She gritted her teeth, emitting a growl of her own to match the killer’s snarl. Like a couple of huffing animals, they lay there, him on top of her, both of them struggling for control of the other’s hand.
The Sergeant was shouting and thrashing now, but his movements had weakened as his wounds took their toll and blood loss had its say.
Adele screamed in pain as she felt a finger jam into the cut at her side, trying to twist the flesh open further. She howled and the killer screamed back at her, their noses almost touching. He managed to jerk his hand free from hers and shove his shoulder down, trapping her wrist against her chest and pinning it beneath his weight.
He was too strong, too agile.
She tried to kick out, but he was straddling her now, securing his grip before lifting the knife a second time, like an artist with a paint brush, holding their tool of choice aloft before setting to their next work.
Then there was a distant bang.
Followed, in near perfect succession by another.
The killer’s hand was illuminated in moonlight—the only part of him still visible over the windowsill. The first bang saw the window shatter as a bullet broke the glass and sent pieces tumbling onto both Adele and Porter.
The second bullet slammed into the killer’s hand, demolishing a couple of knuckles and severing a finger at the joint. The killer howled as his finger fell from his injured hand and blood poured from his new wound.
The knife fell, landing next to Adele’s cheek, along with more shards of glass, which nicked her face, but missed her eyes.
She grunted and shoved.
The killer was still staring at his disfigured hand, a look of horror across his features. Adele didn’t hesitate. As some of his pressure lifted from the shock of being shot, she flung out her left hand, grabbed the scalpel, gripped it and brought it slashing forward. Once, twice, a third time, she used it like a knife, jamming the blade into the killer’s neck.
Blood poured from the wounds and Adele felt his strength fading as he stared down at her, a quizzical look replacing his one of horror. His injured hand fell against his thigh and then, with a slight, questioning sigh, he toppled over, scalpel buried in his throat, falling from Adele.
Breathing heavily, covered in both her blood and the killer’s, Adele slowly eased up, trying her best to avoid the falling glass.
“American Princess!” a voice shouted from the street outside. “Are you all right!”
An impossible shot. A perfect shot. One to clear the glass, a second to hit Schmidt’s upraised hand. Adele shook her head in disbelief, shock running its course through her body.
Adele pushed doggedly to her feet, stumbling over to her father, shards of glass tumbling from her with each step and scattering on the ground. She reached her father, whose head was now lolled against his chest, his eyes half-closed.
“Stay with me!” she snapped, grabbing a nearby pillow and ripping off the case to press it against the cuts along her father’s face and neck. Her father emitted a quiet moan, and his chest rose and fell, flooding Adele with relief. “John!” she shouted over her shoulder, toward the window. “John—call EMS! Now!”
She heard a muffled shout in response, but couldn’t quite make out the words. Her own head was now spinning too. Slowly, she slid down the side of the bed, reaching out and snaring a piece of glass to start sawing at the duct tape around her father’s wrists.
He moaned again. “Sorry about the carpet,” she muttered.
Then, once her father’s hands were free, she had him press another pillowcase to the wounds on his thigh.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, next to her father, they remained in silence, hands pressed to his wounds, staring at the open door, neither of them paying much mind to the body beneath the window. Adele had nearly forgotten he was there.
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
Adele sat in the chair facing the opaque glass of Executive Foucault’s door. Her feet were crossed, the fuzzy pink slippers Robert had given her poked toward the ceiling.
A voice cleared down the hall, and Adele glanced over at John striding toward her, a smirk on his face. “Nice slippers,” he said.
She grunted in reply, shifting slightly, but wincing as her bandaged side moved against the armrest. “I’ll give you one,” she said. “I do owe you.”
He nodded. “Yes. Definitely you’re in my debt, hmm?”
She rolled her eyes. “Seriously though, that was a hell of a shot. I never did properly thank you.”
John flashed a schoolboy smile. “I can think of some ways you could express your gratitude.”
“You’re a pig,” she said, but her tone was devoid of any ill will.
John leaned against the executive’s door, seemingly indifferent to the long, dark shadow he would cast through the glass into his boss’s office. “Nice of you to advise me over the radio,” he said, conversationally. “Gave me the information I needed to make the shot. To be honest, for a moment there, I thought I was too late.”
Adele shrugged one shoulder, glancing back through the opaque glass.
John stared at her slippers again. “Not exactly professional,” he said, raising a dark eyebrow.
Adele smiled. “I’m on vacation.”
“Yeah? Good for you.”
“What?” Adele teased. “That’s all I get? No jokes about how lazy American princesses are?”
