Left to Kill (Adele Sharp #4) - Blake Pierce Page 0,58

bottom of that medical report. The one sent thirteen hours ago that we just got?”

Adele’s eyes flicked to the closed laptop and then back to him. “Yeah?”

“Amanda Johnson is awake, she’s been for nearly half a day.”

John and Adele stared at each other across the small motel room space. Above, a jet engine rumbled in the sky, echoing some of the fury now rising in Adele’s stomach.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” she demanded, kicking out of her chair and surging to her feet.

John had an equally frustrated look, his eyebrows low over his face, his teeth set in a growl. “Hurry,” he said. “I’ll drive.”

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Their vehicle screeched half onto the curb in the emergency space outside the hospital. John and Adele exited, hurrying toward the front doors. A nurse, standing by the doors, drinking from a mug wafting with steam called out, “You can’t park there!”

John grabbed his keys and tossed them to the man. “Park it yourself!” he snapped.

Adele frowned, and half turned back to retrieve the keys and park the car, but then she pushed aside her frustration and moved with purposeful steps toward the hospital doors. John’s tactics might not be traditional, but they were often effective. She marched to the doors, heading for the beaming yellow light emanating out into the late afternoon. She and John hurried into the lobby, ignored the nurse at the counter, and moved to the elevator. Adele punched in the up arrow which would take them to the floor where Amanda had been the last time they visited.

As the doors closed, she glimpsed the nurse through the front window, holding John’s keys up and staring at them like they were a severed limb. And then the elevator dinged and began to rise.

She felt her foot tapping against the carpeted floor of the elevator. Her mind spun. Twenty-six dead. Perhaps more. The same MO. Same victim type. Twenty-six dead. And Amanda was awake. They’d been informed a day late that Amanda was awake.

“John, make the elevator go faster,” she said, growling to herself.

“Wish I could,” he muttered.

It felt like an eternity before the elevator stopped, the doors dinging again. They opened on the third floor. One below the fourth—Amanda’s.

Adele bit her lip in frustration as a gurney was pushed in, two nurses maneuvering it. They apologized politely, but then proceeded with the business.

“Move,” John snapped. He pushed past one of the nurses, and then Adele reluctantly followed. It took them a moment, but then they followed signs to the stairwell. John pushed open the door, and together, they took the steps three at a time, hurrying to the top and then pushing through the stairwell onto the fourth floor.

Another nurse behind the admissions counter raised a hand. “Can I help you?

But Adele ignored her. She hated the ICU. She hated hospitals. The scent of cleaning fluids and sickly sweet chemicals wafted on the air. She found she was breathing shallowly, as if worried she might inhale too deeply and swallow a germ swirling about the place.

Still, she maneuvered with John. The nurse was half on the phone now, eyeing them both, frowning.

“Interpol,” Adele called over her shoulder, and the nurse hesitated, lowering the phone.

She strode directly toward the door where Amanda Johnson had been kept. She spotted the same clipboard in its glass folder in front of the door. The same opaque window, darkened. She spotted the many machines inside with lights and beeping numbers.

And, by the door, she spotted two BKA agents, their arms crossed, watching as John and Adele approached.

“Is she still awake?” Adele said, breathlessly, as she pulled up in front of the agents.

Like a couple of snuffling hounds, one of the agents and John both stared at each other, stepping close, then leaning their heads back, their shoulders dipping forward.

The movements didn’t seem so intentional, more like subconscious gestures. And yet, Adele could feel them on the verge of aggression.

“Is Amanda awake?” she repeated, firmly.

The second agent in front of her shook her head. “Sorry, but we’re done with interviews for the day. She needs some rest. She’s tired.”

“So she is awake? You’ve interviewed her?”

Through the glass door, Adele spotted the form of the American girl struggling; there was a nurse trying to restrain her, and a doctor next to her with a needle in his hand.

“What are they doing?” she demanded. “Hey, let me in,” she said.

But the BKA agent held out a hand. “I’m sorry, Agent Sharp, right? We were told you’d be coming