by Blake Pierce
Adele nodded her thanks. “When can we have those files by?”
The director shrugged. “In a couple of days, I’m sure—”
“—Within the hour. Email them here.” Adele grabbed an expensive-looking pen sticking from an ornamental desk set and scribbled on a notepad; she pushed the email address toward the director. “Please,” she added. “We won’t take any more of your time. The employee records need to be in that inbox within the hour, or I’m coming back with a crime scene team.” Here, she leaned into the threat, fixing her gaze on the director.
Sometimes, even kings needed proper motivation. She didn’t want to cause any trouble, but any delay could allow the killer to escape; that was something she simply couldn’t afford. Adele turned and exited the office, leading Agents Renee and Marshall away from the office and through the circular, glass waiting room of the Lion Pharmaceutical company.
Somewhere in those records, they would find a red-haired man who’d been traveling in the last few weeks. Adele would stake everything on it. That would be their killer. They were closing in, and he didn’t even know it.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
The smell of cheap takeout from a local Thai restaurant wafted on the still air of the borrowed office, hanging beneath the gray ceiling and pressing against the bare walls. Three uncomfortable metal chairs crowded around a circular wooden table. Adele wasn’t sure where this warehouse ranked in the BKA’s list of real estate assets, but she surmised it couldn’t have been high on the list.
The limousine, coupled with this dingy office in the basement of an abandoned warehouse suggested that perhaps the BKA still wasn’t thrilled about foreign agents operating on their soil. But Adele didn’t care. All that mattered now: they had the files.
The three of them were on laptops, their devices set up on the circular table, emitting quiet tapping sounds as they pressed the keys and searched through the records provided to them by Director Mueller’s office.
Adele cleared her throat, nearly choking on some dust that had fallen from the light fixture above. She coughed, then tried again. “Look for anyone who went on leave in the last couple of months,” said Adele. “Especially if they travel frequently.”
John grunted, making eyes toward Agent Marshall every few moments.
“Could we focus, please?” Adele said, her tone clipped.
Renee ignored her, but Agent Marshall went red and stared at her computer screen, dutifully searching the Lion Pharmaceutical employee records.
“No one,” said John with a grunt, his accent heavy from continuing in English for Marshall’s sake. “No red-haired employees. Surprising given how many of them there are, isn’t it? Couple of them might’ve been, once upon a time. They’re bald, now. Didn’t realize how many chrome Germans there were.” John snickered.
Adele passed a hand over her face, massaging her temples. The single naked bulb in the ceiling illuminated the cramped space with buzzing white light and further served to exacerbate her headache. The half empty cartons of Thai had tasted good on the way down, but Adele found they weren’t playing nice with her intestines.
Still, exhaustion had settled, embracing her. She needed sleep and more food, and some time to think. But any time wasted was time gifted to the killer. By now, he could have discovered they were closing in. Director Mueller could have told his employees that agents were searching for them.
“Fine, ignore the red-haired part,” said Adele. Briefly, she felt a jolt of regret. Robert had been so certain. Still, she would go where the evidence took her.
There’s nothing,” said John, rolling his eyes. “I don’t speak German. What does ‘der name’ mean?”
“I feel like even you can figure that one out,” said Adele. “Just keep looking. Keep an eye out for the name of the drug and look for any mentions in the ‘leave of absence’ column I showed you. That’ll be in numbers—you know those, right?”
“Funny,” said John. “I’ll have you know…” He trailed off, squinting at his laptop. It took him twice as long as the German-speaking women to cycle through one of the files, but this time, he took even longer, studying his screen. “Hang on…” he said, quietly. “I was looking through the technicians… What does ‘leitender chemiker’ mean?”
Adele glanced over. “It means that person is the lead chemist. Why?”
John tapped a finger against his laptop.
“Please be gentle!” Agent Marshall interjected. “I need to return these in functional condition.”
John, who’d already spilled spicy noodles on his keyboard, shrugged. “Look here,” he said, butchering the pronunciation of leitender chemiker a second time. “He’s in some supervisory role, right?”
He turned his laptop, facing it toward Adele.
She leaned in, peering at the screen and scanning the details. She frowned and reached out to push an arrow key to cycle through the contents.
“He requested leave five weeks ago,” she said, quietly. She shook her head, her eyes widening.
“Look at the project he’s in charge of,” John said, inclining his head toward the computer. “I can read that.”
Adele read the bio briefly and felt a jolt of electricity down her spine. She exhaled, softly. “He was directly responsible for Project 132z. That’s the drug.” She looked up, staring at John. “He was responsible for the drug.”
Agent Marshall glanced over from wiping fingerprints off the back of the laptop with a napkin. “The drug used by the killer?” For the first time, her nearly perfect English held a hint of her German accent. English was the only language the three of them had in common, but Adele knew neither John nor Marshall was completely comfortable with it.
Adele nodded. “Exactly. He was responsible for it. And he’s been on a leave of absence for five weeks…” She glanced toward John. “I’m not sure if I want to slap you or kiss you.”
Renee leaned back in his chair, crossing his hands behind his head. “Both, preferably. At the same time.” He winked.
“But he doesn’t have red hair,” said the BKA agent.
Adele pushed away from the table, regaining her feet. “A wig, then. It’s him. He’s the supervising chemist on the project.”
John frowned. “Look at him; he looks like a ghoul.”
The photo of the employee in question didn’t look that bad. In Adele’s assessment, he resembled a man who didn’t spend much time sleeping either. He had bags under his eyes, but he was probably in his forties, and despite depressed eye sockets, he had a cheerful smile and fading gray-brown hair.
“It’s him,” she said, pushing urgently away from the table and stepping over her seat. “Check his address. Agent Marshall, call some uniforms for backup—preferably without a limousine.”
