Left to Kill (Adele Sharp #4) - Blake Pierce Page 0,70

response. John and the man were still fighting for the knife. But John seemed to, for the moment, be getting the upper hand. Adele turned back toward the door; she fired in the air, over the two of them. “Stop!” she screamed.

But Mr. Klose seemed intent. He ignored her, still snarling.

“Get her,” John gasped. “Get her, Adele!”

Adele whirled back around, scanning the cabin. She cursed and sprinted toward the bathroom door. It was closed again. She twisted the handle, but it wouldn’t budge.

She shouted at the door, “Open up, I’m coming in! Keep your hands where I can see them!”

No response.

She backed up. “Get away from the door!” A pause, and then she fired twice at the door handle.

There was a smashing sound, a crunch, and she tried the handle again. The door swung open, the locking mechanism broken. No one in the bathroom. The window was open.

Adele cursed and shouted, “She got out the back! John, are you okay?”

“Get her, Adele,” her partner snarled. “I’ve got this.”

Anyone else, Adele wouldn’t have left. Anyone else, she would’ve felt like she was abandoning her partner. But John was different. John could take care of himself. She trusted John. And so, she moved through the window, crawling, clambering through the wooden structure, her forearms scraping against the splintered frame. She dropped out the other side, landing in the soft dirt behind the house. Her eyes scanned the forest; no sign of movement.

Then her gaze darted to the blue van. The front door was open.

But no one was in the driver’s seat.

It looked like maybe Mrs. Klose had tried, or had forgotten the keys. Adele couldn’t be sure. Then her eyes darted to the plywood shed.

Gun raised, Adele hurried around the van, heading toward the shed. “Show yourself,” she called.

Adele glanced in the van as she moved by; the seats were empty. She reached the shed and spotted the door. It looked locked, and as she moved toward it, she hesitated.

“If you’re in there, come out with your hands up,” she snapped. “Come out now!”

She fell silent for a moment, listening. Nothing. Then, a quiet creak. Adele’s eyes narrowed. She pointed her gun at the shed door. And then a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye.

She heard a noise. Instinct told her to wheel around. Just in time, she stumbled back, as a woodcutting ax slashed at her ankles from beneath the car.

Adele howled and jerked back, raising her gun.

The woman scrambled out like some sort of spider, all signs of her own smile, her dancing movements, replaced now by some undulating, devilish twisting of her body as she scrambled from beneath the van. A shower of dust fell over her, and the ax was still clutched tight in her bony fingers. “You will not take my family!” she screamed. To Adele’s brief surprise, the woman was sobbing, tears streaming down her face. “You can’t take my children!”

Adele’s gun raised. The ax lifted.

“Don’t!” Adele screamed.

The woman shouted, took a step forward. Two shots. One missed. Wide, smashed the van window. The other, though, caught the woman in the shoulder, spinning her like a top.

The woman emitted a grunt and then spun around, collapsing to the ground. The ax fell from her hand. She howled at the sky, sobbing a wretched, terrible scream.

“Shut up!” Adele said, kicking out and knocking the woman over.

It took a moment, but she managed to restrain the older woman, cuffing her hands behind her back, where she bled into the dust from her shoulder.

She could hear more struggling, more sounds of shouting. And then, a sudden silence.

Adele spun away from the woman and growled, “Stay there!” Cuffed and shot, she doubted the woman had the energy to rise from where she blubbered into the dirt. Adele sprinted back toward the cabin, running with rapid footfalls.

“John?” she shouted. “John?”

She reached the cabin door, circling toward the patio. One form crouched, gasping, on hands and knees, a dark silhouette framed against the orange light from the cabin. A second lay, knife in his throat, gurgling his last, blood pouring from fingertips. And then, quiet.

John looked at her, breathing heavy, his eyes wide. “He didn’t give me a choice,” he said, wheezing.

Adele looked at the older, gray-haired man. The knife jutted from his neck.

She paused for a moment, swallowed, then her eyes narrowed. “Good job,” she said. “Are you all right?”

“Fine.

“The children?” she said. “The victims. Come with me, we need to check the well.”

“Did you get the