Large halogen bulbs flickered on, cutting through the gray mist.

“Down,” Rowan commanded.

We dropped into the wet grass behind a row of boxwood hedges.

A security patrol vehicle rumbled past on the gravel driveway fifty feet away.

Its searchlight swept over the tops of the hedges, missing us by inches.

Rowan held Clara tightly against his chest with one arm.

His other hand held his suppressed pistol, pointed toward the ground.

The baby did not cry.

She seemed to understand the danger, her tiny face pressed into Rowan’s tactical vest.

“Two guards on the footbridge,” Marcus whispered, looking through a thermal scope.

“They have night-vision optics,” Rowan said.

“Can we bypass them?” I asked.

“No,” Rowan said. “They cover the entrance to the culvert.”

He looked at Marcus.

“Give me the distraction,” Rowan said.

Marcus nodded and pulled a small, black cylinder from his vest.

He threw it toward the far eastern fence, well away from our path.

A sharp, metallic pop echoed through the trees, followed by a simulated burst of gunfire.

The searchlight on the patrol vehicle immediately swung toward the sound.