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"Damn it," Finn cursed under his breath. He could almost see the pilot inside, oblivious or indifferent to the storm they were bringing down upon him. Finn reached for his seat belt, clicking it into place with a decisive snap. His mind was already leaping ahead, calculating the narrow window of opportunity they had left.
"It's too dangerous to chase the jet, we need to ground it from the control tower," Amelia stated, though it was less of an observation and more of a directive.
"I can keep it down, Amelia!," Finn said, frustration etched into his face.
“It's too risky, to you and the passengers.”
As the car ate up the distance between them and the control tower, Finn felt the familiar thrill of the chase sharpen his focus. Every second mattered now, every decision could tip the scales. They were in the dance of predator and prey, the outcome hanging by a thread as thin and taut as the night air itself.
The control tower loomed against the backdrop of the starless sky, a solitary beacon in the dark. Amelia's foot eased off the accelerator as they approached, gravel crunching under tires announcing their arrival. She parked with precision, a swift motion that betrayed her urgency without descending into recklessness.
"Stay here," she commanded, her tone leaving no room for debate as she threw open the door and stepped out into the cool night air.
Finn watched her silhouette merge with the shadows, the determined set of her shoulders speaking volumes. The manager, a middle-aged man with spectacles perched precariously on his nose, emerged from the tower like a startled owl roused from its perch. He was waving his hands, the universal sign of distress.
“Keep that plane on the ground!” Amelia shouted.
"I can't!" the manager called out, voice cracking. "The captain—no response to any hails. It's like he's vanished into thin air!"
"Or following orders... Damn it," Finn muttered under his breath. His keen mind raced, piecing together the fragments of an increasingly complex puzzle. He could almost see the invisible threads of the investigation spinning out, weaving a web that ensnared them all.
"Keep trying," Amelia shot back, authority crackling in her voice. "We need that plane grounded yesterday."
As Amelia engaged the manager, Finn's gaze darted to the airstrip where the jet's engines hummed with a low, ominous threat. Time was slipping through their fingers. He cast a glance at Amelia, then made a split-second decision; the kind that had defined his career and too often, his life.
"Sorry, Winters," he shouted, already vaulting over the center console into the driver's seat. "I think you'll get into trouble if you come with me."
"Wait, what—Finn, no!" Amelia's protest sliced through the night, sharp as the wind that tugged at his jacket when he slammed the door shut.
The car roared to life beneath him, the familiar vibration a comforting ally as he shifted gears. He spared a final glance at Amelia, her figure framed by the stark floodlights of the tower, before he floored the accelerator.
Finn's thoughts careened with the speedometer's needle: plans, contingencies, the myriad ways this could unfold. Each scenario played out in his head, a chess game where he needed to think ten moves ahead. There was no turning back now. He was committed to the path, to the chase, to the justice that awaited at the end of this runway.
And somewhere in the symphony of screeching tires and racing engines, Finn found a grim sort of solace. This was his element, the chaos where clarity was born, where he could strip away the noise and hear the truth whispering amid the tumult.
"Come on, Reinhardt," he murmured to the darkness. "If you're innocent, why leave?"
The runway stretched before Finn like a challenge, the asphalt a tarmac titan daring him to take it on. The plane was already taxiing, its silhouette a darker smudge against the night sky. Finn's hands clenched the wheel tighter, every muscle coiled as he urged the car forward.
"Keep going," he whispered, feeling the rumble of the engine through the soles of his feet. The world outside blurred into streaks of light and shadow as he pushed the vehicle faster, the chase thrumming in his blood.
"Reinhardt!" he spat out the name like a curse, his jaw set. He could see the small passenger jet gaining speed, its engines howling their impatience to be airborne.
"This might be the dumbest thing I've ever done," he muttered. “But you are not getting away, now, are you?” he said half to himself, half to the fleeing figure he knew sat within that metal bird. The question hung in the air, unanswered, save for the roar of engines—both his and the plane's.
"Time to clip your wings," Finn decided, the car now close enough to the moving plane that he could almost touch it. His focus narrowed, the rest of the world fading until there was only this moment, this heartbeat of action.
He drew up alongside the rear of the aircraft, his gaze flickering between the runway and the target. Then, with a calculated precision born of years in the field, he angled the car just so—metal kissed metal with a screech that clawed at the night.
"Gotcha," Finn exhaled as he felt the impact judder through the frame of the car, the plane's tail nudging under the force.
For an endless second, everything seemed suspended—the chase, the night, even his breath. And then, as though conceding defeat, the plane slowed, inch by reluctant inch, until it rolled to a complete stop.
"I can't actually believe that worked," Finn said, though the words were lost in the cacophony of victory and spinning wheels. He allowed himself a tight smile, knowing the game had changed. This was no longer about chase; it was about confrontation.
Finn's boots hit the tarmac with a determined thud, the echoes of his car door slamming shut swallowed by the vastness of the night. The airstrip was a ribbon of dimly lit asphalt, the control tower lights cast long shadows that danced to the rhythm of his pounding footsteps. He didn’t wait for his heart rate to settle; there wasn’t time.
A sprinter’s energy surged in his legs, propelling him towards the small passenger jet, its engines winding down with a groan of thwarted escape. He searched with his grip and found a part of the plane on which to pull himself up. Once he had footing above the ground, his hand found the cold metal of the plane's door, rapping sharply against it—a staccato burst echoing the urgency coursing through his veins.
