The car's engine hummed softly as Frost and Blake sped through the streets of London, the morning fog clinging to the city's old brick buildings. The atmosphere outside was a reflection of Frost's own mind—clouded, heavy with the unknown, and filled with an urgent need for clarity.
He stared out of the window, his thoughts running in circles. Thorne had always been a step ahead, always slipping through their grasp at the last moment. But now, with Lila's information, they had a chance—perhaps the only chance—to stop him before his plan came to fruition.
"What exactly did Lila tell you?" Blake asked, his eyes flicking toward Frost as they navigated through the narrow streets of East End.
Frost sighed, leaning back in his seat, wincing slightly as his still-healing wound reminded him of its presence. "She said Thorne's building a machine. Something powerful enough to give him control over the entire city. She didn't give details, but it's clear this has been in the works for years."
Blake let out a low whistle. "A machine? What kind of machine? And how the hell does it control a city?"
"That's what we need to find out," Frost muttered. "But if it's mechanical, it means he needs power. And lots of it."
Blake's brow furrowed. "Electricity? There's only a handful of places in London that could supply the kind of power you're talking about."
"Exactly," Frost nodded, his mind already leaping to possibilities. "Factories, industrial sectors… somewhere he can run this thing without attracting too much attention."
Blake was silent for a moment, his face thoughtful. "There's one place that comes to mind. The old Ironworks in Docklands. It's been abandoned for years, but there's still access to the power grid. If Thorne needed a place to hide something big, that would be the spot."
Frost's eyes gleamed. "It's a long shot, but it's the best lead we've got."
---
The Ironworks stood like a forgotten titan on the edge of the Thames, its rusting girders and soot-stained bricks a relic of the city's industrial past. The wind howled through the hollowed-out windows, the sound eerie and unnatural in the otherwise quiet afternoon.
Frost and Blake crouched behind a crumbling wall, their eyes scanning the entrance. A heavy iron gate blocked the way, but it was the armed guards patrolling the perimeter that gave away the fact that the site was far from abandoned.
"Looks like we're in the right place," Blake whispered, his eyes narrowing.
Frost's jaw tightened. Thorne's men were here, and that meant they were close to uncovering whatever the criminal mastermind was hiding. But they couldn't just walk in guns blazing—not with such heavy security. They needed a plan.
"I'll create a diversion," Blake said after a moment, his voice low and determined. "You get inside, find out what's going on, and stop it. Whatever it takes."
Frost's gaze met Blake's, and for a brief second, the unspoken bond between them was enough. They had been through hell together, and they both knew the risks. But there was no turning back now.
"Be careful," Frost said, clapping Blake on the shoulder. "And if you find Thorne…"
"I know," Blake nodded, a grim smile on his face. "I'll save a bullet for him."
With that, Blake slipped away into the shadows, his figure disappearing into the maze of debris and ruined buildings. Frost waited, counting the seconds until Blake made his move.
Suddenly, a loud crash echoed through the yard, followed by the sharp bark of commands. The guards scrambled toward the sound, leaving their posts momentarily unguarded.
Frost didn't hesitate. He moved swiftly and silently, darting across the open space and slipping through a gap in the fence. His heart pounded in his chest as he crept toward the entrance of the main building, the weight of his pistol comforting against his side.
Inside, the Ironworks was a cavernous maze of rusted machinery, broken conveyor belts, and long-abandoned workstations. The air was thick with dust and the smell of oil, and every step echoed eerily in the vast space.
Frost stayed low, moving cautiously through the shadows. As he rounded a corner, he heard voices—low and urgent, coming from deeper within the factory. He followed the sound, his grip on his gun tightening.
When he reached the source of the voices, he froze. In the center of the room stood a massive, hulking machine, its gears and pistons gleaming under the dim light. It looked like something out of a nightmare—an amalgamation of Victorian ingenuity and something far more sinister.
And standing in front of it, giving orders to his men, was Thorne.
