Usually.
He pulled up to the gate, shifted into park, and stepped out to deal with the lock. The metal was still warm from the day's heat. He worked the combination by feel, the way he'd done a thousand times before, and pulled the chain free.
The gate swung open with a creak that echoed across the water.
And something answered.
Trent froze, one hand on the gate.
The sound had come from inside the property. A low, guttural rumble that he felt more than heard—the kind of sound that vibrated in your chest and made ancient parts of your brain sit up and pay attention.
Gator hissing.
He stood motionless, straining to hear over the thrum of insects and the distant slap of water. The moat that surrounded the main house was a hundred yards ahead, invisible in the darkness but present in his mind like a map drawn from memory. A few adult alligators had made that moat their home, and a few others visited frequently. He knew each of them by name, by size, by temperament.
They weren't supposed to be hissing like this.
Trent got back in the truck and pulled slowly through the gate. Dawson Ridge, the local police chief, was constantly on him to replace the old fence with a new, modern, motorized one. Not only did Trent not have the funds, but he also didn't see the point. The gators and a well-placed, cheap security system were enough.
The gravel drive crunched under his tires, impossibly loud in the silence. His headlights swept across the palmetto scrub, catching the glint of something small that darted into the underbrush. Possum. Maybe a raccoon.
A light. Thin and sharp, cutting through the darkness near the water's edge. Then another, sweeping in a slow arc across the far side of the moat.
Flashlights.
Trent killed his headlights.
The darkness crashed back in, absolute and immediate, and for a moment, he couldn't see anything at all. He sat motionless, letting his eyes adjust, letting the shapes of the world resolve out of the black.
The house emerged first, a darker bulk against the night sky. Then the outbuildings—the equipment shed, the feeding station, the observation platform he'd built three summers ago when he'd started taking tourists out for educational programs.
And there, near the water, two figures. Moving carefully along the bank, flashlight beams swinging low, avoiding the house.
Trent eased his truck off the gravel and onto the grass that bordered the drive. He shifted into park and cut the engine.
Retrieving his pistol from the glovebox without taking his eyes off the distant figures, he checked the magazine by feel. Full. He chambered a round and stepped out of the truck, easing the door closed until the latch caught with a soft click.
The night pressed in around him, thick with moisture and the electric hum of insects. Somewhere in the moat, a gator slid into the water with a sound like a whispered curse.
Trent pulled his phone from his pocket, shielding the screen's glow with his body, and dialed Dawson's number.
"I've got company, and they weren’t invited,” he said without preamble when the line connected.
"How many?" Dawson's voice was sharp, and he didn't ask questions about why Trent was calling.
"Two that I can see. Maybe more.”
"Location?"
"East side of the moat. Near the old dock."
"On my way. Eighteen minutes."
The line went dead.
A lot could happen in eighteen minutes.
Trent hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen. Then he pulled up another number and hit dial.
