Nelson's voice crackled like the fire it warned of. "I think it was deliberate."
Mikhail didn't wait for confirmation. He was already moving, boots pounding across gravel toward the north end of the site. Kat and Lars trailed behind, struggling to keep up in the half-light before sunrise. The wind carried the acrid tang of smoke.
"Where exactly?" Mikhail barked into the phone.
"Near the retaining barrels," Nelson replied. "I've got two guys trying to hold it back, but it's spreading."
Mikhail ended the call. The moment he turned the corner past the gravel mound, he saw the flames, orange tongues licking up the wooden pallet stack and dancing dangerously close to a set of plastic fuel drums. Smoke curled thick into the air.
"Kat, buckets! Lars, extinguishers, now!"
No hesitation. Kat peeled off to the workers' shed, shouting names and organizing a fire chain before Mikhail even reached the barrels. Lars sprinted for the emergency box mounted near the trailer.
Mikhail yanked a fire extinguisher from its cradle on the wall of the equipment shed and charged forward. The air sizzled with heat. His boots crunched glass, broken light bulbs, likely shattered during the vandal's entry.
He pulled the pin, aimed low, and squeezed. The foam burst forward, dousing the base of the flames with a hiss. Behind him, workers rushed in a chain with old paint buckets filled from the utility sink.
Kat directed them like a conductor. "Don't aim at the flames, go for the base! Douse the ground!"
Together, they beat the fire back in stages. Embers popped and hissed as foam and water collided with superheated plastic. The rebar stack was charred but intact. The tool locker had been spared. But when the flames died, and the smoke began to thin, the full damage came into view.
A cement mixer sat canted to one side, its front axle cracked, engine cowling pried open. Deep impact marks dented the side panel, someone had taken a crowbar to the motor housing.
And scrawled in thick, red spray paint across the nearby concrete barrier were two words: "STAY OUT."
The workers fell silent. The tension cut clean through the morning chill.
Kat stared at the wall, breathing hard. "This wasn't some kids playing around."
"No," Mikhail said flatly. "This was targeted."
Lars returned from the trailer, face pale. "Cameras caught something, one person. Hooded. Came in from the southwest fence, cut through the gravel pile. Left the same way."
"They didn't touch the main office," Kat said. "No theft. Just the mixer and the fire."
Mikhail turned slowly, gaze scanning the damaged mixer, the charred barrel rack, the spray paint already drying on the concrete.
"This was a warning," he said.
Lars nodded grimly. "They wanted to stall us."
"No," Mikhail muttered, jaw tightening. "They wanted to scare us."
A sharp wind swept across the site, carrying smoke and dust down the hillside like fog from a battlefield. Mikhail exhaled once, slow and steady.
"Kat," he said. "Take inventory. Secure everything. Lars, check the truck logs. Find out what else they could've touched."
He turned toward the main trailer.
"We're not backing down. And if they want a fight," his voice sharpened as the sun crested over the ridge, lighting the scorched corner of the yard, "they just gave me a reason to win it."
Behind him, a dull rumble echoed from the access road.
Lars glanced up, eyes narrowing. "Where the hell's the cement truck?"
Mikhail didn't break stride. "It's late."
"Too late," Kat said, stepping beside him. "That's not just sabotage. It's coordination."
Mikhail reached for his phone and pulled out a folded sheet of paper from the desk drawer inside the trailer.
"I've got a backup." He tapped a name at the top of the list. "If they think this delay's going to stop us—they don't know who they're dealing with."
"If they think this delay's going to stop us,they don't know who they're dealing with."
Mikhail's fingers flew across his phone, scrolling to a contact buried deep in a folder titled Local Yard Inventory. The number had no name, just a location: Solyon Quarry, defunct for almost a decade. But the old man who ran the place, Grigor Malenko, had once owed Mikhail's grandfather a favor. Time to see if that debt still carried weight.
He hit the dial.
It rang three times.
Then: "Who is this?"
Mikhail didn't waste time. "Grigor, this is Mikhail DuPont. Do you still have those KAMAZ mixers? The old Soviet types?"
A grunt. "Two, maybe three. Haven't touched 'em in months."
"I'll take them. Whatever they cost, I'll double it. I'll send Lars with a truck and tow straps."
A pause.
Then, grudging respect: "You DuPont's boy, huh? Thought you died in that mess ten years ago."
"I did," Mikhail said evenly. "But I'm building something now. And I won't let bastards with crowbars stop it."
Grigor chuckled low and rasping. "Come get the trucks. But if they fall apart, that's on you."
"I'll make 'em work."
He hung up. "Lars! We've got two backup mixers waiting near the quarry. Get the trailer hitch and two tow drivers ready. Go!"
Lars blinked. "You sure they'll run?"
"No. But they'll move. That's all we need."
Within minutes, the site became a blur of motion. Kat was already rerouting workers away from the damaged north section, repositioning scaffolds and securing new tarps over exposed tools. Nelson and a few crewmen rechecked the perimeter fences for other signs of tampering. The tension was still thick, but there was direction now, purpose.
Mikhail stepped into the tool shed and grabbed a can of solvent. With a rag, he walked to the vandalized wall and began scrubbing at the red paint. The words faded slowly, stubbornly, but he kept at it.
"Let them send more warnings," he muttered. "We answer with work."
An hour later, the rumble of old engines echoed down the gravel road. The first KAMAZ truck appeared, rusted, massive, ugly as sin. Its sides bore the ghost imprint of old Soviet industry, but the drum still turned. Barely.
Behind it came a second, coughing diesel and kicking dust like a relic returning from the dead. Lars was hanging out of the passenger window, waving a wrench like a victory flag.
The workers gathered, watching as the trucks were guided onto the pad. Mikhail hopped up on a crate.
"Listen up!" he called. "We've been hit. Someone doesn't want this building to rise. But look around. We're still here."
The crew stood quiet, soot-streaked, tired, but alert.
"These mixers aren't pretty," he said, slapping the side of the first one. "But they'll pour. Today, we're not just building concrete. We're showing this town, and whoever's watching, that we don't fold."
There were nods. One man clapped. Then more joined. Kat gave him a tight, proud smile.
The first drum rotated, and the mix began to spill.
Mikhail grabbed a chute handle and helped guide the slurry into the trench himself. It flowed like defiance.
Kat stepped beside him. "You planned for sabotage?"
"I planned for reality," Mikhail said. "And reality doesn't play fair."
Lars jogged up with the site log. "We'll finish the pour before sundown. But we need to watch that northern access."
"We will," Mikhail replied. "No more surprises."
Just as he spoke, a sharp knock hit the trailer door.
A courier.
"Delivery for DuPont," the man said, holding a clipboard.
Mikhail frowned. "From who?"
"No sender listed. Just a stamped envelope."
He took it, eyes narrowing.
Kat stepped closer. "You think it's related?"
Mikhail peeled it open. Inside was a single page.
Typed.
No letterhead.
Just six words.
YOU BUILT OVER SOMETHING THAT'S OURS.