Frost's heart pounded as he took in the scene. Thorne's men were busy assembling the final pieces of the machine, their movements precise and efficient. Whatever this thing was, it was nearly complete.
"I want this operational by nightfall," Thorne barked, his voice sharp and commanding. "No mistakes. If we lose power for even a second, the whole operation will fail."
Frost's mind raced. He needed to stop this machine from coming online, but he was outnumbered and outgunned. Taking on Thorne's men head-on would be suicide. He had to think.
Then, as his eyes scanned the room, he saw it—a set of exposed power cables running from the machine to a large control panel on the far wall. If he could cut the power, he might be able to buy them some time.
Frost took a deep breath, steeling himself. This was it. No turning back.
He moved quickly, staying low as he darted between cover, making his way toward the control panel. Every second felt like an eternity, and he could feel the eyes of Thorne's men on him, even though they hadn't spotted him yet.
When he reached the panel, he carefully examined the cables. It didn't take long to find the main power supply—an old, thick cable that snaked its way into the machine's core. One clean cut, and it would be over.
Frost drew his knife, his hand steady despite the adrenaline surging through him. He raised the blade, ready to sever the cable, when—
"Don't move."
The cold, unmistakable feel of a gun barrel pressed against the back of his head.
Frost's breath hitched, and his grip tightened around the knife. Slowly, he raised his hands in surrender.
"You always were predictable, Frost," Thorne's voice drawled from behind him. "Always thinking you could save the day with some clever trick."
Frost's mind raced, trying to find a way out, but he was trapped. Thorne had him.
"Turn around," Thorne ordered.
Frost obeyed, slowly turning to face his nemesis. Thorne stood before him, his gun trained on Frost's chest, a smug smile playing on his lips.
"You really thought you could stop me?" Thorne sneered. "After all this time, after everything I've built?"
Frost's eyes flicked to the machine behind Thorne. It was still humming, still powering up. He had to act fast.
"It's over, Thorne," Frost said, his voice steady despite the gun aimed at him. "You're not walking away from this."
Thorne chuckled. "Oh, I think I am. You see, Frost, I've already won. This machine—once it's online, it will give me control over every major system in the city. The police, the government, the media—they'll all be under my thumb."
Frost's jaw clenched. "You're insane."
"Maybe," Thorne said with a shrug. "But power is all that matters in this world, Frost. And I'm about to have more of it than anyone else."
Frost's mind raced. He had to stall, had to find a way to buy Blake more time—if he was still out there, still fighting.
"I won't let you get away with this," Frost said, his voice low and dangerous.
Thorne smirked. "And how exactly are you going to stop me?"
Before Frost could respond, the lights flickered, and a deafening explosion rocked the building. The ground shook, and the machine behind Thorne sparked and sputtered, its gears grinding to a halt.
"What the—" Thorne began, but he never finished.
Blake appeared from the shadows, his gun raised. "Drop it, Thorne!"
Thorne's eyes widened in surprise, and for a moment, he hesitated.
That was all the time Frost needed.
With a swift, precise movement, Frost lunged forward, knocking the gun from Thorne's hand and tackling him to the ground. The two men grappled, fists flying as they fought for control.
Frost's side burned with pain, but he ignored it, his focus entirely on Thorne. This was the end. One of them wasn't walking away from this.
With a final, brutal punch, Frost sent Thorne sprawling to the ground, unconscious.
Breathing heavily, Frost stood over him, his chest heaving with exertion. It was over. Thorne was finished.
Blake rushed over, his eyes wide with relief. "You okay?"
Frost nodded, wincing as he clutched his side. "Yeah. I'm fine."
They both turned to look at the machine, which lay in ruins behind them. Whatever Thorne had been planning, it was over now.
The city was safe—for now.
---
But as Frost and Blake stood there, the weight of the battle lifting from their shoulders, Frost couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't the end. Thorne might be out of commission, but there were always others like him, waiting in the shadows, ready to take his place.
And Frost knew one thing for certain: as long as there were people like Thorne in the world, the fight would never be truly over.