Left To Run (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Two)

by Blake Pierce

  The guards looked away now, their eyes fixed on the staircase as if John and Adele weren’t even there.

  John strolled past, giving each man a wink, and he allowed Francis to guide the two of them to the back of the room, past the poker table and the billiards room. They reached the black curtain on a shower rail. Adele glanced up and down the room and spotted more tattoos she recognized as gang affiliated.

  “Never a dull moment,” she muttered.

  John chuckled and brushed the curtain aside, gesturing gallantly for her to enter. Francis, though, moved forward first, glaring at John and muttering beneath his breath in a language Adele didn’t understand.

  He led the two of them into a small booth, sheltered by the curtain, hidden from the rest of the room. Immediately, Adele spotted rolls of euros and other money scattered across the table. Just as quickly, the money seemed to vanish, as with three quick, practiced sweeping motions, Francis shoved the bank notes into drawers, a leather bag, and a backpack behind the table. He then moved over and sat in a large, comfortable reclining chair. It wasn’t a desk chair, so much as a lazy-boy. Still, he leaned back and placed his hands behind his head, glaring out at them.

  A white shelf next to them displayed jackets dangling from hangers.

  “We’re in the coat closet?” Adele asked.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Francis grunted. His nervous, twitching eyes set in his sallow face darted from John to Adele. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Agent Sharp,” Adele began, “and I’m—”

  “Shush!” Francis interrupted fiercely, a finger pressed painfully to his own lips, and his eyes darted toward the gap in the curtains. John was in the middle of pulling the drapes closed with a rattling sound as the rollers moved in the tracks above.

  “Stow it with the agent talk, hey?” Francis muttered, his voice barely a whisper. “What do you want?”

  “Answers,” John said, turning to face the small man behind the desk.

  Francis crossed his legs and glared sullenly up at John from his cushioned chair. “I don’t know if I have any answers,” he snapped. He began twisting his hoodie’s drawstrings once more.

  “John,” said Adele, “this is your contact? The one involved with the organ traders?”

  John nodded once, and Francis quickly protested, shaking his head. His sallow cheeks seemed even less healthy in the darkness of the closet, shaded by the dangling jackets. “Hang on,” he said quickly. “I’m not involved with organ traders. I had some dealings with their accountants—when I figured out what they were up to, I got out. Right quick,” he said. He adjusted his hoodie as if it were a jacket. “I have a reputation to maintain,” he muttered.

  John grunted. “You owe me, Francis. I got you out of prison.”

  Francis stuck out his chin and clenched his fists around the ends of his hoodie drawstrings. “I told you everything I knew last time. Organ traffickers are the worst. I’m not involved with those folks or anyone they work with anymore.”

  John leaned put one foot on Francis’s desk, supporting his chin with an arm lodged against his upraised knee. “You know things, Francis. It’s why I got you out of prison, and it’s why they pay you.”

  The informant didn’t blink.

  “I’m not asking you to sell out anyone you’re in bed with—see? You dislike the traffickers as much as me. A little bit of information—that’s all I’m asking.”

  Francis tried to speak, and for a moment it looked like he would refuse, but then his eyes flicked to Adele and he sighed.

  “The Serbians?” he asked.

  John nodded. “Are they back?”

  Francis frowned. “Most of them are still in prison after last time.” This time he spoke so quietly Adele had to lean forward to hear. “And, I might add, if they ever find out I was the one who—”

  “They won’t find out,” John said, shaking his head. “I’m not going to let that happen, okay. I just need to know if any of them are setting up shop again.”

  Once more, Francis glanced between Adele and John. “Do I get a bonus for this?”

  Before John could reply, Adele interjected, “We’ll see what we can do. Look, if there’s anything you can tell us, I’ll owe you one.”

  Francis studied her a moment longer. “All right, Interpol,” he said, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “But don’t think I won’t collect.”

  John frowned at Adele, but she kept her gaze fixed on the informant.

