The creepy scene of dead fields, vacant barn, rusted tractor, and old farm equipment beneath the overcast skies only further seemed to prod shivers up Ilse’s back. Her fingers clutched the piece of paper with the printed aerial photograph as she followed Sawyer, and she glanced at it again. There she spotted the fields. There was the barn. And there… behind the overgrowth…

The abandoned shack with what, from the image, had looked like a twisted and dented weather vane. It had been hard to make out in the picture…

But of all the pictures it had looked the closest to an old rooster.

Now, as she followed Sawyer along the path, cautiously circling the overgrowth, she partly wished she’d been wrong. Hoping, now, in at least a portion of her psyche, that they were at the wrong farm…

As they rounded the path, the shack came into view.

Worn boards with rusted nails and a large crossing beam shut off the front door. Slits in the walls and a weathered portion of a caved in roof gave little in the way of protection from the elements. Most eye-catching to Ilse, though, was the weather vane on the very top of the crumbling roof.

Rusted, bent…

And shaped like an old rooster.

“Sawyer,” she said, sharply, staring at the broken-down bird.

“I see it,” he said, his eyes fixed on the front entrance itself. “Stay behind me,” he added, quietly.

His shadow stretched behind him, passing over Ilse as he slowly pulled his firearm from its holster. Ilse’s heart hammered as she stared at the gun as it reached Sawyer’s fingers. She’d never been particularly comfortable around guns. She’d never owned one. Especially given the sorts of clients she had at her house. One of them might accidentally have stumbled on the thing.

She shivered, staring as Sawyer stalked toward the door of the abandoned shack.

“Hello?” he called out, his voice low and hoarse. “Anyone in there?”

Something banged behind them, and Ilse whirled sharply around. It took her a second to realize the screen door of the old farmhouse had been caught by the wind and sent slamming into the rail of the porch. She huffed, unsure whether to follow Sawyer or stay put on the road.

After a second, she decided it was far worse to be on her own and so, tentatively, keeping her distance, she followed the agent closer to the door of the abandoned shack.

“FBI!” he called, his voice louder now. “Is anyone in there?”

No answer, save the wind, and another bang of the screen door. Ilse felt like her heart nearly jumped out of her chest, and she gritted her teeth.

Sawyer kept his gun in one hand, but his other probed out, long fingers pressing against the wooden beam across the front of the door. With a soft grunt, he lifted it, dust dislodging and sent scattering.

Not so much dust, though. Not as much as there should have been.