But John didn’t smile this time; he glanced off down the hall, his face darkening for a moment. “You deserve a break,” he said, softly. “Don’t let them drag you back too soon, hear?”
Adele sighed, feeling some tension leave her shoulders. “I’ve just got a last meeting with Foucault, then I’m off for the week.”
“Going to spend it in Paris?”
Adele hesitated. “I think so, yes. An old friend offered me room and board for the week.” She lowered her voice and winked conspiratorially. “He has a private swimming pool, so I think I might take him up on the offer.” Adele didn’t add the more important part. Her teeth pressed against each other and she felt her mood darken for a moment. The killer had said, “Honestly, it’s funny you left Paris, you know that?” He’d been talking about her mother’s killer. Why had it been funny, though? The way he’d said it kept repeating in Adele’s mind… Almost… almost as if the killer she’d been looking for all along had been in Paris.
Adele had known he’d killed in the city, but she’d never known where he’d been from. Funny you left Paris… Maybe what she had been longing for was beneath her nose the whole time. A week of vacation wasn’t a long time, but… enough time to turn up a new clue? Perhaps.
“How’s the old man?” John asked, still leaning against the glass.
Adele paused for a moment. Only three days had passed since closing the case of the German vacationing killer. Her father had emailed her earlier; he’d returned from the hospital to more than one can of condensed soup waiting for him on his front porch: gifts from his work buddies. She shrugged toward John. “Tougher than me,” she said. “But he agreed to video call me later today—so that’s progress.” She chuckled and shook her head in incredulity. “By the sound of things, though, he’s heading back to work tomorrow.”
John nodded, no longer smiling. “I doubt it,” he said, softly.
She frowned. “For all the things he is, my dad isn’t a liar.”
“No—not the work part. I doubt he’s tougher than you.”
Adele hesitated, studying her French partner. “John, am I hallucinating, or did you just compliment me?”
He studied her, his eyes laden with something she couldn’t quite place… A sorrow, but also a relief. Just as quickly, he covered with a chuckle and a wink. “The way to a princess’s heart; lavish with compliments. This could be the start to an illicit French romance, hmm?”
Adele didn’t react at first. She looked at the tall agent leaning like a tomcat against the door, his eyes hooded as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He really was quite handsome, even with that burn mark. “Maybe we can test that theory,” she said with a smirk of her own. “Indoor pools are always more fun with two people.”
John blinked, taken aback for a moment, and Adele hid her smile of satisfaction.
After a bit too long of a pause, John finally retorted, “I’m a really good swimmer.”
“We’ll see,” Adele said, sweetly. Then she got to her feet, stretching her long legs as she did and rolling her shoulders.
John, still staring at her, hadn’t noticed the shadow approaching from the other side. He jolted like a scalded cat as the door to the executive’s office opened.
Foucault glanced out in the hall. He looked up at the tall agent, frowning, then turned his attention to Adele. “Agent Sharp,” he said, “join me, if you please.”
Adele brushed past John, looking up and winking at him before following Foucault into the office. The door shut with a quiet rattle of glass.
Adele suppressed her smile at John’s startled reaction. It took her a moment to quell the satisfaction, but she finally turned to face Foucault’s desk. To her surprise, he wasn’t the only one in the room.
The TV screen was on behind him, depicting the face of Agent Lee from back in San Francisco. Additionally, the same woman from before—the one from Interpol, was standing by Foucault’s desk with a phone in one hand and a paper file in the other. The large woman eyed Adele from behind thin glasses, her intelligent eyes twinkling.
Foucault was now sitting in his chair, peering across the desk at Adele. Both the chair and the desk seemed perfectly proportioned to suit the DGSI executive’s frame.
Adele felt a sudden flash of embarrassment at her choice in footwear.
For a moment, Foucault frowned, glancing down at Adele’s slippers, but before he could say anything, Agent Lee spoke from the TV screen.
“Hey, Sharp,” she said. “I hear you’re doing good things across the pond!”
Adele smiled at her friend and gave a little wave. “Can’t complain,” she replied. “How are things stateside?”
Agent Lee nodded and flashed a thumbs-up. “Same ol’. I’ve been hearing some interesting thoughts from Ms. Jayne, here, though…”
Adele glanced at the Interpol correspondent, who had lowered the paper file and was studying Adele with a look of quiet contemplation.
For a moment, Adele felt a flash of nerves. Had she done something wrong? She cycled back through the events in Germany. The killer had died before EMS had arrived—perhaps that’s what this was about. Surely they weren’t questioning the self-defense nature of the killer’s wounds. She opened her mouth, preparing to defend herself, but before she could speak, the correspondent identified simply as Ms. Jayne, spoke first, “I’d like to offer you a job,” she said.
