I didn’t open the door fully, just enough to see the man in the county deputy uniform standing on my porch. He had an official-looking clipboard, but his eyes darted around my property, assessing, not observing.
“Silas Halloway?” he asked, his voice stiff.
“That’s me,” I said, my hand resting just out of sight on the cold steel of the doorframe.
He held up a paper. “I’m here to serve you with an eviction order.”
My gaze dropped to the document. It was another Krenshaw Tactical letterhead, poorly disguised as county paperwork.
“This document has three major flaws,” I stated calmly, not moving.
His brow furrowed. “Flaws?”
“First, this is not a legal eviction. It’s a notice of intent to seize property, requiring a court order that hasn’t been issued yet. Second, it attempts to bypass due process by citing a non-existent statute.”
He shifted his weight, his eyes narrowing slightly.
“Third,” I continued, “the signature line for the presiding judge is blank. Also, your uniform doesn’t have a badge number, and your patrol vehicle has after-market rims not standard issue for the county.”
He bristled, his hand going to his hip, then hesitating. He was a syndicate liaison, not a real deputy, and he knew I knew.
“You’re making a mistake, old man,” he muttered.
“No, you are,” I replied, my voice low. “And tactically, you’ve exposed your back to the forest, your weapon side is open, and you parked your vehicle where it could be easily disabled by a single well-aimed shot to the engine block.”
His face went pale. He hadn’t expected me to dissect his posture.
He backed away, slowly, then turned and hustled to his vehicle. As he opened the door, he glanced back.
“Arthur’s enforcers are coming at midnight,” he called out, his voice sharp with a mix of fear and warning. “This won’t be like your little range game.”
The engine roared to life, and he sped down my dirt road, leaving a cloud of dust. Midnight.
They wouldn’t be coming with papers this time.
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