  “Look,” Francis said with an audible swallow, “like I said, most of those psychos are still in prison. Thank God… as you well know,” he added, with a look at John. “And, like I said, I’m not involved at all with any illicit business like that.”

  John waved his hand in a quick circle, as if to say, Get on with it.

  “But,” Francis said, dangling the word like a baited worm in front of a famished trout, “I have heard there are a couple of the old Serbs getting things back up and running. They don’t have the same connections as before, mind you,” he added, “but I hear they’re working with someone else now.”

  John raised an eyebrow. “Who?” he demanded.

  “Look, I told you. I don’t know much. You bastards keep a close enough eye on me as it is.” Francis trailed off, glaring at John, but then his shoulders sagged. “Most of them are still in prison. But a couple of the nephews of the lead guy are running their own chop shop out in a warehouse district. There’s another shop, a motor place, but it’s a front. The real business is in the back.”

  “What’s the place called?” John growled.

  “Debosselage et Automobiles,” he replied quickly. He kept his voice low, whispering now. Adele glanced from the curtain back to Francis.

  “They’re paired up now,” he said, quickly. “A German doctor. I don’t know who.”

  John snorted.

  “I’m not lying,” Francis protested. “Seriously, I don’t know who. I wish I did.”

  John hesitated, then raised an eyebrow toward Adele.

  “I…” she began, still watching Francis, then trailing off. She frowned at the informant. “A German doctor? Why German?”

  Francis shook his head. “Damn if I know. I didn’t pry much. Trust me, there are people asking questions that I don’t want to have answers to. It’s not like it’s safe for me out here anyway. People already suspect me.”

  “They should,” said John, cheerfully. Then he turned to go, but before he left, John reached over and began rummaging through Francis’s pockets.

  The informant protested, shouting, but John held up a quieting finger, and Francis fell silent. Then John fished out a roll of bills they’d spotted earlier. He took the money, bounced it a couple times in his hand, examining the rubber bands wrapped around the money, and whistled softly. “That’s a lot of dough,” he said.

  Francis cursed beneath his breath, shaking his head.

  “John,” Adele said, frowning at the money, but John ignored her and pocketed it.

  “Look,” Francis protested, “I need that. If my boss doesn’t—”

  “I’m sure you’ll come up with something,” John interrupted. “Debosselage et Automobiles, hmm? And you say they work out of there?”

  Francis glared at the table. “That’s the last I heard. Look, I promise—”

  “Thanks, Francis,” John said with a wink. He turned away, the money still rolled up in his pocket. He glanced at Adele and then pushed through the curtains, moving back out into the basement.

  Adele inhaled deeply and shrugged at Francis, resisting the urge to apologize. Then, with a weight in her chest, she moved after John, pushing through the curtains as well, and following him to the bottom of the stairs.

  John was a loose cannon, but either way, they had their next lead; Adele only hoped it would pan out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Four blocks from Debosselage et Automobiles, under the cover of darkness, with midnight cresting the horizon, Adele and John sat in his vehicle,
staring out the angled window.

  “They coming?” John asked.

  Adele checked her watch for the second time. She looked down at her phone, adjusted the dashboard radio, and shook her head. “Should be.” She click the radio comm and said: “What’s the ETA for Hazel Street?”

  A pause, a crackle, then a voice, “I’m sending the backup I have. They should be there within a few minutes. Hang tight.”

  Adele clicked the speaker again and shrugged.

  John growled, shaking his head. “It’s been a few minutes for the last half hour. What are they doing? Eating donuts?”

  Adele shook her head. “I don’t know. Could be bureaucrat stuff. Maybe there’s more red tape when working with an FBI agent.”

  John sighed and leaned back in the chair, stretching his legs beneath the steering wheel and heaving a breath toward the convertible ceiling.

  “John,” Adele began, glancing toward his pocket where he had stored the role of stolen money. John raised an eyebrow at her.