Adele closed her mouth, her eyebrows inching slightly up. She cleared her throat. “Excuse me?”
Ms. Jayne spoke in crisp, precise tones, and, without a hint of impatience, she repeated, “I would like to offer you a job.”
Adele stammered, “I-I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
Foucault cleared his throat. “Look, Agent Sharp, I’m sorry for calling you in on your vacation, but as I promised on the phone, this won’t take long. Ms. Jayne here works, as I’m sure you’ve gathered—”
“For Interpol.” Adele nodded.
“Yes,” said Ms. Jayne. Her clear, crisp tones were devoid of any accent whatsoever. The occupants in the room spoke English, likely for Agent Lee’s benefit, but Ms. Jayne had the sort of voice that suggested while she wasn’t a native English speaker, she had perfected the craft. She continued, “Well, you’ll need to come with me to our headquarters in Lyon, once you return for work, and we’ll iron out the details there. For now, I’m simply looking for a verbal commitment to take back to my supervisors. They’re, of course, fully apprised of the idea.”
Adele glanced from the DGSI executive, to the FBI supervisor and back to the Interpol correspondent. “I’m still not sure I understand. What job?” she said.
“Ah, yes,” said Ms. Jayne. She rubbed her thumbs in small circles on the back of the paper file, in a sort of soothing motion. “You are uniquely positioned, Adele. Interpol has realized this. As a citizen of three countries, coupled with your involvement with multiple agencies, you’re a prime candidate for a program we’ve been working on.”
Adele stared, stunned. Agent Lee and Foucault were both watching her, motionless, as if waiting for her reaction.
“What program?” Adele said, her throat suddenly dry. She really wished she hadn’t worn the slippers now.
“A special license,” said Ms. Jayne, her head bobbing. “An experimental license to operate as a domestic agent in all three countries.” Her expression remained the same, her tone held only polite, matter-of-fact delivery.
And yet, Adele felt her heart skip a beat. “You mean like the CIA?” she asked.
But Ms. Jayne shook her head. “No. Rather, you’d be working as a shared resource between the United States, France, and Germany. You would be consulted whenever it is suspected that a relevant case has an international component. Do you understand?”
Adele paused. She glanced again between the three supervisors, not quite believing her ears. She frowned, studying the carpet beneath her feet for a moment, but then glanced back up.
They seemed to be waiting for something, though, and the silence stretched, occupying the space for a moment.
“Well?” Ms. Jayne said, at last, tilting her head ever so slightly.
“Well, what?” Adele said.
“Are you interested in the position? You are still welcome to your vacation—seven days, correct? And well deserved, of course. But your verbal agreement will allow me to start setting things in motion on our end; understand?”
Adele hesitated again. She glanced toward the screen with Agent Lee and met her friend’s quiet, encouraging smile. She glanced at Foucault; his lips were pursed and he carried an air of solemnity, watching her, waiting for her decision.
“I…” she began, thinking. “I think I’d like to,” she said, slowly. More time overseas meant more time around Robert. Around, even, John… And, perhaps, a chance to track down her mother’s killer. She said none of this though. Instead, she said, “But on one condition.”
Foucault was smiling as if washed in a wave of relief, but the expression became rather fixed at this last part. Ms. Jayne folded her hands. “If it is a matter of compensation, I assure you—”
“Not that,” said Adele, quickly shaking her head. As she spoke, her words came quicker, and she nodded at each one, uttering them with conviction. “I’ll do it, but only if Robert Henry is hired as a consultant. I’ll need people I can trust; he was my mentor at the DGSI, and he’s traveled his fair share too.”
Ms. Jayne frowned and Executive Foucault began to shake his head. He glanced up at the Interpol correspondent. “Agent Henry is of an older generation,” Foucault said, clearing his throat. “He’s been instrumental in the early days of the agency. But now, the direction we’ve been taking it, perhaps it might be better to—”
Adele frowned. “Exactly. If you don’t need him anymore, then I do.” She turned back to Ms. Jayne, nodding once. “I’ll do it—I’ll come to Lyon tomorrow, if that’s what you want. But first, you have to give me assurance that Robert will be involved. If it’s an issue of salary, you can take it out of mine.”
Executive Foucault looked ready to protest again, but Ms. Jayne spoke over him at the mention of salary. “Done,” she said, simply. “I can’t promise what capacity, but we’ll find a place for Agent Henry, you have my word.”
