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He thought of old generals and kings in centuries gone past, plotting their masterworks from their castles. This was an image he aspired to make his own.
"Patience," he counseled himself, the leather steering wheel familiar under his touch. "Every masterpiece takes time." He pictured Finn's face, etched with determination and unsuspecting of the blow that would soon fall. "You're just like the rest, valuing people like the Richmonds over heritage and history. Well, no more! You're going to wish you never crossed paths with me."
With a turn of the key, the engine roared to life, shattering the stillness and setting the stage for what was to come. The headlights cut through the dark, twin beacons heralding an unseen menace on the move.
"Tick tock, Finn," he said, the car's vibrations a harbinger of chaos. "The clock's winding down." His foot pressed down on the accelerator, the vehicle responding eagerly as it rolled forward, a shadow slipping away into the obscurity of the night.
As the junkyard receded into the distance, the killer felt the weight of the gun against his chest—an anchor to the reality of his mission. With each passing mile, the anticipation built, a crescendo of intent that promised to spill forth in a symphony of violence and retribution.
"Kings used to rule with an iron fist and show no mercy. Now, it's time for a history lesson," he intoned, the road ahead disappearing beneath the wheels, every turn taking him closer to destiny, to the next piece of his meticulously crafted vendetta.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The night was a tapestry of shadows and fleeting lights as Amelia's hands danced on the wheel, guiding the car through a labyrinth of country roads with the kind of precision that betrayed her police training. Finn's gaze was fixed on the dark horizon, but his mind was elsewhere, tethered to the phone pressed against his ear.
"Evening, this is Finn Wright," he said, voice steady despite the urgency pumping through his veins. "I need information on a flight leaving tonight."
"Ah, yes, Mr. Wright," crackled the voice of the airstrip manager on the other end. "We have one scheduled departure. It's just lining up now, actually."
Finn felt the grip of frustration, but he masked it with professional coolness. "Listen to me carefully," he instructed, words clipped. "That aircraft cannot leave the ground. I am working with Hertfordshire police on an urgent case."
Amelia shot him a look, one eyebrow arching in silent question, but she kept her focus on the road, swerving to avoid a pothole that emerged from the black like a hidden threat. The car's headlights cut through the darkness, a beacon in their high-stakes race against time.
"Are you sure about this?" the manager's voice wavered, the weight of responsibility suddenly anchoring his tone in seriousness. "We’re nearly at takeoff."
"Absolutely sure," Finn affirmed, his past as a Special Agent lending authority to his command. "It's imperative you hold that plane. Lives could be at stake."
"I'll see what I can do, Mr. Wright." The manager's response was terse, signaling compliance.
“Hello?” Finn listened. The line had gone dead.
He tried to call again, but all he got was a busy signal.
Amelia gunned the engine, a silent symphony of gears and determination, while Finn disconnected the call. His fingers tapped a staccato rhythm on his knee, the only outward sign of the adrenaline coursing through him.
"Will they stop it?" Amelia's voice was calm, but Finn could hear the undercurrent of tension resonating with his own.
"They will," he stated, though his confidence was more a cloak for concern than a reflection of certainty. In the tight confines of the speeding vehicle, with every turn and twist of the road, Finn felt the chase tightening, a noose around the neck of the night. They were so close now, yet the specter of failure lurked, ready to snatch victory from their grasp at the last second.
"Good," she replied, eyes fixed on the tarmac ahead, her resolve as unshakable as the ground beneath them. "Because we're almost there, and I don't fancy a wild goose chase across Europe."
"Neither do I," Finn muttered, scanning the horizon for any sign of their quarry. He adjusted his grip on the phone, prepared to make another call if necessary. But deep down, he hoped it wouldn't come to that, hoped that the next turn in the road would bring them within reach of justice.
Finn's doubts got the better of him. He called again, and this time the number rang, with the same answer.
“This is Finn Wright again,” he said, trying not to sound annoyed. “We got cut off. I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page. Have you grounded the plane yet?”
“I've had a talk with the airstrip owner, and...”
"Listen, you must hold that plane!" Finn's voice was firm, a steel edge hidden beneath the soft lamplight spilling into the car from the overhead streetlights.
"Sir, I—I'm not sure I can—" The manager's voice crackled through the phone speaker, a mixture of bewilderment and rising panic.
"Think about it. If you let that jet take off, you're aiding a fugitive. Hertfordshire police authority is behind this request," Finn interjected, cutting through the manager's hesitation like a scalpel. “We're a minute away, and if that plane hasn't been ordered to switch off its engines, you'll be escorted off that airstrip and straight to a cell!”
A pause hung in the air, heavy with unspoken consequences, until the manager capitulated with an audible gulp. "Right. I'll do it. I'm heading to the control tower now."
"Make it fast," Finn urged, before ending the call.
