Left To Die

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.

***

Splitting up had seemed like the right call earlier in the evening. They would cover more ground that way.

But now, in the dark of looming night, as Adele exited her vehicle and stepped onto the sidewalk before the aloof, old house, she wished she’d reconsidered.

The darkness pressed in around her like hounds snuffling at prey. Adele doubled-checked her shoulder radio which Marshall had provided when they’d split up. She glanced back toward the dash cam of the now quiet car; the red light was still blinking even though the key was in her pocket.

Someone was still watching.

Funnily, this bolstered Adele’s confidence. She hoped, if given a similar vehicle, John wouldn’t take it personally and react in the way she assumed he might. Paying for a damaged dash cam likely wasn’t high on Executive Foucault’s agenda.

She pressed the outgoing button on the radio and said, “Hello, is this thing working? Renee? Marshall? Are you at your targets yet?”

There was a pause, a quiet crackling sound, then John replied, “Stopped for a coffee,” he said. “And a donut. Will be there in five.”

Adele bit her lip, cutting off the cuss that burbled to the tip of her tongue. Her father’s influence stretched beyond the borders of his four neatly maintained walls. Still, she growled as she said, “We’re on the clock here, John—maybe a bit of professionalism—”

“Sorry, coffee just arrived. They take Euros in this country, don’t they?”

Adele stood on the sidewalk, feet at shoulder width, eyes narrowed now. Any sense of appreciation for John had faded to be replaced, once again, by annoyance at his lackluster approach to the job.