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18
Lucas
Tuesday afternoon, I leave the worksite two hours early and drive to Heart Valley, a town located in the foothills north of Maple Ridge. I’ve got four months to prove I’m innocent of the drug charges. Four months to find evidence proving I was set up. Four months to figure out who broke into my house and planted the drugs there.
Because someone will be spending a good portion of their life in the slammer for those drugs, and I have no intention of it being me.
I drive down the road that sees little local traffic. There aren’t any houses on the outskirts of the small town of thirteen thousand people. Mostly, it’s just industrial buildings here and there that are trying to blend in with the tranquil mountains and endless forests.
Kincaid Timber Corporation is no different.
The company is nothing more than a large concrete building. Functional in structure but that’s about it. A crane stands among sky-high piles of logs, loading them onto one of the logging trucks. And the sound from the sawmill is a steady buzz that drowns out the quiet sounds of nature.
The owner of Kincaid Timber told Robert and Tuuli that he isn’t planning to turn their land into another industrial site. He wants to build a head office in Maple Ridge. The town is centrally located in relation to his other properties.
I glance around the large yard. Half of it is an empty parking lot—there’s plenty of room for Kincaid Timber to build their head office here. Why is the owner so determined to buy the Wakefields’ property?
I approach three men wearing hard hats and standing beside the crane, consulting a clipboard together. One man has on a business suit that looks out of place here. My guess is he’s in his late fifties. The other two men talking to him are wearing jeans, T-shirts, work boots, and reflective vests.
“This is private property,” the taller of the two men in T-shirts tells me.
He spits at the ground in front of my feet, then wipes his hand across the two-inch scar running diagonally down one cheek. I’ve been shot at by the enemy and I’ve been through hell while serving with the Marines. His form of intimidation is nothing more than a joke.
“I was hoping to talk to the owner.” I address the comment to all three of them, but my gaze lands on the man in the suit. None of them are wearing IDs or badges identifying them as visitors, so I can’t tell if he’s the owner or just someone doing business with Kincaid Timber.
“And who would you be?” Again, the man with the scar addresses me. He’s about my age and not the owner. That much I do know.
“Lucas Carson.” The name doesn’t come from me. It’s from the man in the suit, who looks vaguely familiar. “He’s one of the parties interested in the Maple Ridge property.”
I raise an eyebrow. He knows more about me than I know about him.
He antes up my raised eyebrow with a smug smile. “I did my homework.”
“You must be Jason L. Kincaid.” I also did my homework. The man needs to update his photo on the company website. It’s about two decades out of date.
“What is it you want to talk to me about? And just so it’s clear, I have no intention of dropping my bid on the Wakefield property. So if that’s why you’re here, you might as well turn around.”
“Why do you want that land? There must be plenty of other properties for sale that fit your needs.”
“I have my reasons. They might not be sentimental like yours, but they are important, nonetheless. My company has a solid business goal and financial backing. It isn’t run by a bunch of hotheads wanting to relive their glory days on the battlefield.”
Relive our glory days? Asshole. “I take it you’ve never served in the military.”
“Let’s just say, while you were playing with toy soldiers, I had bigger plans for my life. I worked hard and sacrificed to get there.”
Fuck, the man wouldn’t know sacrifice even if it ripped a chunk out of his ass.
“Now, as you’ve already been told, this is private property. So either leave willingly or I can have my security escort you off it. Or if you would prefer, I can call the local sheriff’s office and file a report with them. But given your current criminal charges, you’ll want to skip on that option.” Kincaid rocks back on his heels.
“So, you know about that,” I say, not ready to leave. Not yet, anyway.
“Anyone capable of reading a newspaper knows about the charges. And like I said, I did my homework. I also know about Kellan’s criminal record.” The smug smile returns to his face. “Your parents must be so proud of their sons.”
The other two men chuckle. Scar-face takes a step toward me. I ignore him.
“What else do you know about my criminal charges?” My tone is deceptively smooth. It’s the unexpected undertow that I hope will knock him off his feet, trick him into saying something about the case he shouldn’t know.
“Nothing more than what is public knowledge. And let me be clear, we don’t like your sort on our property.”
