Chapter 10: The Collector — Part 3
The abandoned clinic loomed against the darkening sky like a wound in the landscape.
Morgan and I moved through the overgrown parking lot, weapons drawn, footsteps silent on cracked asphalt. The generator's hum grew louder as we approached—a heartbeat of electricity feeding something that shouldn't be alive in a dead building.
[DANGER SENSE: ACTIVE]
[THREAT DETECTED — INTERIOR — MULTIPLE LIFE SIGNS]
[FOCUS: -5]
I held up a fist. Morgan stopped beside me.
"System says there are people inside," I murmured, then caught myself. Careful. "I mean—I can hear something. Movement."
Morgan's eyes narrowed, but he didn't question it.
"Back entrance?"
"Agreed. Front's too exposed."
We circled the building, staying low, using the overgrown hedges for cover. The back door was metal, rusted but solid. A padlock hung from the handle—new, shiny, completely out of place.
Morgan examined it.
"Recent installation. Someone's been maintaining access."
"Voss."
"Has to be."
I checked my weapon. Fifteen rounds. Morgan had the same.
"Backup's still fifteen out," he said quietly. "Those women have been in there for months. Another fifteen minutes..."
"Could be the difference between rescue and recovery."
We looked at each other.
In Columbus, I'd talked down Raymond Marks with words. This was different. Voss was a collector—and collectors didn't give up their collections willingly.
"Your call," Morgan said. "We wait, or we go."
The same question he'd asked in the SUV. The same weight behind it.
Four women in glass cases. Karen Chen's voice: "They're still in those cases, waiting."
"We go. But smart."
Morgan nodded once.
"On three."
He positioned himself at the door. I took flanking position, ready to cover once we breached.
"One. Two. Three."
Morgan's boot hit the door just below the lock. The metal screamed, hinges giving way, and we were through—weapons up, scanning, moving.
The back room was storage—old veterinary supplies, dust-covered shelving, the smell of mildew and something sharper underneath. Antiseptic. Just like Karen had described.
A door at the far end. Light bleeding through the crack at the bottom.
Music. Classical. Orchestral strings playing something beautiful and terrible.
[THREAT PROXIMITY: IMMEDIATE]
[RECOMMEND: TACTICAL APPROACH]
[FOCUS: -3]
Morgan took point. I covered our six. We moved through the storage room, stepped over debris, reached the interior door.
He looked at me. I nodded.
He opened it.
Stairs descended into brightness—clinical white light that hurt after the darkness above. The music swelled, filling the stairwell with sound that belonged in concert halls, not basements.
We went down.
The gallery was exactly as Karen had described—and worse.
Glass cases lined the walls, each one large enough to hold a person. Because each one did. Four women, posed like mannequins in a museum exhibit. Eyes closed. Breathing shallow. Drugged into something between sleep and death.
In the center of the room stood Nathan Voss.
He was smaller than I expected—five-eight, thin, wearing medical scrubs that hung loose on his frame. His face was unremarkable. The kind of face you'd forget five minutes after seeing it.
But his eyes. His eyes were wrong. Too bright, too focused, burning with the intensity of a man who'd built his own reality and couldn't understand why anyone would want to tear it down.
He held a scalpel. The blade caught the light.
"FBI," Morgan called out, weapon trained on Voss's center mass. "Put down the weapon and step away from the cases."
Voss didn't move.
"You're interrupting," he said. His voice was soft, almost gentle. "The collection isn't complete. I was about to add the final piece."
He gestured at an empty case at the far end of the room. A placard already mounted on the glass: Rebecca Torres. Structural Engineer. Bridge Design Specialist.
He was going to take another one.
"There's not going to be a final piece," I said. "It's over, Nathan."
His eyes found mine.
"You don't understand. None of you understand. These women—they're extraordinary. They achieved things men couldn't, succeeded where men failed. They deserve to be preserved. Celebrated. Protected from a world that would waste them."
[COMBAT READING: INITIATING]
[TARGET ANALYSIS: NATHAN VOSS — RIGHT-HANDED — FAVORING LEFT KNEE (OLD INJURY) — ELEVATED HEART RATE — PSYCHOLOGICAL STATE: DISSOCIATIVE]
[STRIKE POINT: DOMINANT ARM — SECONDARY: LEFT KNEE]
[FOCUS: -8]
The data flowed through my mind—cold, tactical, useful. But the cost hit immediately. Pressure behind my eyes, the taste of copper on my tongue.
