Left to Kill (Adele Sharp #4) - Blake Pierce Page 0,8

and returned her attention to the photo.

The glossy picture showed a smiling face, dimpled cheeks, and vibrant blue eyes. The woman in the photo couldn’t have been much older than twenty.

“Alive you say?” John asked.

Foucault, in response, handed over a second photo.

The same woman, though it took Adele a second to realize it. She barely seemed recognizable. The second photo displayed a pale, sallow-faced girl. Her cheeks were gaunt, malnourished, her hair stringy and stained. Her eyes were closed, and, if Foucault hadn’t said anything, Adele would’ve assumed the girl was dead.

The young victim had bruises all up and down her cheeks, and small cuts visible on her arms, just at the bottom of the frame.

“What happened?” said Adele.

“That’s what they need you to find out.”

“You don’t know what happened?” Adele asked.

Executive Foucault sighed. “All I know is what she was able to tell the Germans. The Black Forest boots brought her in only a few hours ago.”

“The Germans?” said John, frowning now.

Foucault pressed his lips together. “I’m here to make sure you don’t cause any more damage.” He nodded to John. “You’re going with her. But after the shenanigans you pulled last time in Germany, I’m here to warn you, one foot out of place, just one,” he raised a finger, wiggling it under John’s nose, “and I’ll end your career faster than you can put a bullet in a target.”

John shifted. Quietly, Adele prayed he wouldn’t say anything obnoxious. If only to help prevent this, Adele spoke quickly. “Hang on. Germany? She wasn’t found here?”

Foucault shook his head. “No. Interpol is handling it, but they want you on the case. Can’t blame them—you’re the only agent I have who has triple citizenship. As you’re technically one of my employees now, I had the final say so. John will go with you for backup. Fine as far as I’m concerned.” The Executive’s dark eyebrows dipped. “The less time he’s under my roof, the less trouble he can cause in France.”

John smiled as if he’d been complimented.

“And Ms. Jayne?” Adele pressed. “She knows about this?”

Foucault dipped his disheveled head. “She suggested it. Busy with something else, and wanted me to convey the details. Whatever the case, I don’t have many. Details, I mean. Funds have already been allocated for travel. We’ve already set up a rendezvous. You fly out tonight.”

“And the girl,” said Adele. “You said she’s alive.”

Some of the bluster and frustration faded from Foucault’s expression to be replaced by an authentic, quiet sadness. Adele wasn’t used to seeing this side of the Executive, but she waited, watching.

“The poor girl was found in the middle of the highway, half naked, bleeding from her feet. She was covered in small scrapes and cuts, which the doctors figure came from running in that state through a freezing forest. The temperatures were low enough that it did a number on her lungs.”

“She’s unconscious?” said John. “Hypothermic?”

Adele glanced in surprise at her partner, but even more surprise as Executive Foucault replied, “Yes. The truck driver who found her meant well enough, but his vehicle was too warm for her. The cold combined with rapid heating did damage. She’s in the hospital now, unconscious, on a ventilator. They hope to recover her, but it doesn’t look good.”

“She was found half naked and covered in small cuts, meaning she was in the forest, running from something. Running from what?” said Adele.

Executive Foucault shook his head and tapped a finger against the photo of the American girl where she was still smiling. “All we have is what the trucker told us. He says she kept mentioning a he. Some person, some man, had been chasing her. Someone had filled her with the fear of God Almighty himself.”

“I didn’t know you were a religious man,” said John, quirking an eyebrow.

Adele winced at the indelicate comment.

Foucault, having more experience dealing with John than Adele, ignored it completely. “She kept mentioning there were others,” the Executive continued. “That’s the part that has us worried. And one of the reasons they’re requesting Interpol.” His eyes flicked to Adele. “She kept saying he was going to kill them all. At least, that’s according to the truck driver.”

For a brief moment, Adele was reminded of her father’s notebook. Scribblings, notes, secondhand recordings of what her mother said. And now, again, the truck driver, serving as a mouthpiece after the fact of an unconscious girl who couldn’t speak for herself. A voice for a victim. Would his clues serve just as useless as