Chapter 7 - Into the Mill
The old Victorian mill loomed against the stormy night sky like a jagged monument to forgotten tragedies. Rain lashed relentlessly against the rusted corrugated tin roof, and the roar of the swollen river nearby masked the sound of our approach. We cut our cruiser headlights a half-mile back, moving the rest of the way on foot through the mud and dense brush, weapons drawn and ready.
Vance and a tactical backup unit caught up with us near the perimeter fence, moving with disciplined precision.
"Thermal imaging shows a heat signature on the third-floor loft," Vance whispered, gesturing toward a broken arched window high above the ground. "One adult male, and a smaller signature huddled right beside him. No movement, but we're running out of time before he realizes we're here."
"We go in through the loading bay on the west side," I instructed, keeping my voice low and steady. "Quiet, fast, and lethal if he reaches for the child. Do not give him a single second to react."
We breached the heavy wooden sliding door with a synchronized kick. The interior of the mill smelled of rotting timber, mold, and old iron. We swept through the ground floor, boots splashing in standing pools of rainwater, moving stairwell by stairwell up into the cavernous belly of the structure.
As we climbed higher, the air grew colder. Motes of dust danced in the faint beams of our tactical flashlights, illuminating old machinery draped in decaying canvas sheets like ghosts from another century.
Then, we heard it. A soft, familiar hum cutting through the patter of rain.
It was a child's lullaby—the exact tune Lily’s mother used to hum when putting her to sleep.
My grip on my service weapon tightened until my hand ached. We reached the top landing, where a heavy iron-reinforced door stood slightly ajar. A warm, flickering orange glow spilled out from the cracks, accompanied by the distinct scratching of colored pencils on paper.
We lined up against the wall. I counted down with my fingers: Three... Two... One...
I kicked the door open, sweeping my weapon into the room. "Police! Drop your weapon!"
The scene inside froze time.
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Sitting in the center of a makeshift room constructed inside the loft—complete with furniture stolen from various abandoned properties—was David Vance. He was thin, with hollow cheeks, wild unkempt hair, and eyes burning with a terrifying, feverish intensity.
And sitting right across a small wooden table from him, coloring peacefully with a box of crayons, was Lily.
