Chapter 7
Cole’s boots crunched over the frozen ground as he stepped out of his truck at the Finley Point site. His breath formed white clouds in the pre-dawn darkness, reminding him just how cold it was before the sun rose.
He liked to arrive before the crew on inspection days, when the only sounds were the lake lapping against the shore and the occasional cry of a bird. This land would become something beautiful. He could see it even now, in the quiet cold before sunrise.
He approached the cluster of construction equipment parked near the foundation stakes, the keys to each vehicle already in his hand.
Unlike a lot of developers, there weren’t many jobs Cole hadn’t done in the construction industry.
And at times, that experience had come in handy when things started turning to custard.
The excavator was first in line. When he’d come here a few days ago, he’d noticed that it was running rough. He climbed into the cab and turned the key.
The engine turned over once, twice, then seized with a grinding shriek that made him wince. He killed the ignition and sat very still, his pulse quickening. That wasn’t a normal sound. That was the sound of an engine destroying itself.
Cole jumped down and moved to the bulldozer. Same result—a horrible grinding protest before he shut it down. Then the backhoe. Each piece of equipment responded the same way, and with each failed start, the knot in his stomach tightened.
Grabbing his flashlight from the truck, he began a more thorough inspection of each vehicle.
The fuel caps on all three machines showed fresh scratches around the edges, subtle but visible in the beam of his light.
He unscrewed one and shone the light inside.
The fuel smelled wrong. It was too sweet and had a pungent chemical undertone.
Sugar. Someone had poured sugar into the gas tanks.
Cole’s hands shook as he moved to check the hydraulic systems on the excavator.
He didn’t have to look too hard to see that something was wrong.
Dark fluid pooled beneath the machine, and when he traced the lines with his flashlight, there were clean cuts in three separate hoses.
Not wear and tear, not an accident, but deliberate.
Something cold and hard settled in his chest as he stood in the dim light. In the last thirty years, he’d dealt with permit delays, contractor disputes, material shortages, and weather setbacks. He’d never dealt with sabotage.
Who would do this? And more importantly, why?
The Finley Point project was supposed to be different. He’d been so careful with the community meetings, the environmental assessments, and the local hiring commitments. He’d thought people were coming around to the idea.
Apparently, someone wasn’t.
Cole pulled out his phone and dialed the sheriff’s office. It rang four times before a sleepy-sounding deputy answered.
“This is Cole Morrison at the Finley Point development site,” he said, working to keep his voice steady. “Someone’s deliberately damaged the construction equipment.”