Left to Murder (Adele Sharp #5) - Blake Pierce Page 0,71

quiet little gasp.

Adele glanced toward where Mr. Davis was scrambling out the other side, her eyes flicking toward John, then to the victim. She lunged forward, ripping the tube from Mr. Castle’s arm and tossing it to the side. She grabbed a cloth placemat set in the center of the table and quickly discarded it as too thick.

Cursing to herself, desperate, she pulled her own pocket lining and ripped, hard. Then, using this, she pressed it firmly to Mr. Castle’s arm. “Mr. Castle,” she said, “Arthur, listen to me. Stay awake—Arthur you’re going to be fine. Stay with me!” She practically was yelling now, watching Mr. Castle’s eyes flutter in his wizened face. He was older than Robert, but not by much. She could feel panic setting in as she desperately reached for her phone, placing her gun on the table so she could call for paramedics.

John had his own weapon raised, but a second later, a chair was knocked free from beneath the table and sent slamming into the tall agent. He went down with a howl. Mr. Davis darted forward now, tackling John around the ankles, but then, just as quickly, using it as a feint to switch his strike.

A hand leapt out as quick and powerful as a piston. He struck John in the throat.

The tall French agent gave a gasping, gurgling nose. His hands darted to his neck and his gun dropped, clattering to the ground.

Adele shouted incoherently, one hand holding a makeshift bandage to the victim’s still bleeding arm, another pressing a phone to her ear as she desperately called for paramedics.

“Ambulance, now!” she screamed when she heard a response on the other line. There was no more time. She dropped her phone, allowing it to hit the ground and crash amidst the pooling blood at her feet. Her shoes were also stained at this point.

But it didn’t matter. She snatched her weapon off the table, aimed, and tried to fire again.

But John had recovered enough to tackle Mr. Davis, who was bolting toward the shattered sliding door. John was making a wheezing hacking sound like a cat with a hairball. Mr. Davis spun around where he was knocked to the floor. He snarled and lashed out again—fast, deadly. His fingers aimed for John’s eyes.

But this time, the French agent seemed to be expecting it. He didn’t speak, but spat, jerking his head to the side and using the momentum to slam his forehead square into Mr. Davis’s groin.

Adele winced and Mr. Davis went stiff as a board, squeaking in agony. John surged up now, dragging Mr. Davis by the collar and flinging him into a cabinet, sending the killer crashing head-first into the wood.

But Mr. Davis was like a cornered animal. He was the smaller man, but the more desperate one. He raised a hand, which, miraculously, still held the knife Adele had spotted earlier. With a howl, he charged at John, slashing at the big man’s face—again, it seemed, going for the eyes.

“You’re blind!” Mr. Davis screeched. “Blind!”

John ducked one way, then surged back, distancing himself, trying to circle toward his firearm. But even in this crazed state, Mr. Davis seemed to realize the large agent’s intent; he circled as well, keeping John between Adele and himself, but also cutting off access to the agent’s gun in the kitchen.

John tried to step forward, but Mr. Davis wiggled the knife threateningly.

For a moment, they stood, facing each other, the smaller, bloodstained man carrying a knife, the taller one gasping and glancing around the kitchen, trying to find another angle.

“You big freak,” Mr. Davis spat, “I’ve got you. You’re going nowhere, understand? Now hear my terms. I’ll let you leave, but only if—”

John was not in a listening mood. He seemed to resign himself to the inevitable. And then, instead of trying to dodge the knife, he surged toward it. One meaty fist snared the blade around the edge. Mr. Davis howled, yanking his weapon. A spurt of blood, but John managed to hang on, gripping the knife by the very blade. The tall agent howled in pain, but then jerked, yanking the weapon free where it had embedded into his palm.

Adele just stared.

Mr. Davis didn’t seem to believe what had just happened.

“Here are my terms,” John snarled. He flung out a hand, scattering droplets of blood from his freshly injured palm into Mr. Davis’s eyes, distracting him for a second. And then he surged forward, grabbing the killer by the throat, lifting him and