Adele felt a small jolt of satisfaction which she hid behind a cough and a swallow. “Well,” she said, slowly. “I—”
But before she could continue, her phone started to buzz. Adele frowned for a moment, but then her eyes widened.
“I’m so, so sorry,” she said. “So sorry.” She held up a finger and fished her phone from her pocket.
The blue screen carried a single word: Dad.
“It’s—it’s important,” she said, backing slowly toward the opaque glass door. “I’m sorry,” she kept repeating. “But I have to take this.”
Without waiting for a reply, Adele backed out of the room full of supervisors—all of whom held her career in their hands—and stepped into the hall, lifting the phone and staring at the answer button.
She swallowed, brushed a few loose strands of hair from her face.
Perhaps it wasn’t the wisest course, stepping foot into the DGSI headquarters wearing pink slippers, then leaving a meeting with powerful members of the intelligence community to take a personal call. But then again, perhaps Angus had been right. Perhaps the job couldn’t come first every time.
Adele answered the phone, hurrying toward the elevator and stepping into the empty compartment. She held the phone up, staring into the camera. Her father’s face blinked into view and, for a brief moment, he almost seemed to smile. He had bandages on his face, but otherwise, he looked healthy enough.
“Hey, Dad,” Adele said. “You look good.”
Her father studied her for a moment. And this time, he actually did flash a smile. The elevator doors closed with a quiet ding. “Hello, Adele,” he said, his voice rasping. “How are you?”
Adele tried to respond, but found a lump in her throat. Her dad never called her by her name. The elevator whirred to life, carrying Adele back down to the lobby, the walls and floor vibrating softly around her. “I’m—I’m doing fine,” she said, quietly. “I’ve got some good news. It sounds like I might be visiting Germany quite a bit now…”
The Sergeant’s eyes widened at this. “Good,” he said. The word seemed to take an effort to utter, but after he did, his gaze almost seemed to soften. “Tell me about it,” he said.
The elevator dinged, but Adele didn’t get off. She stood in the empty compartment, facing the lobby, holding up her phone and chatting with her father. She’d once upon a time lost a parent in France. But there, standing in the elevator, hunched over her phone with a smile on her face, Adele felt perhaps she wasn’t so alone as all that. A father from the US, living in Germany, married to a French woman… Adele could only shake her head softly at the thought.
But, for a moment, she thought of Robert’s comments to her. “Perhaps it isn’t you don’t have a home. But that you have more than one.”
NOW AVAILABLE FOR PRE-ORDER!
LEFT TO RUN
(An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book 2)
“When you think that life cannot get better, Blake Pierce comes up with another masterpiece of thriller and mystery! This book is full of twists and the end brings a surprising revelation. I strongly recommend this book to the permanent library of any reader that enjoys a very well written thriller.”
--Books and Movie Reviews, Roberto Mattos (re Almost Gone)
LEFT TO RUN is book #2 in a new FBI thriller series by USA Today bestselling author Blake Pierce, whose #1 bestseller Once Gone (Book #1) (a free download) has received over 1,000 five star reviews.
A serial killer is ravaging the American expat community in Paris, his kills reminiscent of Jack the Ripper. For FBI special agent Adele Sharp, it’s a mad race against time to enter his mind and save the next victim—until she uncovers a secret darker than anyone could have imagined.
Haunted by her own mother’s murder, Adele throws herself into the case, delving into the grisly underbelly of a city she once called home.
Can Adele stop the killer before it’s too late?
An action-packed mystery series of international intrigue and riveting suspense, LEFT TO RUN will have you turning pages late into the night.
Book #3—LEFT TO HIDE—is now available for pre-order.
LEFT TO RUN
(An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book 2)
Blake Pierce
Blake Pierce is the USA Today bestselling author of the RILEY PAGE mystery series, which includes sixteen books (and counting). Blake Pierce is also the author of the MACKENZIE WHITE mystery series, comprising thirteen books (and counting); of the AVERY BLACK mystery series, comprising six books; of the KERI LOCKE mystery series, comprising five books; of the MAKING OF RILEY PAIGE mystery series, comprising five books (and counting); of the KATE WISE mystery series, comprising six books (and counting); of the CHLOE FINE psychological suspense mystery, comprising five books (and counting); of the JESSE HUNT psychological suspense thriller series, comprising five books (and counting); of the AU PAIR psychological suspense thriller series, comprising two books (and counting); of the ZOE PRIME mystery series, comprising two books (and counting); and of the new ADELE SHARP mystery series.
An avid reader and lifelong fan of the mystery and thriller genres, Blake loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.blakepierceauthor.com to learn more and stay in touch.
