Dancing with Shadows in the Moonlight

Leo watched Mick’s breath fog in the sharp, October air. Kid was jumpy, always was, but tonight it was worse. Moon hung fat and yellow over the ridge, bleaching the old stone manor house a pale, ghostly white. No clouds. Great for seeing, terrible for hiding. Leo thumbed the cold steel of his pry bar. “Ready, boy?” he grunted, the words puffing out thin. Mick just nodded, a quick, jerky motion, eyes wide, fixed on the distant house like it held a monster. It did, in a way. Their monster. The one that could swallow 'em whole. This wasn't a game. It was a job. And if they messed it up, it was a very long drop.

They moved like smoke across the manicured lawn, each shadow a temporary shroud. The gravel crunched under Leo's boots, a sound that felt like thunder in the dead quiet. Mick was lighter on his feet, but his hurried steps made just as much noise, less practiced. Leo swore under his breath, a low hiss. "Easy, Mick. Like you're walking on eggshells, not stomping grapes." They reached the side door, an old servant's entrance, tucked away behind a thick rhododendron bush. The lock was simple, an antique bolt. Leo slipped his picks in, felt the tumblers shift, tiny clicks like insects chittering. The door gave a soft sigh, opening into stale, cool air.

Darkness inside was a different beast, thick and choking compared to the moonlit outside. Leo pulled out his small penlight, a narrow beam slicing through the gloom. Dust motes danced in its glow. They drifted through back hallways, past forgotten storage rooms, the smell of old wood and something vaguely metallic. Mick kept glancing over his shoulder. "Hear that?" he whispered, every few minutes. "Ain't nothing, kid. Just the house settling," Leo would reply, though he was listening too, a low hum in his own gut. They found the study, just like the blueprints showed, ornate desk, heavy drapes. The wall safe was behind a portrait of some dour-faced general. Leo knelt, his movements economical, practiced. The dial clicked, a rhythmic, maddening sound.

Sweat beaded on Leo's forehead despite the chill. The safe tumblers were stiff, older than he’d thought. He leaned in close, ear pressed to the cold steel. One click. Two. Three. Almost there. Then, a creak from the hallway. Mick froze, a deer in the headlights, his breath catching in his throat. Leo’s hand went instantly to the silenced pistol tucked into his waistband. "Stay still," he mouthed, barely audible. Footsteps, heavy, coming closer. A cough. Not a guard. Too casual. It was old Man Henderson, owner of the damn place, probably getting up for a midnight piss. Leo cursed Henderson’s weak bladder.

Henderson’s shadow fell across the study door, long and distorted in the weak moonlight filtering through the window. Leo shoved Mick behind the desk, a quiet shove that was more like a controlled throw. The old man shuffled past, heading toward what must’ve been the bathroom. This was their window. Leo spun the safe dial the last few clicks, wrenching the heavy door open. Inside, gleamed a scattered mess of diamonds, emeralds, rubies, a fortune. He scooped them into the canvas bag with practiced speed, barely looking. "Go!" he hissed, already moving for the door. They tiptoed past the bathroom, heard the flush, a low rumble. Mick fumbled the doorknob to the back entrance, a sharp click that sounded like a gunshot.

"Who's there?!" Henderson's voice, raspy, suddenly loud from behind them. Adrenaline spiked. They burst out into the night, the cold air hitting them like a slap. Leo pushed Mick ahead. "Run, you idiot!" Henderson appeared at the open doorway, framed by the faint light from inside, a shotgun suddenly clutched in his trembling hands. A blast ripped through the quiet night, scattering gravel where Leo had just been. "Shit!" Leo yelled, diving behind a thick oak tree. Mick was already scrambling over the low stone wall bordering the property, dropping into the ditch beyond. Another shot. Bark splintered just above Leo’s head.

Leo peeked around the oak. Henderson was reloading, his movements slow, arthritic, but determined. This wasn’t some kid with a BB gun. This was a man protecting his life's worth, and he meant business. Leo gripped his own pistol. He could take the shot, easy. Drop the old man, make a clean break. But Henderson wasn't a threat, not really. Just scared. Mick was yelling from the ditch, "Leo! Come on!" Leo looked at the bag in his hand, heavy with stolen light. He looked at Henderson fumbling with another shell. He looked at the vast, uncaring moon. The cold, hard ground pressed into his knees. He raised the bag.

He hurled the bag, a heavy arc, towards Henderson. It landed with a dull thump at the old man's feet, scattering a few loose gems that glinted like fallen stars on the grass. Henderson stopped, bewildered, looking from the bag to Leo, then back at the sparkling stones. The shotgun hung useless in his hand. Leo didn't wait. He launched himself over the wall, the impact jarring his teeth, landing hard beside Mick in the ditch. Mick stared at him, face pale, eyes wide. "The bag? What the hell, Leo?" Leo just gasped, lungs burning, the taste of dirt and fear in his mouth. He didn't answer. He just started running, pushing himself up the embankment, scrambling into the shadows of the distant woods. Mick followed, stumbling, leaving the moon-drenched manor, and the scattered, useless jewels, behind.