  She paused, considering her words, but then shook her head. Perhaps John wasn’t what she thought he was. Sometimes distance brought clarity. When she was in France last time, she’d been annoyed by John for the most part. He was unprofessional. Adele knew people like John weren’t the type to change. The way he’d acted back there with Francis, taking that money… she wasn’t sure what she thought. She’d gone along with it, but was starting to regret that decision.

  “John, I just want to say,” she began, “if I did anything to offend you, I hope you know that I didn’t mean to.”

  John interrupted. “We don’t need to. All right? Maybe we both made mistakes.”

  Adele shook her head, turning to glance out the window again.

  “I’m not sure what you expected,” he said, quietly.

  Adele looked back at him. “Do you mean about this case, or—”

  Instead of answering, he frowned, then said, “Sharp, I think I need to be clear. I’m not a good man.”

  Adele’s eyes traced the scar on his chin. She thought of the pictures back in his secret bachelor pad, showing the image of his military buddies. She also thought of the serial killer last month standing over her. The gun shot from outside. The killer dropping dead. With that one bullet, John had saved both her and her father. She remembered asking for help on the radio, giving cryptic clues. She remembered John’s voice at that time, when he’d heard she was in trouble. The sound of racing footsteps, gasping breath as he rushed to her aid. He was a confusing person.

  “You shouldn’t have taken it,” she began, still staring at his pocket now, but then trailed off, shaking her head.

  “Taken what?” John asked.

  She raised an eyebrow, then her shoulders sagged. “Never mind, it’s not important.”

  John seemed unsatisfied with this answer. He also turned to stare out the window. They waited for the next few minutes, but still, no backup came. Every couple of moments, Adele listened to dispatch’s voice over the radio, mentioning backup was on its way.

  “This is taking forever,” John grunted.

  The silence between them extended into awkwardness, then discomfort. Adele wanted to say more, to put her friend at ease. They were friends, weren’t they? But she didn’t really know John. Not well. She didn’t even know how he’d gotten that scar.

  “Damn this,” John said with a growl. Agent Renee flung upon the door, swinging out of the car and pushing to his feet. He slapped his large hands on top of the sport car’s roof. “You coming?”

  Adele stared, her eyes darting to the radio.

  “Bah,” John said, “they’ll never get here. Who knows what they’re doing in that shop though. Might be cutting up some poor bastard while we sit out here twiddling our—”

  Adele pushed open her own door and exited the vehicle. Backup would just have to hurry.

  Satisfied at Adele’s reaction, John turned, sauntering up the street, his weapon in his hand, the piece of metal seeming an extension of his body. As Adele watched him move, she felt a familiar sense of ease. It wasn’t like back in the states, hunting the motel suspect with her new partner Masse. John knew how to use his weapon. Perhaps better than anyone Adele had worked with. She watched as he rounded the end of the street, heading down the block in the direction of Debosselage et Automobiles.

  They had parked far enough away not to alert attention. But now, John made a beeline toward it.

  Adele picked up the pace, her own weapon gripped in her hand as she followed John past fire hydrants and a bus stop. They reached the auto shop together, weapons raised.

  “Gate,” John said quietly.

  Adele’s eyes flicked from the front of Debosselage et Automobiles to the side alley.

  The lights were dim from within the auto shop. The dull glow in the back of the store illuminated a few rows of old auto parts, and a space with a carjack where vehicles were likely worked on. Thin glass tubes displayed inside the dark windows of the shop, which Adele guessed could light up into neon letters. According to Francis, the real chop shop, as he’d called it, was in a warehouse behind the auto store.

  No sounds arose from the establishment.

  Adele watched as John tried the handle to the alley gate. It didn’t budge.

  Adele waited as John stowed his weapon. He then took two running steps, his hands grabbing the top of the fence, and he pulled himself bodily over the top. For a moment, his lengthy frame straddled the gate, and he winked roguishly at Adele. Then he dropped over the other side.

  He smirked at her through the bars and waited, crossing his arms expectantly.

