Left to Kill (Adele Sharp #4) - Blake Pierce Page 0,49

started to circle, they would be like sitting ducks.

“Go,” John mouthed at her, his eyes alight, pulsing with excitement.

He moved quickly, every motion seeming a spring-loaded piston. He ducked behind a tree and then moved further away from Adele, still gesturing behind his back at her for her to move. He darted forward in a quiet crouch toward the edge of the tree line, then turned and fired off a couple shots of his own.

Adele heard an indiscernible shout of anger. And then another gunshot. For her part, she kept low, but then, following John’s pantomimes from before, she circled, moving quickly around the forest, allowing the trees and the low terrain to disguise her movements.

John, spotting her, fired again, most likely to keep the hunter distracted.

She picked up speed, her own weapon clutched in her right hand. She moved through the trees, the detritus and twigs crackling beneath her.

John fired again, this time most likely to simply distract the hunter from the sounds Adele was making. She still hadn’t spotted the hunter. She circled, heard another shot. This one much closer. Not John.

She frowned, adrenaline pulsing through her, her body a motor. She hurried along and then came to the edge of an outcrop. Rocky terrain, with a small pool at the base, circled beneath three oversized trees. More signs were stapled to these trees. More no trespassing. One of them saying, “We don’t call the cops.” With a silhouette of a rifle under the German words.

There, on the top of the small hill, she spotted a figure kneeling, a rifle in his hands. The figure was reloading the rifle, sliding bullets in, and then readjusting his aim. He sighted down his weapon, one eye open, tucking his tongue inside his cheek. Adele spotted movement in the direction he was aiming.

She holstered her weapon, sprinted forward, and then, just as he fired, she tackled him from behind, knocking them both to the ground. She regained her feet first, rolling off the dust and dirt and springing up.

She kicked his gun and it clattered away. Her own weapon leapt back into her hands, and she pointed her pistol at the hunter’s face.

“Don’t move!” she shouted. “John?” she called out to the air. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” John replied. “Did you get him?”

“Yeah, help me cuff him.”

The hunter stared up at her, angry, wide-eyed. He muttered a few choice insults, but Adele rotated him onto his stomach, her weapon still pointing down. Then she reached behind his back, and, with the sound of thumping footsteps, John joined her to help cuff the man.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“You’re the property owner?” Adele said, then pursed her lips. She stared at the hunter, her eyebrows bunched in a scowl.

They were now back at the outpost for the search party. Two other police officers were in close vicinity and had been briefed on the events. They had permitted Adele to stow the suspect in the back of one of their SUVs.

For now, John leaned against the open door, one arm draped over the window frame. Adele peered into the back seat where the property owner was handcuffed. His weapon had already been confiscated and given to one of the other officers.

The property owner was glaring at the front of the windshield, every so often shooting an angry look toward Adele. He had a bruise forming nicely on his cheek, and scrape marks along the visible portions of his hands.

“You’re under arrest for firing on federals,” said Adele. “That’s enough trouble as it is. I’d advise you cooperate. Were you also firing at a search party yesterday?”

The property owner grunted, and said, “Like I told you, it’s private property. There were signs. I didn’t know who you were.”

Adele shook her head. “We called out our departments,” she said. “You kept firing.”

The man was average size and average weight. He had exaggerated features, with an oversized nose and a wobbly chin. He looked, to Adele, a bit like a librarian, with his glasses perched low on his nose.

The glare he kept fixing on her, though, reminded her more of a wolf.

“All right, well,” said Adele, glancing at her phone, where she’d pulled up the man’s address. “Again, Mr. Gunderson, I do have verification the property was yours.”

She scanned her phone again, and found a couple of complaints from backpackers that had been filed. But nothing had been followed up on. Mr. Gunderson didn’t have a record.

“Trespassing is a crime,” he said. “I’m the victim here.”

Adele sighed, placing a hand on