My fingers wrapped around the cold handle of a heavy metal flashlight.

It was solid, reassuring.

I did not expect to leave this property without a fight.

I opened the driver-side door and stepped out into the pouring rain.

The cold water hit my face, dripping down my collar.

I slammed the door behind me and walked toward the grand stone steps of the porch.

The front of my truck was completely caved in, the bumper hanging by a single bolt.

Water dripped from my canvas jacket onto the stone steps as I climbed them.

The double entrance doors of the mansion were thick oak, reinforced with iron.

Before I could reach the top step, the shadow of a man appeared behind the glass panes of the porch enclosure.

The outer door opened.

Ryan Whitmore stepped out onto the covered veranda.

He was wearing a dark wool sweater, his hair slightly damp from the rain.

He did not look like a man who was afraid.

He looked angry, his face flushed red in the porch light.

In his right hand, he held a black wooden baseball bat.