CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

The cold, biting air clawed at Finn as he stepped out of the unyielding embrace of his car and into the dark tranquility of Great Amwell. The small village, usually a picture of bucolic charm, now seemed to mock him with its peaceful facade, so starkly opposed to the cacophony of chaos that plagued his mind. His muscles ached from the day's exertions—a relentless pursuit of justice that had culminated in the capture of one suspect only to have another slip through the cracks like water between fingers.

He maneuvered up the cobblestone path leading to his cottage, each step heavy with fatigue. The warmth of the yellow-hued light spilling from his front windows promised solace, but as he fumbled for the keys in his pocket, the optimism was short-lived.

The shrill ring of his mobile phone shattered the night's stillness. Heart leaping to his throat, he fished the device from his coat and squinted against the harsh glow of the screen. Unknown number. With hands that betrayed a tremor, he swiped to answer.

"Detective Finn," came the voice, oily and smooth, a serpent"s hiss wrapped in faux cordiality. Max Vilne"s tone held an edge of amusement, as if he relished in the disruption of Finn"s attempt at respite.

"Vilne," Finn responded, his voice a controlled calm, belying the torrent of dread that surged within. This man, the mastermind behind the chaos that had entangled their lives, was not one to make idle calls.

"Ah, you sound tired, Finn. A long day, I presume?" Vilne"s words were a needle, probing for a reaction, seeking to unravel Finn"s composure thread by thread.

"Cut to the chase, Vilne," Finn demanded, bracing himself against the frame of his door, the wood"s grain pressing into his back. "What do you want?"

"Direct and to the point, I admire that." There was a pause on the line, a momentary silence laden with meaning. "But we"ll have plenty of time for pleasantries very soon."

Finn"s grip on the phone tightened, knuckles whitening.

The cold night air brushed against Finn"s skin as he stepped into his cottage, the unease from the phone call creeping along his spine like tendrils of fog. He had barely made it two steps when Vilne"s voice, sardonic and self-assured, slithered through the receiver again.

"Actually, Detective, I"m having a friend over for a late supper," Vilne said, a wolfish grin audible in his tone. "You know how it is, the need for company during these dreary nights."

Finn"s jaw clenched, a surge of irritation washing over him. The frivolity with which Vilne treated the situation was infuriating; it was as if they were discussing weather, not lives.

"Who?" Finn demanded, each word clipped like the snap of a whip, though he dreaded the answer.

"Ah, but that would spoil the surprise," Vilne teased, his words laced with malice.

A muffled sound punctured the conversation, a stifled noise that quickly crescendoed into something unmistakable—Amelia"s voice, shrill and desperate, pierced the veil of the call. "Finn! Call Rob, get the pol—"

"Amelia!" Finn barked into the phone, his heart hammering against his rib cage, his breath stolen by the raw panic in her voice. He strained to hear more, but there was only the echo of his own shout in the darkness.

"Shh," came Vilne"s admonishing whisper, chillingly close to the phone now. "We wouldn"t want to make this unpleasant, would we?"

"Vilne, if you hurt her—" Finn began, the threat dying in his throat as the line crackled with the sound of a struggle, Amelia"s pleas turning into a cacophony of fear.

"Please, no—Finn, don't give him what he wants!" Her voice broke through once more before being swallowed by a heavy silence.

"Enough games, Vilne," Finn spat, his mind racing, envisioning the layout of the city, every second counting. "What do you want?" His hand tightened on the phone, knuckles going white as he prepared for whatever twisted demand was to come.

"Patience, Detective," Vilne crooned. "All in good time."

Finn"s fingers gripped the phone like a lifeline, his other hand flat against the cold kitchen table for balance. The stillness of the cottage amplified the sinister tenor of Vilne"s voice as it cut through the silence.

"Let"s set one thing straight," Vilne"s words slithered from the speaker, "you try to reach out to dear Rob Collins—or any of your police friends—Amelia"s last breath will bubble up in dark water."

Finn didn"t need to see Vilne"s face to know the threat was real; the image of Amelia, thrashing helplessly as dark waters claimed her, flashed cruelly in his mind"s eye.

"Listen to me, Vilne," Finn"s voice was steel wrapped in velvet, the detective"s mind whirring with options, outcomes, angles. "Take me instead. Let Amelia go, and you"ll have what you want."

There was a pause on the line, a momentary silence that stretched out like a tightrope. Finn could almost hear the cogs turning in Vilne"s twisted mind, calculating, considering. His own heart pounded a frantic rhythm.

"Interesting proposal, Detective," Vilne finally drawled, amusement weaving through his tone. "But do remember, I am not in the habit of negotiating with my... guests."

The raw ache from the blow to Finn"s head earlier had settled into a dull throb, a cruel reminder of the day"s events and the shadow of Vilne in the crowd. Now, he was being confronted by more than a shadow.

"Come to the Crowmyre factory," Vilne"s voice was deceptively calm, an undercurrent of malice bubbling just beneath the surface. "You know the one – ten minutes out from Great Amwell. I thought you should know how close I've been all this time."

The factory, a relic of industrial times now lying dormant, stood like a tombstone for a bygone era. Finn knew it well; a skeletal structure looming against the rural backdrop, its hollowed halls resonating with echoes of its past productivity. It was a fitting stage for 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 so much as—"

"Ah, ah," Vilne interrupted, 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 his chest, pulsing with a cocktail of fury and fear. He pictured Amelia, her determination and unwavering courage in the face of their macabre case. Her life hinged on his next words, his next actions.

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

The silence that followed was thick, charged with the weight of his vow. Finn could almost feel Vilne weighing 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 hands shaking as they clutched at the phone. His pulse hammered in his ears, drowning out the night"s gentle whispers. There was no time to waste, no moment to lose.

Finn didn"t hesitate. He bolted from the threshold as he rushed toward the kitchen. His mind raced with images of Victorian relics and antique guns, of poisoned darts and the insidious Tempus Machine—but they all paled in comparison to the thought of losing Amelia to a man as ruthless as Max Vilne. How he wished he had his service gun.

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

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

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

"Amelia," he whispered, a vow to the darkness. Her name was a talisman against the fear clawing at the edges of his resolve. She"d walked through death"s door with him before, had always been the one to keep him grounded in the midst of chaos. He couldn"t let her down now.

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

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

Finn"s body was a pained coiled spring as he burst through the cottage door, the night air sharp against his flushed skin. The gravel crunched underfoot. His hands were unsteady yet firm as 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 a beacon of his urgency.