Left To Die

She gritted her teeth, emitting a growl of her own to match the killer’s snarl. Like a couple of huffing animals, they lay there, him on top of her, both of them struggling for control of the other’s hand.

The Sergeant was shouting and thrashing now, but his movements had weakened as his wounds took their toll and blood loss had its say.

Adele screamed in pain as she felt a finger jam into the cut at her side, trying to twist the flesh open further. She howled and the killer screamed back at her, their noses almost touching. He managed to jerk his hand free from hers and shove his shoulder down, trapping her wrist against her chest and pinning it beneath his weight.

He was too strong, too agile.

She tried to kick out, but he was straddling her now, securing his grip before lifting the knife a second time, like an artist with a paint brush, holding their tool of choice aloft before setting to their next work.

Then there was a distant bang.

Followed, in near perfect succession by another.

The killer’s hand was illuminated in moonlight—the only part of him still visible over the windowsill. The first bang saw the window shatter as a bullet broke the glass and sent pieces tumbling onto both Adele and Porter.

The second bullet slammed into the killer’s hand, demolishing a couple of knuckles and severing a finger at the joint. The killer howled as his finger fell from his injured hand and blood poured from his new wound.

The knife fell, landing next to Adele’s cheek, along with more shards of glass, which nicked her face, but missed her eyes.

She grunted and shoved.

The killer was still staring at his disfigured hand, a look of horror across his features. Adele didn’t hesitate. As some of his pressure lifted from the shock of being shot, she flung out her left hand, grabbed the scalpel, gripped it and brought it slashing forward. Once, twice, a third time, she used it like a knife, jamming the blade into the killer’s neck.

Blood poured from the wounds and Adele felt his strength fading as he stared down at her, a quizzical look replacing his one of horror. His injured hand fell against his thigh and then, with a slight, questioning sigh, he toppled over, scalpel buried in his throat, falling from Adele.

Breathing heavily, covered in both her blood and the killer’s, Adele slowly eased up, trying her best to avoid the falling glass.

“American Princess!” a voice shouted from the street outside. “Are you all right!”

An impossible shot. A perfect shot. One to clear the glass, a second to hit Schmidt’s upraised hand. Adele shook her head in disbelief, shock running its course through her body.

Adele pushed doggedly to her feet, stumbling over to her father, shards of glass tumbling from her with each step and scattering on the ground. She reached her father, whose head was now lolled against his chest, his eyes half-closed.

“Stay with me!” she snapped, grabbing a nearby pillow and ripping off the case to press it against the cuts along her father’s face and neck. Her father emitted a quiet moan, and his chest rose and fell, flooding Adele with relief. “John!” she shouted over her shoulder, toward the window. “John—call EMS! Now!”

She heard a muffled shout in response, but couldn’t quite make out the words. Her own head was now spinning too. Slowly, she slid down the side of the bed, reaching out and snaring a piece of glass to start sawing at the duct tape around her father’s wrists.

He moaned again. “Sorry about the carpet,” she muttered.

Then, once her father’s hands were free, she had him press another pillowcase to the wounds on his thigh.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, next to her father, they remained in silence, hands pressed to his wounds, staring at the open door, neither of them paying much mind to the body beneath the window. Adele had nearly forgotten he was there.

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

Adele sat in the chair facing the opaque glass of Executive Foucault’s door. Her feet were crossed, the fuzzy pink slippers Robert had given her poked toward the ceiling.

A voice cleared down the hall, and Adele glanced over at John striding toward her, a smirk on his face. “Nice slippers,” he said.

She grunted in reply, shifting slightly, but wincing as her bandaged side moved against the armrest. “I’ll give you one,” she said. “I do owe you.”

He nodded. “Yes. Definitely you’re in my debt, hmm?”

She rolled her eyes. “Seriously though, that was a hell of a shot. I never did properly thank you.”

John flashed a schoolboy smile. “I can think of some ways you could express your gratitude.”

“You’re a pig,” she said, but her tone was devoid of any ill will.

John leaned against the executive’s door, seemingly indifferent to the long, dark shadow he would cast through the glass into his boss’s office. “Nice of you to advise me over the radio,” he said, conversationally. “Gave me the information I needed to make the shot. To be honest, for a moment there, I thought I was too late.”