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"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.
"Open up!" he barked, his voice slicing through the residual hum of the engine.
There was a moment's hesitation, a brief standoff between silence and action, before the latch clinked, and the door swung outward. A blast of cabin air rushed past Finn, tinged with the scent of apprehension and expensive cologne.
"Hello there," Finn said, head thrust into the artificial calm of the cabin, eyes locking onto the figure strapped into one of the plush seats. The man’s face was a landscape of worry, creased with the anticipation of a confrontation he no doubt wished to avoid.
"Going somewhere, Mr. Reinhardt? And without saying bye, too." Finn's words were edged with a grin, not out of amusement but as a display of power—the cat that cornered the mouse reveling in the final play.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Finn knew he was exhausted, still in a weakened state, but his mind was alive with the thought that he had the killer, and potentially one of Vilne's associates, in his grasp at last.
The fluorescent lights in the interview room at the Hertfordshire constabulary buzzed with a muted persistence, casting a clinical pallor over the scene. Finn sat with an unfaltering gaze fixed on Arron Reinhardt. The man was the picture of composed wealth in his tailored suit, his posture relaxed in a manner that seemed studied and deliberate. Across the table, Amelia Winters mirrored Finn's intensity, her sharp eyes never wavering from the suspect.
"Mr. Reinhardt," Finn finally broke the silence, his voice steady and low, "you seem awfully comfortable for a man in your position."
Arron's lips twitched into a half-smile, his fingers interlaced on the table in front of him. "Well, Agent Wright, comfort is a state of mind, isn't it?" he replied smoothly.
"Is it now?" Amelia chimed in, her tone cool but edged with steel. "I'd imagine comfort is hard to come by under scrutiny for serious crimes."
Finn leaned back in his chair, his mind racing through the implications of Arron's nonchalance. Was it innocence or arrogance that kept the man so unnervingly calm? He glanced briefly at the recorder, its red light a silent sentinel, capturing every nuance of the conversation.
"Look," Arron said, his annoyance beginning to crack his polished veneer, "if you're not going to ask me any questions, may I be excused? Time is money, after all."
"Money..." Finn mused aloud, letting the word hang in the air as he locked eyes with Arron once again. "That seems to be a recurring theme with you, Mr. Reinhardt."
Amelia leaned forward, resting her arms on the table. "We have plenty of questions, Mr. Reinhardt," she assured him. "Just taking our time to ask the right ones."
"Time that I'm sure your expensive lawyer is billing you for by the minute," Finn added, a slight smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
"Indeed, they are," Arron conceded, his mask of composure slipping further. "So why don't we expedite this process, because as soon as my lawyer is here, you'll be the one in trouble."
"Expedite..." Finn echoed thoughtfully, the gears turning in his head. He was aware of the delicate dance of interrogation, each step measured and precise. He knew the value of patience, of letting the silence do the heavy lifting. But more than that, he understood the power of the unspoken – the threat of what remained unsaid.
"Patience, Mr. Reinhardt," Amelia said, her voice a calm counterpart to Finn's tacit tension. "All in due time. I think your legal representation is heading from London, so we just need to wait, unless you feel confident enough to proceed on your own."
Finn loved that approach. It was a challenge to a man who clearly had a rather unhinged ego.
"Fine," Arron huffed, shifting in his seat, the first clear sign of discomfort since he had walked into the room. "But let's get on with it, shall we?"
"Let's," Finn agreed, his eyes never leaving the suspect's face. In that moment, he felt the familiar surge of adrenaline, the quiet thrill of the chase. It was a feeling he had known many times before, a sensation that reminded him why he did this work, despite everything it had cost him. And as the tape continued to run, recording every syllable and sigh, Finn knew that the game was afoot, and he was exactly where he needed to be.
"Recognize this, do you?" Finn's voice was clipped as he slid a series of glossy photographs across the smooth surface of the interview table. They landed in front of Arron Reinhardt with the precision of dealt cards. The images were stark, revealing the plush interior of a private jet, all cream leather and polished wood.
"Of course," Arron replied, his tone dry, barely glancing at the first photo before flicking it aside with a manicured finger. "It's hard to forget a G650 when you've spent the better part of six hours in one."
"Indeed," Finn murmured, pressing on. "Then perhaps you'll find it peculiar that your pilot seemed to have an aversion to communicating with the control tower during your little jaunt."
"Shouldn't you be asking him that?" Arron retorted smoothly, though Finn caught the briefest flicker of annoyance in his gaze.
