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"Yeah." She navigated deftly through the maze of posts and updates. "And here—" Her voice hitched slightly with anticipation as an image loaded, showing a small aircraft and a nondescript airstrip.
"Is that...?" Finn started.
"Gunner Airstrip," Amelia confirmed, tapping the caption beneath the photo. "Posted an hour ago. Says he's catching a plane home. Looks like it's a private flight. Gunner Airstrip is pretty small."
"Home..." Finn echoed, his thoughts racing. “How far?”
“Very close to Greenbridge.”
“We need to get going, then.”
"Turn around," Amelia's tone was brisk, leaving no room for argument. Finn complied, feeling the room shift as she moved behind him. The soft rustle of fabric suggested she was changing out of the robe, and he fought the curiosity edging into his consciousness.
"Peeking would be ungentlemanly," he remarked, attempting to dispel the tension with humor.
"Peeping would get you arrested," she shot back, the sound of a zipper punctuating her words.
"Maybe it'd be worth it." He grinned despite himself, hearing her scoff in response.
"Done. Let's go!"
"I need to grab my coat from my room!” Finn said loudly. “Then...”
Amelia grabbed her jacket, shrugging it on with swift movements. “Then, we've got a plane to stop."
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The moon hung low, a spectral observer in the ink-black sky, casting the junkyard in a pallid light that gave the scattered debris an otherworldly glow. The killer's footsteps crunched on gravel as he navigated through the labyrinth of automotive carcasses, each one a testament to stories ended untimely, much like the tales he himself concluded with cold finality.
"Yellow car, tires stacked... amateur theatrics," he muttered to himself, his voice barely audible above the whispering wind that danced through the skeletons of metal and rubber. His eyes, ever perceptive, scanned the chaotic tableau for the signal—a beacon amid the wreckage.
"Ah, there you are," he whispered as the old yellow car materialized from the shadows, its paint dulled by time, sitting solemnly with two tires perched atop its roof like a grotesque crown. He approached it with measured steps, the crunch of gravel underfoot syncing with the steady drumming of anticipation in his veins.
"Right where you said it'd be," he spoke into the void, acknowledging the absent partner in crime without warmth or gratitude. His hand reached out, the fingers finding the handle encrusted with grit and years of neglect, pulling open the creaking door of the vehicle.
"Stinks of modern decay," he noted, wrinkling his nose as the musty odor of mildew and rust assaulted his senses. How he wished to be flung back to a time of horses and knights.
The interior was coated with a fine layer of dust, undisturbed save for this single purpose. With practiced ease, he leaned across the threadbare seats toward the glove box, its latch giving way with an almost imperceptible click.
"Crude, but effective," he cooed as the compartment opened to reveal the handgun, nestled within as if it were resting in a cradle. His fingers caressed the cool metal with a lover's touch, extracting the weapon with reverence born not of respect but of utility. It was a tool, nothing more, yet in his hands, it promised to be the architect of fate. His only regret was that the weapon was more effective than an elegant dagger or bow.
"I'm glad he left you here for me. You will help me do something special, won't you? You'll punish those who value the modern world over the past, will you not?" he asked the gun, the barrel catching the moon's light as he inspected it. The magazine was full, the chamber eager. A small smile played upon his lips, a secret shared between artisan and instrument.
"Let slip the dogs of war!" he vowed, the promise hanging in the air like the flight of a medieval arrow. He closed the glove box with a soft thud, the sound swallowed whole by the sprawling graveyard of machinery around him.
If it were up to him, he'd put all of the modern world in its own grave, damned by its love for technology.
His mind wandered briefly to Finn, the image of his adversary conjured with a blend of contempt and anticipation. "You think you can anticipate my moves, don't you, Mr Wright? But you're playing checkers while I'm playing the ancient and superior game of chess."
The crisp bite of the night air filled his lungs as he emerged from the decrepit vehicle, a predator stepping out of a tomb of rust and abandonment. The gun slipped into his inside pocket with an ease that suggested long-held familiarity, its contours pressing against him like a secret talisman.
"Safe and sound, right where you belong," he muttered to the gun, his breath making transient clouds in the cold.
Around him, the junkyard lay silent, save for the occasional groan of metal, as if the derelict cars were stirring in their sleep. He cast a last lingering glance over his shoulder, ensuring no prying eyes had witnessed the transaction. Satisfied, he strode back to his own car, a nondescript model chosen for its ability to blend into any street, any scene.
"A steady hand is all that's required," he whispered to himself. His hand found the key in his pocket, the metal cool and solid—a promise of ignition, of motion.
He opened the driver's side door, the creaking hinge breaking the silence like a clandestine signal. Sliding behind the wheel, he sat in the momentary calm of the car's interior, where plans could be laid and futures woven from the threads of past grievances.