"Put down the scalpel," Morgan repeated. "Last warning."
Voss smiled.
"You can't shoot me. Not with them so close." He took a step toward the nearest case—Amanda Chen, according to the placard. Software architect. Taken in July. "One wrong move and I'll destroy something irreplaceable."
Morgan's jaw tightened. He was right—a shot could miss, could ricochet, could hit the glass and the woman inside.
But Voss was focused on Morgan. On the obvious threat.
He wasn't watching me.
I moved.
Three steps, fast and low. Voss's head turned, eyes widening, scalpel rising—too slow. My hand closed around his wrist, twisted hard, and the blade clattered to the floor. His left knee buckled when I swept it, just like the system had predicted, and he went down.
Morgan was there in seconds, cuffing Voss while I kept him pinned.
"You're ruining everything," Voss whispered. "They were perfect. They were safe. I was protecting them."
"You were killing them slowly," I said. "That's not protection. That's possession."
The fight went out of him. Just like that—the intensity in his eyes dimming, the resistance in his body collapsing. He started crying.
Collectors. When they lose their collection, they lose everything.
Morgan hauled him to his feet.
"Nathan Voss, you're under arrest for kidnapping, false imprisonment, and assault. You have the right to remain silent..."
I stopped listening. Moved to the cases instead.
[FOCUS: 18/50]
[WARNING: SYSTEM RESOURCES DEPLETED. RECOVERY RECOMMENDED.]
The glass wasn't locked—just latched from the outside. I opened the first case. Dr. Patricia Vance. Orthopedic surgeon. Her skin was cold, her pulse thready, but she was alive.
I moved to the next case. Lauren Mitchell. Aerospace engineer. Same condition.
Third case. Amanda Chen. Same.
Fourth case. Rebecca Torres. The one Voss hadn't finished "collecting." Still wearing the clothes she'd been taken in. Still breathing.
Four women. All alive.
The music was still playing. I found the sound system—an old CD player wired to speakers—and turned it off.
The silence that followed was the sweetest thing I'd ever heard.
Morgan had Voss secured by the stairs.
"EMTs are two minutes out," he said. "Backup's arriving now."
I nodded, moved back to the first case. Dr. Vance's eyes were fluttering—the sedation wearing off, consciousness returning.
She saw me and flinched.
"It's okay," I said, keeping my voice soft. "FBI. You're safe now. It's over."
Tears streamed down her face. She tried to speak, couldn't, just reached for my hand.
I let her take it.
We stayed like that until the EMTs arrived—her gripping my fingers like a lifeline, me sitting on the cold concrete floor beside her case, saying nothing because there was nothing to say.
The music was off. The collector was caught. Four women were going home.
This is why I'm here. This is what the system is for.
Morgan appeared at my shoulder.
"Backup's here. Hotch wants us at the precinct for debrief."
I looked at Dr. Vance. Her grip had loosened—the EMTs were moving in, starting their work.
"Go," she whispered. "Find the others. There are always others."
I stood.
"There are," I agreed. "And we will."
Outside, the night air hit me like a wave. My head throbbed—the Focus drain catching up, the adrenaline fading. Minor bruising on my forearm where I'd grabbed Voss. Nothing serious.
Morgan was waiting by the SUV.
"You made the call," he said. "I backed it. We're good."
"We're good."
He gripped my shoulder—brief, solid, real.
"Next time, you're still buying those drinks."
"Deal."
We climbed into the SUV. Behind us, the abandoned clinic filled with lights and people—evidence techs, EMTs, officers securing the scene.
Four women were being carried out on stretchers.
All of them breathing.
To supporting Me in Pateron .
with exclusive access to more chapters (based on tiers more chapters for each tiers) on my Patreon, you get more chapters if you ask for more (in few days), plus new fanfic every week! Your support starting at just $6/month helps me keep crafting the stories you love across epic universes like [ In The Witcher With Avatar Powers,In The Vikings With Deja Vu System,Stranger Things Demogorgon Tamer ...].
By joining, you're not just getting more chapters—you're helping me bring new worlds, twists, and adventures to life. Every pledge makes a huge difference!
👉 Join now at patreon.com/TheFinex5 and start reading today!