I reached out with my left hand and turned down the wick of the kerosene lamp until the cabin was plunged into total darkness.

The only light now came from the faint red embers of the wood stove.

I stood in the shadows, waiting, as the footsteps began to crunch softly on the wet gravel toward the front porch.

The door handle rattled.

I moved silently behind the heavy oak door.

The door creaked open, letting in a draft of cold, wet air.

A beam of light swept across the empty kitchen table.

“Ryker?” a voice whispered.

It was Miller, one of the local guards Marco had vetted.

I stepped out of the shadow, pressing the barrel of my gun against the side of his neck.

He froze, his breath catching in his throat.

“Don’t shoot, it’s me,” he gasped.

“You are off your route, Miller,” I said.

I kept my voice low, barely a murmur.

“The generator was acting up,” he said, his hands rising slowly. “I came to check the fuel line.”

“You don’t check fuel lines with your radio turned off,” I said.