Left To Die

This, Adele thought was entirely unfair. It was true that earlier it had taken her a couple of hours to get back into the stream of conversation, but this man spoke with a terribly thick accent. She couldn’t quite place it. It wasn’t American.

“British?” she said.

The man glanced sharply at her, worry wrinkling his face in rigid lines around his eyes. He began to reply, but then caught himself.

John chuckled, thoroughly enjoying himself. “Does the missus know you’re out and about, playing with the French toys, hmm?” John said. “It would be a pity for her to find—”

Before he could finish, the man let out a quiet yelp and bolted for it.

Adele snapped her gun up, and there was a brief window where she could have fired, but, though her finger stayed on the trigger, she didn’t squeeze. The man’s face was covered in sweat and streaks of red as he barreled into Adele, knocking her roughly to the side. He shouted incoherently and bolted toward the door.

Adele stumbled back, slamming into one of the couches, throwing out a hand to steady herself on a metal railing that led up the two steps.

She aimed at the man’s retreating form and shouted, “Stop or I’ll shoot!”

But he didn’t stop. In his black, skintight latex suit, the man bolted into the hallway and then disappeared from view, the sound of his thudding footsteps reaching them from the open doorway.

Adele hesitated for only a moment to glance back at John, raising an eyebrow in exasperation. “Gonna help?”

John leaned back, crossing his hands behind his head, and smirking in the direction of the prostitute against the wall. “I’ll cover her,” he said. “You can chase the one with the wood in the rubber suit.”

Adele huffed and resisted the urge to roll her eyes as she stowed her weapon, and then broke into a sprint, racing up the stairs along the red carpet and out into the hallway of the hotel.

She spotted the man pushing through the doorway that led to the stairs, his fingers shoving against the metal push bar, and the latex of his suit reflecting the red from the exit sign above.

Adele lowered her head, racing toward the man and covering the distance rapidly. They were at the top of the hotel, and the man hadn’t opted to wait for the elevator.

She reached the stairwell and could hear him a flight below her, cursing as he circled the stairs, sprinting down.

“Stop!” she shouted.

The retort of slapping footsteps indicated he had no desire to comply. She saved her breath and continued her pursuit without further comment. Adele took the stairs four at a time, leaping down the steps rapidly.

Just below her, she could hear the ragged gasps of the man as he continued to flee. Her own breathing was steady, calm. She could feel the way her body responded each time she pushed off one foot and rounded the banister, circling down the staircase one flight at a time. She spent most of her life running, training. Every morning, without fail, she would exercise for moments like these. The man had made a mistake in thinking he could outrun her.

Already, even though they’d only covered a few flights, she could tell the man was lagging. She was gaining now and reached the top of a flight of stairs as he reached the bottom. Another flight of stairs, and he was only halfway down. One more, and he was within grabbing distance.

Adele didn’t try to shout this time. The man was gasping, heaving, his breath coming in huffing puffs.

For her part, Adele’s breathing was elevated, her heart rate higher, but she could still keep this up.

The red-haired man could hear her approaching footsteps, and he turned, his eyes wide with panic. They widened even further as Adele launched through the air, tackling him from behind and bringing both of them slamming to the marble landing.

The man’s breath whooshed from his body as he thumped to the floor, cushioning her fall.

Adele tried to control her temper as she rolled the man over and pulled his hands sharply behind his back. Just another tourist who liked his French prostitutes and bondage games.

“I suspect you’re going to enjoy this,” she said, grimly. There was a slight squeak of his rubber outfit against the floor as she shifted him into a better position and then reached for her handcuffs, pulling them out and shackling his wrists.

“How long have you been in France?” she demanded once the man was secure. She kept her knee in the small of his back, crouched over him like some gargoyle above a hapless victim. Frustration and fury cycled through her body, carried by pulsing adrenaline and an elevated heartbeat.

She shook him roughly, pulling at the handcuffs until he loosed a painful grunt.

“How long have you been in France?” she repeated, speaking in English now.

The man sighed softly, deflating like a leaking balloon, and then, with a grunt, he said, “Only a week. You can check my tickets on my phone. Please—don’t hurt me.”

He had a British accent. London, by the sound of it.

“A week? How come you’re just now checking into the hotel?”