We can stop him." " How?" Robert Patterson asked. " We tried before. He always wins." "
He wins because he isolates you, picks you off one by one, makes you think you're alone. But you're not alone anymore. There are 18 of you, 18 separate cases, 18 pieces of evidence. That's not an isolated incident. That's a criminal enterprise." "
What do you need from us?" Margaret Sterling asked. " Your contracts, your payment records, your testimony, everything documented, everything on record. We build a case so airtight that even Wade's lawyers can't break it. Then we take it to the FBI." "
The FBI didn't help before," someone said. " Before they had one or two complaints. Now they'll have 18. Before they had local victims afraid to speak. Now they'll have federal pattern and practice.
Before they had a sheriff who could bury complaints. Now they'll have a former federal prosecutor who knows exactly how to navigate their bureaucracy." Douglas looked around the room. " I won't lie to you. This will be hard.
Wade will fight back. He'll threaten you, harass you, try to make you quit. But if we stand together, if we support each other, if we refuse to back down, we can win." Harvey Stillwell stood up. " I'm in."
One by one, the others stood, too. 18 people, 18 families, 18 voices that had been silent for too long. " We'll need to move fast," Douglas said. " Evelyn's house is scheduled for seizure in 4 days. I'll file for an emergency injunction tomorrow morning.
That should buy us time. But we need to start gathering evidence immediately. I'll need to meet with each of you individually, get your stories on record, copy your contracts, build the timeline. " What about Sheriff Kimball?" someone asked. "
He'll come after us." " Let him," Garrett said. He'd been quiet until now, just watching, just listening. But now he stood. " Let him come.
Let Wade come. Let all of them come. Because here's what they're going to find. They're not dealing with scared individuals anymore. They're dealing with a community, and communities don't break as easy as people."
Sarge, who'd been lying quietly near Evelyn's wheelchair, stood up, shook himself, then walked to the center of the circle, sat down, like he was claiming this space, this group, this purpose. The meeting ran until 10:00 p.m. By the end, they'd organized into a working group. Douglas would coordinate the legal strategy. William would provide space and emotional support. Garrett would be the point person, the one who'd interface with law enforcement, handle logistics, keep everyone connected.
And everyone, all 18 families, would support each other, share information, watch each others' backs, stand together against whatever Wade threw at them. As people filed out, Evelyn wheeled over to Garrett. " Thank you," she said quietly, "for this, for not giving up when everyone else said no." " Didn't do it alone." " No, but you started it.
You made the first call. You took the first risk. That matters." Harvey Stillwell approached, extended his hand to Garrett. " Whatever you need, I'm here." "
Appreciate it." Harvey hesitated. Then, "One thing you should know, Wade's got people everywhere, informants. I wouldn't trust anyone who wasn't in this room tonight." " Noted."
But later, driving home with Sarge, Garrett thought about Harvey's warning, about informants, about Wade's reach, about the fact that in a group of 18 people, all desperate, all vulnerable, all potentially bribable, there might be someone who wasn't as committed as they seemed. Someone who might report back to Wade, who might sabotage the effort from inside. It was a risk, but it was a risk they'd have to take. Because the alternative, doing nothing, wasn't acceptable anymore. That night, the black sedan came back, parked in the same spot, same message.
But this time, Garrett didn't just watch. He walked outside, stood on his porch, looked directly at the car. He couldn't see who was inside, tinted windows, but they could see him. He raised one hand, not a wave, not a threat, just acknowledgement. " I see you.
I'm not afraid. Come at me if you want. I'll be right here." The car sat there for another minute, then drove away. Garrett went back inside.
Sarge was waiting. Guard mode never quite turning off. " Tomorrow we file the injunction," Garrett said to the dog. " Tomorrow we officially go to war with Wade Kimball. You ready for that, boy?"
Sarge's tail thumped once against the floor. Ready. Always ready. Because that's what guard dogs did. They protected.
They stood their ground. They didn't back down when things got dangerous. They stood up, stood firm, stood together. And tomorrow Wade Kimball was going to learn that sometimes when good people finally decide to stand together, even predators have to back down. Or burn.
The emergency injunction was filed at 8:30 the following morning. Douglas drove to the county courthouse in his car, a 15-year-old Toyota that needed a new muffler and smelled like old coffee and determination. Garrett rode shotgun. Sarge claimed the backseat. The clerk at the filing window was a woman in her 50s with reading glasses on a chain and the expression of someone who'd processed 10,000 identical forms and expected 10,000 more.
She took Douglas's paperwork without comment, stamped it, assigned a case number, said a judge would review it within 48 hours. " 48 hours," Garrett said as they walked back to the car. " Evelyn's seizure is scheduled for 72 hours from now. That's cutting it close." " It's the best we can do.
The legal system moves at its own pace. Can't rush it. Wade can. Wade doesn't follow the rules. That's his weakness.
We do. That's our strength." Douglas unlocked the car. " Besides, even if the injunction doesn't come through in time, the fact that we filed it means Wade knows we're fighting back. That changes the calculus.
He can't just seize the property quietly anymore. There's a legal challenge on record. Media might pick it up. Questions will be asked. Wade hates questions."
They drove back to Ridgmont in silence. Sarge watched the landscape slide past, desert scrub, distant mountain sky so blue it hurt to look at. The kind of country that made you feel small and significant at the same time. At First Baptist, the work had already begun. The fellowship hall had been transformed into a war room.