Left To Die

Joseph hesitated… Still, it had been nice she’d visited. Maybe he should give her a call…

He glanced toward the old-fashioned phone dangling from its cradle on the wall, but then he shook his head and redoubled his cleaning efforts. No. Compassion was all well and good, but emotions got in the way of a good investigator. He wouldn’t curse his daughter like that.

Once upon a time, he’d let his emotions get the best of him. He’d married a French girl—turned down a promotion to do it. Thirty years on the force and stuck as desk sergeant.

He rinsed off the pot and meticulously balanced it on the empty dry rack.

No; he wouldn’t condemn his daughter to his same fate. She never admitted it, but he knew she was ambitious. He would push her, because she needed it. Because comfort bred complacency.

He nodded to himself, pursing his lips as he turned back toward the TV. Enough screen for the day; where had he placed that book? He glanced around the kitchen and patted at his back pocket.

Just then, the doorbell rang.

Joseph frowned and turned. Had his daughter returned?

“Sharp?” he called out through the house, the glow of the internal lights offset, now, by the darkness creeping in through the shuttered windows.

No answer.

The doorbell rang a second time.

“Darn it,” he muttered with the same fervor a sailor might use to spew language that would have turned a priest’s cheeks rosy. Joseph Sharp didn’t believe in swearing, but the emotions behind the words? Outside his control.

And anything Sergeant Sharp couldn’t control was best ignored or destroyed.

The doorbell rang a third time and he picked up his pace, hurrying to the front door, shouting through the house. “Keep your shirt on! I’m coming. Darn it, Sharp—you know how I hate it when—”

He pulled open the door.

No one was there.

“Sharp?” he murmured, frowning and peering out into the night. His only greeting was the flicker of streetlights in the night and the ashy smell of a neighbor’s grill. He leaned forward, glancing to the side of the porch and down the patio steps. “Sharp—is that you?”

But he spotted no one. He glanced up the street, but the only car parked was the old green Nissan owned by the lady in 22C with that annoying, yip-yap mongrel.

The cool evening air gusted through the open door, sweeping toward Joseph Sharp and sending the hairs standing on the backs of his arms. Muttering darkly to himself, he began to close the door.

But just then, he heard a noise behind him. A creak of a floorboard. Sharp would have known not to ring the bell. She always knocked.

The Sergeant whirled around.

A man in a dark hood stood in his hallway, staring at him.

“Hello,” the man said in German with a polite smile.

“Who in the double hells are—”

“Good evening,” the man said.

Then his arm swung, there was a flash of metal, and something sharp jammed into Joseph’s neck with an ominous shnick. He cried out in pain and tried to defend himself, reaching up with surprising speed and ripping the needle from his neck. Already, the plunger had been half pressed, though. Joseph cried out, smashing the needle against the wall, feeling glass bite into his hand.

The hooded man snarled. “That was my last one!”

Darkness pressed in. He felt light-headed, his movements sluggish. Joseph tried to reach up, grabbing at the hooded man, but his arm moved far, far too slowly.

The hooded man surveyed the Sergeant for a moment, clicking his tongue as the larger man slid down the wall. “Half a dose might not be enough, hmm? You’re a big boy, aren’t you?”

Vaguely, Joseph could hear the sound of his door closing, followed by the quiet click of a lock.

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

Adele glanced into the passenger’s seat at the printed page for the hundredth time in as many seconds. Her hands gripped the steering wheel, her heart pounding in tandem with the wild churning of her thoughts.

Porter Schmidt. The name at the top of the printed sheet. No photo—the waste department hadn’t had any. The operator couldn’t even describe what Schmidt looked like; apparently he worked remotely.

Adele growled in frustration. They would have to track down the suspects the hard way—door-to-door at night.

Porter Schmidt. Such a German name. One of three members of the waste disposal team who’d been tasked with destroying Project 132z. She had an address, a date of birth, and an identification number—nothing else. Records at Medical Waste and Sanitation were not up to the same standards of those of Lion Pharmaceutical. The operator hadn’t even known if any of the men had vacationed recently.

Adele wracked her brain, recollecting the other two names. John was already hunting down Michael Xavi, and Agent Marshall had taken the third borrowed vehicle to find Artem Ozturk. The men lived on opposite sides of the township, and if any of Adele’s teammates needed backup, it would take the others at least twenty minutes to arrive.

A lot could happen in twenty minutes.

Adele fidgeted uncomfortably in the seat of her loaner. At least she was no longer in the back of that ridiculous limousine. Adele had never worked with the BKA before, but—for the moment—they seemed accommodating enough. Though, she didn’t doubt for a minute that the car was being tracked by GPS, and the dashcam blinked red, suggesting there was a live feed going directly back to German headquarters.

Adele worked best without pressure and too much oversight, but she could perform for an audience as well. Her father was not an affectionate man, but he had taught her how to succeed under pressure. For that, she was grateful.

Adele kept within ten kilometers of the speed limit, following the chirping GPS directions to the address on the printed file.

For a moment, as she turned off the highway and took the curling exit over a bridge, she glanced in the passenger’s seat again and her eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, scanning the empty back seats. Strangely, she missed John.

Something about the tall, antagonizing agent had given her a sense of protection when shit hit the fan. Things were calm—almost too calm—as she sat in the car, studying the gentle flow of evening traffic. Most commuters had already returned home from work for the evening.

Still, despite it all, Adele felt like she was sitting on a powder keg, waiting for it to detonate. Agent Marshall had notified the appropriate units nearby to respond to calls for help, but still, if anything went wrong, the three agents were now on their own.

Michael, Artem, or Porter. Two innocent men who worked for a waste disposal crew were in for a rude interruption to their evenings. And, if Adele’s guess was right, one murderer knew they were coming for him.

She felt a shiver down her spine and, inadvertently, her foot pushed on the gas pedal and her vehicle picked up speed as she took a right turn onto a long stretch of road.

“Right turn in two miles,” chirped the GPS in German. “Then arrive at destination on left.”

Adele felt her stomach twisting and, keeping one hand on the wheel, her other reached down to her side, checking that her weapon was still on her hip.

Porter Schmidt. A one in three chance she’d chosen the lucky number.

Two miles to go until she found out. Her thoughts continued to cycle, and Adele continued to push slowly on the gas pedal, now speeding through traffic and racing toward her destination.

***