Left To Die

“Peter Lehman,” John supplied.

Adele wrinkled her nose. “He didn’t come up in my investigation back stateside. Must’ve been using an alias. Dammit, can we go faster?”

Reluctantly, Agent Marshall raised a hand and rapped on the window. She called through the glass: “We’re in a bit of a hurry!”

Adele heaved a breath. She wished the BKA had given them someone with a bit more experience. Still, working with any sort of interdepartmental task force sometimes came with unforeseen obstacles. Right now, the best way to smooth things over was to catch the killer and catch him fast. But would Peter Lehman even be home? He’d been on a leave of absence for five weeks and wasn’t due back for another. He’d fled France, though—of that Adele was nearly certain. Where else could a German citizen go?

Adele clenched her fists. He had to be there.

The vehicle pulled up outside a house with two parked police cars already lining the street. In the distance, Adele heard more sirens as more vehicles responded to Agent Marshall’s call for backup. Adele didn’t have the patience to wait, though, and she burst out of the back of the car before they’d fully pulled to a stop.

“A2,” John called after her.

Adele flashed a thumbs-up as she sprinted toward the townhouse and briefly scanned the structure; her eyes settled on the address. A2.

There was a light on inside, behind green drapes.

Her heart skipped a beat and Adele raced forward, surging toward Peter Lehman’s residence. With the sound of boots to pavement, John raced after her, his gun leaving its holster with fluid ease. Adele also drew her weapon and squared her shoulders, feeling the reassuring weight of the Glock pressed against her palm.

John tried to sidestep Adele and took two lengthy strides as if he were preparing to kick down the door, but Adele quickly interjected an arm, tugging him back and giving the slightest shake of her head. She remained quiet as she reached out and tried the doorknob.

It turned.

She pulled the door open while John aimed through the gap, covering her. Then she lowered her weapon once more, brushing past the doorframe and entering a hall. Adele stepped over a pile of shoes by the door.

Peter had a family. There were children’s and a woman’s shoes next to a man’s loafers.

John followed, his breathing heavy, his eyes fixed ahead, his cheeks taut, bearing the load of a solemn expression as he tracked the room over Adele’s shoulder and kept his gun aimed safely off to the side. His posture allowed Adele full range of motion without crossing his line of fire.

She wasn’t sure what the BKA policies were for breaching a home, but she would ask forgiveness later.

She stepped past a sink full of messy dishes and an old fridge humming and buzzing, emitting strange popping sounds, suggesting the appliance wasn’t long for this kitchen.

Her feet padded against the ground as she made her way further into the townhouse. Through one of the walls, she heard loud music pulsing from the unit next door.

Adele felt prickles across the back of her neck. Hopefully the children would be in school. She wondered if they knew their father was a killer. And the mother? Adele passed a row of family pictures. Peter Lehman sat surrounded by his wife and three kids, all of them smiling out of the portrait, watching Adele. She noticed a certificate for a middle school science prize pinned on the refrigerator. One of Peter’s children was following in their father’s footsteps.

He had been the overseer for the entirety of Project 132z. He’d created the drug he’d used to torture six people to death.

“Don’t split,” John said quietly. “We check the bedrooms together.”

“You coming on to me?” Adele quipped, barely cognizant of her words due to the adrenaline pulsing through her body.

Uncharacteristically, John didn’t riposte. Whenever his sidearm appeared in his hands, his personality seemed to shift. He became quieter, more serious, more dangerous. His eyes were narrowed now, carrying a look that frightened Adele.

She was glad they were on the same side.

They moved to a door and John eased it open with his left hand, keeping his other gripping his weapon.

A bathroom, unoccupied.

They approached to the next door, and at that moment, through the thin wood, Adele heard movement. She held up a hand, teeth set, and pointed frantically at the frame; she tapped the side of her ear.

John glanced at her and nodded. In a barely discernible whisper, he said something in French, but Adele couldn’t quite make it out. In English, he tried again “Should I go around the house? Check for a window?”

Adele thought for a moment, but then shook her head. Also keeping her voice low, quiet enough that she could barely hear it, she said, “On the count of three. Don’t fire unless you see a weapon. No sense igniting an international powder keg.”

Briefly, the thought caught her attention. She could only imagine what the papers would read if a French and American agent shot a German citizen on German soil. The repercussions would cost them far more than their jobs. Still, if the killer made any threatening moves, she would face the fanfare. It was up to her to make sure neither her life nor her partner’s was put in jeopardy.

Adele counted down in her head, inhaling slowly through her nose, the weapon in her hand pointing toward the base of the door as she prepared to raise it the moment they entered.

Then John twisted the handle, pushed it open, and both of them started shouting at once.

“DGSI! Show your hands!”

“FBI! Don’t move!”

Their voices blared into the room, and they stepped in, one after the other in perfect synchronicity, both of them immediately sliding past the door frame and putting their backs to the nearest portion of wall.

Adele found her shoulders scraping against the wooden knobs of a cabinet, but her eyes swept the bedroom.

A man crouched over a suitcase at the base of the bed, his silhouette framed by the light gleaming through the bedroom window.

At the shouting, the man whirled, startled, and reeled back, his face turning pale. The man didn’t have red hair, but he matched the photo in the employee records of Peter Lehman.

“Show me your hands!” Adele shouted. “Now!”

Lehman didn’t hesitate, and his hands shot to the sky, his fingertips illuminated by the fluorescent bulbs in the fixture above.

John quickly scanned the room and sidestepped to look into a closet, making sure all threats were contained. Then he reached for his cuffs, and in a couple of deft motions stepped over and handcuffed the chemist.

The German grunted as John handled him, and the breath left his body as he was knocked into a sitting position on the bed. Vaguely, Adele wondered if she was supposed to check with Agent Marshall when arresting someone—but it had all happened so fast.

“Don’t move,” John snapped, kicking at the man on the bed.

Adele walked over and noted the suitcase. “Returning from somewhere?” she said. “France, maybe?”

Peter Lehman was trembling now, his mouth quavering, his lips trying to form sentences, but failing. “Who are you?” he demanded at last.

“I said be quiet,” John shouted in French.

But Peter glanced up with a look of confusion on his face.

John glared down at the man. “Don’t pretend you don’t speak French. That’s how you lured that poor girl into the underpass, isn’t it?”

Peter looked even more flabbergasted. He replied in German, “I don’t understand. German. Do you speak German? Who are you?”

Adele flashed her FBI badge. At that moment, Agent Marshall also joined them, her own weapon raised in trembling hands. She surveyed the scene and released a small gasp of relief, quickly holstering her firearm as if she were discarding a hot coal. “BKA task force with Interpol,” she announced, importantly through the room. “You, Peter Lehman, are under arrest for the murder of five US citizens and one French national.”