The wind picked up, rattling the dry leaves of the oak trees above us.

We reached the edge of the greenhouse.

The glass panes reflected the distant security lights of the main house, gleaming like the scales of a giant fish.

Inside, the silhouettes of tropical ferns looked like reaching hands.

I stumbled over a discarded terracotta pot, the ceramic shattering against the stone border.

The sound was loud in the quiet night.

In the distance, the flashlight beam instantly went out.

The darkness seemed to press closer.

“He heard us,” Lorenzo said.

He pulled his weapon from the holster.

The metallic slide of the gun clicking into place was cold and final.

“Stay behind me, Hunter,” he commanded.

We walked toward the brick pump house, our eyes straining to see through the gloom.

The door of the pump house was painted a dark green, barely visible against the brick.

As we drew closer, I could see that the door was slightly ajar.

A faint sliver of light shone from the gap.

Lorenzo approached the door from the side, his back pressed against the wet brick wall.