hello, Harlan," I said quietly.