Left To Die

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.