The Black Hawk cleared the perimeter telephone lines by thirty feet, pivoting ninety degrees east at one hundred and sixty knots toward the Cedar Falls limestone bluffs.
Inside the heated cabin, Captain Garrett Stone sat beside us on the troop bench, his large, calloused hand wrapped firmly around the monitoring console, his eyes locked onto the seismic telemetry from the bluff redoubt.
"Garrett," I said, my voice cutting through the acoustic sixty-cycle vibration of the rotor gearbox:
"Arthur Vance spent forty years using regional bullies and corporate factoring debt to execute an illegal foreclosure on my family's land."
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Garrett’s jaw set into pure, immovable granite:
"Arthur Vance is an offshore factoring parasite who built an empire on stolen sovereign paper, Damon."
"He calculated every legal loophole, but he forgot the fundamental law of the bedrock:"
Garrett leaned forward, his dark eyes burning with that absolute, unyielding devotion:
"A father's command cannot be audited."
