Left To Run. Блейк Пирс
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about a gunman at a gas station that had rerouted most of the units in the area. But they couldn’t wait. Hernandez had proven slippery in the past. For now, all she had was Masse and her own sense of foreboding.
Adele glanced over the railing at the rectangular pool; the unnaturally blue water reflected the residue of the evening light in crystalline flashes and gentle motion. A diving board on the opposite side occupied the space next to a metal entry ladder dipped into the water. The heavy scent of chlorine lingered in the air, mingling with the proximate buzz of traffic from the adjacent street. Glimpses of stagnant cars could be spotted through the gaps in the motel’s separate wings.
“Eyes up,” Adele murmured, quietly.
Her back pressed into the popcorn siding of the low-rent motel. She felt a trickle of dust against the nape of her neck, but kept her motions steady as she eased forward, sliding along the wall. A woman stared out from a window across the courtyard, owlishly surveying the FBI agents’ approach.
Adele glanced at the distant woman and gave a slight shake of her head. The motel tenant ducked out of view behind the window streaked with greasy fingerprints and breath stains.
Agent Masse bumped into Adele, jarring her attention back to room A7. She flashed a scowl at her new partner. “Careful,” she muttered in a ghost of a whisper.
Masse raised a placating hand, again releasing his grip from his service weapon. Inwardly, Adele suppressed a groan of frustration. As cantankerous as he was, one thing could be said for John Renee; he despised amateur hour. Now, back in San Francisco, Adele found she missed the tall, scar-faced French agent.
Purely professionally, of course. Of course. John was an excellent shot, reliable when faced with danger, and—most importantly—he wouldn’t keep bumping into her outside a killer’s motel room.
“Would you stop that, please?” she whispered at last after the third accidental knee into her thigh as they both eased up the walkway.
“Sorry,” Agent Masse said, a bit too loudly.
Adele stiffened. From within A7, she thought she heard movement. She stared at the door, her pulse in her ears. Then all fell silent.
Adele waited, wetting the edge of her lips, her ears perked, her eyes fixed on the silver door handle beneath the card-reader slot.
Jason Hernandez. Suspected of two counts of barbarous murder. Adele had spent the previous week going over the toxicology reports. Jason had pumped his victims full of methamphetamine before bludgeoning them to death in the living room of their own home.
Allegedly, she thought to herself. Images flashed through her mind. She pictured crimson stains on an ornately patterned Turkish carpet. She recalled the horrified expressions of the cleaning staff who’d found Jason’s work. And of course, the crimes had occurred in the Hills. Rich and famous couple murdered? Step aside, homicide, hello, FBI.
Adele nodded toward the door, keeping her weapon raised. Her new partner hesitated.
She tried not to roll her eyes, but in a fierce whisper said, “Key card. Hurry!”
Agent Masse stiffened like a deer caught in headlights. The young agent stared at the side of Adele’s face before her words finally seemed to register. Now moving too quickly, as if to make up for lost time, he hurried past her, rubbing against the rusted white railing facing the pool. His hand darted to his right lapel pocket, where he fiddled with a button.
Adele stared in disbelief.
Masse’s cheeks reddened, and he mouthed Sorry while finagling the button a bit more. He couldn’t seem to undo it. With a wince, Masse holstered his weapon and, now with both hands, he reached up and unbuttoned the pocket. Finally, his gun still holstered, he pulled out the key card the motel clerk had provided. With a still quivering hand, the young agent inserted the card in the door. A small green light flashed over the L-shaped handle.
Masse stepped back, his young face surveying Adele.
She nodded pointedly at his hip.
Again, blank face.
“Your weapon,” Adele said, through clenched teeth.
Masse’s eyes widened and he quickly unholstered his weapon a second time and leveled it on the door. The windows to A7 were closed, and the curtains blotted out the light.
“He’s armed and dangerous,” Adele said, beneath her breath. Normally, the second part of that sentence seemed redundant, but with Masse, she couldn’t be sure. “If you see a weapon, don’t give him the opportunity. Understand?”
Agent Masse stared at her, shivering where he stood, but nodded. Adele swallowed, staving off any of her own nerves. She adjusted her grip, feeling the cold heft of her weapon against her cupped hands. She endeavored not to betray her own discomfort—firearms and all they encapsulated had always been her least favorite part of the job.
Masse took a position on the opposite side of the door. With a significant look in her direction, he reached out with his right hand, his left still holding his weapon, gripped the door handle, and then—
The door banged open. A wild shout emitted from within and someone slammed into the faux wood from the other side, sending Masse reeling.
Her partner fired once, twice—without aiming. Agent Masse was sent stumbling to the ground by the continued momentum of the door. The bullets struck the ceiling. A blur of motion burst from within the motel room, streaking onto the walkway. The blur held something metal glinting in one hand.
A weapon?
No. Too small. The figure didn’t turn left or right, and instead, with a shout, dove over the railing, lunging toward the pool below. The sound of Adele’s curse chorused with the loud splash!
Adele trained her weapon and took three quick side-steps of controlled motion toward the railing. Her eyes flitted to the blue pool, then darted to the circling hedges. She leveled her weapon on the retreating form below…
…and recognized him immediately from his sheared head down to the twisting tattoos of two snakes looping over his ears and curling at the base of his neck. The tongues of the snakes intertwined, tied in a knot between his shoulder blades. Jason Hernandez wasn’t wearing a shirt. He had a bit of a paunch, and his baggy pants were soaked against him now, but this didn’t stop the man from pulling himself with grunts out of the pool, then stumbling away from the edge, dripping wet and gasping as he tried to hop the hedge. He ended up tripping and cracking branches, landing in the brush, before—spitting and cursing in Spanish—he regained his feet and hurried toward the gap between the two wings of the motel, heading for the busy street.
Adele’s finger tightened on the trigger, her teeth clenched.
“Stop!” she shouted.
He didn’t. Again, she spotted something metal clutched tight in his right hand. A knife?
A clear shot. She had him in her sights. But no—he was unarmed. Most killers didn’t need weapons though. Alleged killer, she reminded herself. Adele lowered her weapon and raced past where her partner was still trying to recover from a motel room door to the face. His nose poured blood and he had a dazed look where he sat massaging his chin.
Adele hurtled past, yelling, “He’s getting away!” She sped to the end of the walkway without looking back. No footsteps echoed in pursuit, suggesting her new partner was out of commission for at least a bit longer. Adele set her jaw as she reached the circling metal stairs and flung herself down them three at a time.
Firearms were not her forte. But finding criminals was. She circled the stairs with leaping strides, watching as Jason raced toward the street.
Adele lost sight of him as she cleared the staircase and also moved toward the street. But after a few strides, she pulled up short and hesitated, gasping, next to the browning shrubbery circling the blue water.
Would Jason really use the busy street? People would see him. This part of the city was patrolled rather heavily. Jason would know this. Her mind flipped back to the flash of metal she’d spotted in his hand. A knife? No. A weapon?