  Adele glared at him, but then, without making a sound, she stowed her own weapon. She refused to be outdone by John. She took a few extra running steps, picking up pace, and then flung herself, leaping at the last moment. Her fingertips grazed the top of the fence. But she missed.

  Her arm jolted as she fell, and her knees knocked painfully against the metal bars. Adele cursed wildly beneath her breath, slamming her forearm against her mouth to stop the flow of sound.

  Adele glared through the gate at John, who was chuckling now. He kept his arms crossed as he leaned against the alley wall, waiting. Adele’s eyes narrowed even further. Propelled by nothing more than a desire to wipe the smirk off John’s face, she took another running start, breathing out at the last moment and then jumping.

  This time, her fingers scrambled on the metal lip of the fence again, but instead of being discouraged by the sudden strain in her arms, she locked her elbows.

  With an exerted grunt, far louder than she would’ve wanted, she pulled herself up, struggling and kicking her legs for momentum. The whole process was less smooth and much louder than John’s had been.

  He watched, amused, as she kicked, the metal gate creaking and shuddering beneath her. At last, she managed to pull herself on top. Gasping, her hair disheveled and in her eyes, she stared down at John in triumph.

  “The look suits you,” he said with a smirk.

  Vaguely, Adele wished she’d worn sweatpants, or something a bit easier to move in. With a sigh, she threw a leg over the gate, sat for a moment, then dropped into the alley.

  John caught her arm as she fell, giving her something to grab to soften the fall. Her hand caught his shoulder, and he hunched just as she hit the ground, absorbing some of the impact.

  Adele stood, dusting herself off. Old dumpsters rested against cracked stone walls. Piles of trash, which someone couldn’t be bothered to place in the adjacent dumpsters, lay scattered on the ground. Adele stepped over broken bottles and a low wall that smelled distinctly like human feces. The odor of garbage and old rot met her nose, curdling the air around her. The sounds had been louder than she’d wanted. Hopefully, it hadn’t alerted anyone to their presence.

  In near perfect synchronicity, both agents’ weapons appeared back in their hands, and they began to move down the alley in the direction of the warehouse. John took the lead in a hunter’s crouch, his gun
raised, his eyes unblinking, fixed ahead. He moved in such a way that turned his body to present as small a target as possible.

  Adele adjusted her own posture. Together, they crept around the edge of the alley and emerged near a white drainpipe with two busted fixtures of silver wire circling plastic.

  Ahead, an old, worn warehouse sat on the lot behind the auto shop. Dark, brooding windows peered out into the gravel courtyard. Adele felt a chill creep up her spine, but then she set her grip on her weapon and moved toward the warehouse with John.

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  John kept his eyes forward, his mind fixed on the task at hand. A sudden crack! He glanced sharply over, noticing a glass bottle and an alley cat looking up at him, the creature’s eyes glowing in the dark. John flicked his attention to the windows of the warehouse once more. He rounded the edge of the alley, bracing his shoulder against the drainpipe in case he needed a stabilizing lever. His eyes switched from the windows up top down to the ones below. Up to down, tracking them as he’d been trained. Clear, he thought to himself.

  He held his fist, gesturing for Adele to stop. He paused, shooting a look toward the American agent.

  She really was quite beautiful. Perhaps not in a traditional sense, but there was an exotic allure to her. She came from France, Germany, and the US. A strange combination. She had long blonde hair, and skin weathered by sunlight. She also kept in good shape—a fact not lost on him.

  Her eyes zeroed in on him, following his every motion.

  John felt a sudden burgeoning anxiety in his chest. Quickly, he shrugged it off. He preferred doing missions like these on his own. Having someone like Adele along only compromised things. He would have to look out for her, to keep her safe. And as far as John was concerned, that was a nearly impossible task with this many variables. He gave another quick scan of the windows, never letting five seconds pass between attending zones of control. Outlooks from an enemy position could shift every few moments. Attentiveness was key. Eyes forward.