Chapter 3 - The Siege of Oak Creek
The gates of Vance Manor were wrought-iron monsters forged in Dallas sixty years ago, topped with sharpened spears and embedded into massive stone pillars that guarded forty acres of manicured oak trees.
At 10:30 PM, a heavy rain had finally broken over the county, slicking the long asphalt driveway that led up the hill to the six-thousand-square-foot brick mansion.
A white private security truck was parked at the gatehouse, its orange warning lights strobing through the downpour.
Damian’s black SUV didn't slow down as it approached the entrance. He hit the high beams, illuminating two armed guards who stepped out of the gatehouse holding heavy flashlights and wearing yellow rain coats with the Vance Logistics Security emblem on the chest.
"Hold up there, sir!" the lead guard shouted, tapping his flashlight against the driver's side window as Damian brought the SUV to a smooth stop. "This is private property. Old man Arthur has the house locked down for the evening."
Damian rolled down the window two inches. Cold rain sprayed into his face.
"Get out of the way, Miller," Damian said, recognizing the older guard as a cousin of the man who owned the dirt land Mabel had been squatting on.
The guard squinted through the dark glass, his eyes widening as he recognized the high cheekbones and the dark hair. "Damian? Well, I'll be damned. Arthur said you were in town for land deals, but he said you weren't cleared for the main house."
"Arthur doesn't own the main house," Damian said. He reached down, picked up his phone, and tapped a single button on the dash display.
Behind the SUV, three massive white Ford F-350 trucks—each bearing the silver logo of Vance Global Security Services—pulled up the driveway, their high-intensity LED light bars turning the rain-soaked forest into bright daylight. Twelve men in dark tactical rain gear stepped out of the trucks, moving with professional, military precision as they surrounded the gatehouse.
Guard Miller took two fast steps back, his hand falling instinctively toward his holstered sidearm. "What the hell is this, Damian?!"
"This is an eviction," Damian said coldly. "Open the gate, or my men will cut the hinges with a torch in forty seconds."
The guard looked at the twelve former Marines standing in the rain, then at the heavy steel gate, and slowly pulled his master key fob from his belt. He pressed the red button.
The heavy iron gates swung open with a rusty, screeching moan.
In the back seat of the SUV, Mabel held Lily tightly against her ribs. The little girl was awake now, her green eyes wide as she looked at the lit-up columns of the massive brick mansion visible through the oak trees at the top of the hill.
"Damian," Mabel said, her voice barely audible over the sound of the rain pounding on the roof. "Arthur has three brothers living on this property. Everett stays in the guest house. They won't just walk out because you showed them a legal title."
"I don't expect them to walk out, Mabel," Damian said, putting the SUV into gear and accelerating up the winding asphalt driveway. "I expect them to try to fight. And then I’m going to take everything they have left."
He parked the SUV directly on the circular brick lawn in front of the main porch, blocking the double mahogany front doors. The three security trucks formed a defensive arc behind him, their headlights casting long, fierce shadows against the white stone pillars of the mansion.
The front door of the mansion flew open.
Arthur Vance—seventy-two years old, built like a fire hydrant, with a head of thick white hair and a face permanently reddened by bourbon and high blood pressure—stepped onto the covered porch wearing an expensive silk robe over his trousers. In his right hand, he held a nickel-plated .45 caliber pistol.
Behind him stood Everett Vance, thirty-eight years old, sleek, balding, wearing an unbuttoned dress shirt, his eyes nervous as he looked at the tactical team spreading out across the lawn.
"Damian!" Arthur roared over the thunder, his voice carrying the same booming, tyrannical weight that had terrified Damian when he was a ten-year-old boy sitting in the hallway while Arthur beat his brother over cattle sales. "What the hell do you think you're doing coming onto my land with armed mercenaries at eleven o'clock at night?!"
Damian opened his door, stepped into the rain, and walked slowly up the six stone steps of the front porch. He didn't carry a weapon. He didn't lower his head. He stood six-foot-two in his water-soaked tailored suit, staring down at his uncle with eyes that were cold and empty.
"Put the gun down, Arthur," Damian said softly.
"This is my house!" Arthur spat, raising the nickel-plated pistol until it was pointed straight at Damian's chest. "I built this firm! I kept this family alive while your father was drunk in a ditch and your mother was dying in the charity hospital! You think because you made some money selling trucks in Houston you can come back here and lord it over me?!"
"You didn't build this firm, Arthur," Damian said, taking one step closer, placing his chest six inches from the barrel of the .45. "My grandfather built it. You stole it from my mother while she was dying. And four years ago, you framed an innocent woman to cover up twelve million dollars you stole from the state of Texas."
Everett Vance, standing near the mahogany door, went completely white. "Dad..." he whispered, grabbing Arthur’s arm. "Dad, look at his car."
Through the rain-streaked windshield of the black SUV, the interior light was on.
Mabel Sterling was sitting in the back seat, holding a three-year-old girl in pink pajamas, staring straight through the glass at Everett.
"You brought that thief onto my property?!" Arthur roared, his thumb flicking the safety catch off the pistol with a sharp CLICK. "She's a convicted felon! She owes this company two hundred thousand dollars!"
"She doesn't owe you a dime, Arthur," Damian said.
He reached into his inner jacket pocket. Arthur tensed, pulling the hammer back on the pistol, but Damian didn't pull a weapon.
He pulled a thick, blue-bound legal folio tied with red ribbon and dropped it onto the small wicker table between them.
"That is an injunction issued two hours ago by the State District Court in Austin," Damian said, his voice ringing out over the sound of the storm. "It freezes every corporate account associated with Vance Logistics. It places Vance Manor under federal receivership, and it names me as the temporary sole administrator of the Vance Estate."
Arthur’s eyes darted down to the blue folder, then back to Damian’s face. "You... you can't do that. The local judge—"
"The local judge was arrested forty-five minutes ago by federal marshals at his home in San Antonio," Damian cut in, his voice utterly flat. "He took sixty thousand dollars from Everett’s offshore account to sign the civil judgment against Mabel four years ago. He’s currently sitting in a cell in Travis County explaining the wire transfers."
Everett let out a high, strangulated noise and took three fast steps backward into the house.
"Everett!" Arthur bellowed without turning his head. "Get inside and call the sheriff!"
"The sheriff isn't coming, Arthur," Damian said. "The sheriff is currently resigning his commission to avoid an indictment for conspiracy to commit land fraud."
Damian took one final step forward, reaching out with his left hand, his fingers closing around the cylinder of Arthur’s nickel-plated pistol with a grip that crushed the old man’s knuckles until the weapon slipped from his numb fingers.
Damian caught the gun by the frame, dropped the magazine into his hand, cleared the chamber with a crisp CLACK-CLACK, and tossed the empty iron frame into the wet bushes beside the porch steps.
"Get your clothes, Arthur," Damian whispered into his uncle’s ear. "You and Everett have twenty minutes to vacate my house before my security team removed you by force."
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"You bastard..." Arthur gasped, his chest heaving as he clutched his crushed hand. "You're ruining your own family! Your own blood!"
"My blood is sitting in the back of that car," Damian said, turning his back on his uncle and walking down the steps into the rain. "And she’s never going to wear secondhand shoes again."
