Aaron closed the laptop screen to a sliver, cutting the blue light inside the car to a faint glow.

We waited in the dark, the heat from our bodies fogging the side windows.

A heavy footstep sounded on the gravel near the rear bumper.

Then, the driver’s side window of my car lit up as a powerful tactical light was pressed directly against the wet glass.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

The beam of light was blinding, reflecting off the condensation on the windshield.

“State your business,” a gravelly voice called out from behind the glare.

Aaron did not panic; his hand dropped slowly to the ignition.

He turned the key just enough to unlock the steering column, keeping the headlights off.

“Don’t move,” the voice said, closer now.

I recognized the security patch on the dark jacket pressed against the glass: Whitaker Estate Security.

Aaron slammed the car into reverse.

The tires spat gravel as we surged backward into the dark.

The security guard shouted, his flashlight beam swinging wildly across the trees.

Aaron whipped the wheel around, threw the shifter into drive, and hit the gas.