I walked toward the old carriage house at the edge of the property.

The gravel crunched under my boots.

The large wooden door of the carriage house was slightly ajar.

A thin sliver of yellow light spilled out onto the wet grass.

I pushed the door open, my gun raised.

The air inside smelled of grease, gasoline, and old leather.

There was a figure sitting in the driver’s seat of the vintage sedan.

Suddenly, the headlights of the car flashed on, blinding me.

The engine roared to life, the sound deafening in the enclosed space.

I raised my gun, aiming directly at the windshield.

The car began to roll forward, its tires spinning on the concrete floor.

But it did not accelerate toward me.

It stopped, the engine idling roughly.

The driver’s side door clicked open.

A phone on the dashboard lit up, casting a bright blue glow on the face of the person inside.

Caleb stepped out of the vehicle, his hands raised slowly into the glare of the headlights.

His face was pale, lined with the exhaustion of a man who knew his run had ended.