Page 50 of When You're Gone

The factory, a relic of industrialtimes now lying dormant, stood like a tombstone for a bygone era. Finn knew itwell; a skeletal structure looming against the rural backdrop, its hollowedhalls resonating with echoes of its past productivity. It was a fitting stagefor a man whose obsession with antiquity bordered on the psychopathic.

"Fine," Finn ground out,his mind racing, every second precious. "But listen here, Vilne. If you somuch as—"

"Ah, ah," Vilneinterrupted, a smirk audible in his tone. "No conditions, Detective.You're not exactly in a position to negotiate."

Finn's heart was a fist in hischest, pulsing with a cocktail of fury and fear. He pictured Amelia, herdetermination and unwavering courage in the face of their macabre case. Herlife hinged on his next words, his next actions.

"Touch one hair on Amelia'shead, and I swear to you," Finn's threat sliced through the line, arazor-sharp promise, "I'll break every bone in your body."

The silence that followed wasthick, charged with the weight of his vow. Finn could almost feel Vilneweighing the seriousness of his oath, the potential for retribution.

"Be seeing you,Detective," came the eventual reply, devoid of any warmth.

Finn ended the call, his handsshaking as they clutched at the phone. His pulse hammered in his ears, drowningout the night's gentle whispers. There was no time to waste, no moment to lose.

Finn didn't hesitate. He boltedfrom the threshold as he rushed toward the kitchen. His mind raced with imagesof Victorian relics and antique guns, of poisoned darts and the insidiousTempus Machine—but they all paled in comparison to the thought of losing Ameliato a man as ruthless as Max Vilne. How he wished he had his service gun.

In the kitchen, a single bulb casta stark light over the counter tops Finn's hands moved with purpose, rummagingthrough drawers with the precision of someone who knew their contents by heart.Cutlery clanked, a discordant melody to his pounding pulse. He neededweapons—crude but effective in close quarters.

His fingers wrapped around thehandles of two chef’s knives, the blades glinting ominously as he drew themout. They weren’t just slabs of metal; to Finn, they were extensions of hiswill to save Amelia, to end this nightmare that had begun with an ancientcomputer obsession and led them down London's shadowy paths.

He tested the weight of the knivesin his hands, feeling a grim sense of readiness. There would be no fencing withwords where he was headed. The Crowmyre factory loomed in his thoughts, a stageset for a final, desperate confrontation.

"Amelia," he whispered, avow to the darkness. Her name was a talisman against the fear clawing at theedges of his resolve. She'd walked through death's door with him before, hadalways been the one to keep him grounded in the midst of chaos. He couldn't lether down now.

With the cold steel secured in hisgrip, Finn turned on his heel, casting one last glance at the quaint cottagethat had offered him solace on any other night. But tonight, it was merely abackdrop to the unfolding horror, a brief interlude before the storm.

The knife blades caught the lightas he moved, twin promises of protection and vengeance. Finn stepped out of thekitchen, his entire being focused on what lay ahead. Max Vilne and the echoesof his taunting voice awaited him. But in his bones, he he had to fight theweariness. The exhaustion of each injury and wound he had accumulated over thelast year in the UK.

Finn's body was a pained coiledspring as he burst through the cottage door, the night air sharp against hisflushed skin. The gravel crunched underfoot. His hands were unsteady yet firmas they wrapped around the cold steering wheel of his car. With a swift motion,he ignited the engine, the roar cutting through the quiet countryside like abeacon of his urgency.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Finn's boots crunched over thedetritus that littered the threshold of Crowmyre Factory, an edifice of erodedbrick and corroded metal that clawed at the darkening sky like a relic of the industrialage. Its shadowy maw gaped open, the massive doors hanging off rusted hinges,whispering the tales of long-abandoned labor and toil.

Squinting through the dimminglight, Finn's instincts prickled as he stepped into the cavernous space, thelast rays of sunset filtering through the shattered panes of the high windows.The air was thick with the scent of mold and decay, a testament to centuries ofneglect. His breath materialized in cold puffs, the only proof of life in thisdesolate place.

"FINN!" The shoutricocheted off the crumbling walls, jolting through him with the ferocity of agunshot. Vilne's voice was unmistakable, a guttural echo that seemed to emergefrom every shadow, every hidden corner of the forsaken factory. Finn's handinstinctively went to his belt, feeling for the reassuring weight of the kniveshe'd secured before leaving his cottage.

"Show yourself, Vilne!"Finn called out, his voice steady despite the pulse hammering in his ears. Headvanced cautiously, eyes roving over the darkness that clung to the machinerylike cobwebs. Each step took him deeper into the bowels of the building, wherehistory and terror intertwined.

"Come on then, Finn! You'regetting colder," taunted Vilne, the twisted amusement evident in his tone.Finn could almost visualize the smirk that would be playing on the man'slips—the same smirk that had haunted him since their last deadly dance inAmerica.

"Let's not play games,"Finn retorted, keeping his tone even as he moved toward the source of thesound. The faintest outline of footprints in the dust led him onward, evidenceof Vilne's passage. He needed to end this, for Amelia's sake—Inspector AmeliaWinters, his partner, whose intellect matched his own and who now faced anunknown fate at the hands of a madman.

"Games?" came Vilne'sscoff. "This is no game, detective. This is evolution."

Each word tightened the knot inFinn's chest, knowing that behind Vilne's delusion lay a mind sharp enough toexecute whatever twisted plan he had concocted. As he wove between rustinglooms and broken conveyor belts, Finn steeled himself for what lay ahead.

"Amelia needs me," hethought, a mantra against the fear that threatened to take hold. She was morethan a colleague; she was the one person who understood the demons that drovehim, who had seen past the facade of the consultant detective to the manbeneath.

"FINN!" Vilne's voiceboomed out again, closer now, filled with the dark promise of violence. Finnquickened his pace, his senses on high alert.

"Keep talking," Finnmurmured, using the sound of Vilne's voice to guide him through the labyrinthof derelict industry. His fingers curled around the hilt of a knife, ready forthe confrontation that was inevitable.

"Always so predictable,"Vilne sneered, the words bouncing off the iron and stone.

Finn knew he was right. Vilnealways predicted his moves. Finn felt for the three blades wedged down the backof his belt. It was the only protection he had.

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