Left to Murder (Adele Sharp #5) - Blake Pierce Page 0,5

of place. Still wearing the same black gloves: riding gloves? Driving gloves?

He was whistling softly to himself, tapping against a needle. He flicked the tip of the needle a couple of times, and she realized it was at the end of an injection. He held the shot up, examining it against the light, and then moved toward her.

A second later, though, he paused. “Ah, dear Amelia, you’re awake. A pity. I had hoped you might stay out a bit longer. This isn’t a pleasant process. I didn’t want to put you out.”

She groaned, trying to speak. “Fuck you,” she managed to say.

He tutted quietly, still speaking in that American accent. It had been so charming at first, but now it felt like he was taunting her. “Amelia,” he said, quietly, “look, I don’t mean to cause you discomfort or displeasure. I promise you,” he said, crossing a finger over his chest, “I did not manhandle you inappropriately in any way.”

He patted her on the cheek and made a modest gesture toward her unclothed torso. “Just looking for the best vein. It’s an art form, truly. The way you speak of wine, I understand.” He smiled at her. “I didn’t do anything untoward. I hope you believe me.”

She didn’t nod, she didn’t respond. She strained against the bindings on her wrists and legs. But she was held fast.

He placed one of his gloved fingers to his perfect lips, and his blue eyes peered out at her. “Dear Amelia, I had asked if you’d considered the afterlife. It didn’t seem to interest you. I suppose that might be a good thing. If you think of it, on the other side, I hope you would tell me about it. Anyway, it’s been a pleasure getting to know you. I hope to see you again. Thank you.” He added this last part quickly and dipped his head. “Thank you dearly.”

And then, with the same fast motion he’d used to knock her unconscious, a hand darted to his waist, pulled out something sharp. There was a flash of metal, and a sudden pain across her throat.

She gagged, choked, and then died.

CHAPTER TWO

Adele gagged, choked, and reached up, waving a hand in front of her face as the cloud of dust kicked up by the truck wafted over her. She frowned, lowered her head, and kept running. She could feel her breath squeezing from her lips, emitted in quiet puffs that met the chill morning air. One foot in front of the other, a jogging stride.

Inhale, exhale, reach up, wipe sweat. Inhale, exhale. She continued to jog, picking up the pace, her eyes fixed ahead.

Five-thirty in the morning. That’s when the plant opened. She’d already memorized the factory schedule. She’d already read the names of the various workers on shift. She’d already stretched the limit of her discretion as a DGSI agent. Technically not actually employed by the agency, but in a freelance capacity now that she had moved back to Paris.

She jogged up the road, continuing a familiar path she had carved out over the last two weeks.

As she ran, she glanced toward the facility beyond.

The path she had chosen, circling the enormous plant in the distance, was little more than a two-hour run. She did it every morning. Easy. Momentum bred discipline. Discipline bred endurance. Small effects compounded over time.

And yet, today she had decided was the day she entered the plant. The case of her mother’s murder needed planning, but not dawdling. She’d done her homework; now was time to act. No more scouting, no more tracking the trucks and watching the loading docks. Now, she went into the belly of the beast.

Candy bars. A strange thing to consider packaged in something so gray and gloomy, behind a thin wire fence topped with barbed wire.

The sun was also rising, seemingly reluctant to confront the morning, as if it had hit a snooze button in the clouds. And yet, Adele was itching to go.

Today was the day. It didn’t matter she was wearing jogging clothes. It didn’t matter she was sweating. Today she would speak to the manager, find the truck driver in question. Today she would find out the truth. She jogged along the trail, refusing to get off the road even as a truck barreled down.

There was enough space for the two of them. The truck leaned on its horn, and she ignored it; eventually, the truck moved a bit to the side, passing her. She swallowed a mouthful of dust and