John was also getting to his feet and Marshall had already raised her phone, beginning to speak rapidly in German.
“Address?” Adele called over her shoulder as she strode hurriedly toward the door.
“Got it!” John called; then the sound of rapid, heavy footfalls gave pursuit.
“Hurry!” Adele said, over her shoulder, pushing out of the door into the stairwell up to the warehouse.
“He might not be there,” John called after her. Glancing down at his phone. “What should I tell headquarters?”
Adele paused and looked back. “They should keep checking airports and train stations…” She hesitated, frowning. “He might not have come home—but if he did, he’s ours. Now hurry?”
She strode rapidly out of the basement with her two companions following quickly behind.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
“You’re sure that’s the right address?” Adele asked for the third time in as many minutes.
“I’m sure,” said John, growling. “Here.” He shoved his phone in her face. “You read it.”
Adele ignored the phone. “Can we go any faster?” she called through the glass partition.
But the vehicle kept a steady pace, following the flow
of traffic.
Adele leaned back in her seat, trying not to let her impatience show. She counted slowly in her mind, breathing in, then exhaling and counting again. Finally, she said, “It’s good his house is close by. I suppose that makes sense since he works at the company. What’s his name again?”
“Peter Lehman,” John supplied.
Adele wrinkled her nose. “He didn’t come up in my investigation back stateside. Must’ve been using an alias. Dammit, can we go faster?”
Reluctantly, Agent Marshall raised a hand and rapped on the window. She called through the glass: “We’re in a bit of a hurry!”
Adele heaved a breath. She wished the BKA had given them someone with a bit more experience. Still, working with any sort of interdepartmental task force sometimes came with unforeseen obstacles. Right now, the best way to smooth things over was to catch the killer and catch him fast. But would Peter Lehman even be home? He’d been on a leave of absence for five weeks and wasn’t due back for another. He’d fled France, though—of that Adele was nearly certain. Where else could a German citizen go?
Adele clenched her fists. He had to be there.
The vehicle pulled up outside a house with two parked police cars already lining the street. In the distance, Adele heard more sirens as more vehicles responded to Agent Marshall’s call for backup. Adele didn’t have the patience to wait, though, and she burst out of the back of the car before they’d fully pulled to a stop.
“A2,” John called after her.
Adele flashed a thumbs-up as she sprinted toward the townhouse and briefly scanned the structure; her eyes settled on the address. A2.
There was a light on inside, behind green drapes.
Her heart skipped a beat and Adele raced forward, surging toward Peter Lehman’s residence. With the sound of boots to pavement, John raced after her, his gun leaving its holster with fluid ease. Adele also drew her weapon and squared her shoulders, feeling the reassuring weight of the Glock pressed against her palm.
John tried to sidestep Adele and took two lengthy strides as if he were preparing to kick down the door, but Adele quickly interjected an arm, tugging him back and giving the slightest shake of her head. She remained quiet as she reached out and tried the doorknob.
It turned.
She pulled the door open while John aimed through the gap, covering her. Then she lowered her weapon once more, brushing past the doorframe and entering a hall. Adele stepped over a pile of shoes by the door.
Peter had a family. There were children’s and a woman’s shoes next to a man’s loafers.
John followed, his breathing heavy, his eyes fixed ahead, his cheeks taut, bearing the load of a solemn expression as he tracked the room over Adele’s shoulder and kept his gun aimed safely off to the side. His posture allowed Adele full range of motion without crossing his line of fire.
She wasn’t sure what the BKA policies were for breaching a home, but she would ask forgiveness later.
She stepped past a sink full of messy dishes and an old fridge humming and buzzing, emitting strange popping sounds, suggesting the appliance wasn’t long for this kitchen.
Her feet padded against the ground as she made her way further into the townhouse. Through one of the walls, she heard loud music pulsing from the unit next door.
Adele felt prickles across the back of her neck. Hopefully the children would be in school. She wondered if they knew their father was a killer. And the mother? Adele passed a row of family pictures. Peter Lehman sat surrounded by his wife and three kids, all of them smiling out of the portrait, watching Adele. She noticed a certificate for a middle school science prize pinned on the refrigerator. One of Peter’s children was following in their father’s footsteps.
He had been the overseer for the entirety of Project 132z. He’d created the drug he’d used to torture six people to death.
“Don’t split,” John said quietly. “We check the bedrooms together.”
“You coming on to me?” Adele quipped, barely cognizant of her words due to the adrenaline pulsing through her body.
Uncharacteristically, John didn’t riposte. Whenever his sidearm appeared in his hands, his personality seemed to shift. He became quieter, more serious, more dangerous. His eyes were narrowed now, carrying a look that frightened Adele.
She was glad they were on the same side.
They moved to a door and John eased it open with his left hand, keeping his other gripping his weapon.
A bathroom, unoccupied.
They approached to the next door, and at that moment, through the thin wood, Adele heard movement. She held up a hand, teeth set, and pointed frantically at the frame; she tapped the side of her ear.
John glanced at her and nodded. In a barely discernible whisper, he said something in French, but Adele couldn’t quite make it out. In English, he tried again “Should I go around the house? Check for a window?”
Adele thought for a moment, but then shook her head. Also keeping her voice low, quiet enough that she could barely hear it, she said, “On the count of three. Don’t fire unless you see a weapon. No sense igniting an international powder keg.”
Briefly, the thought caught her attention. She could only imagine what the papers would read if a French and American agent shot a German citizen on German soil. The repercussions would cost them far more than their jobs. Still, if the killer made any threatening moves, she would face the fanfare. It was up to her to make sure neither her life nor her partner’s was put in jeopardy.
Adele counted down in her head, inhaling slowly through her nose, the weapon in her hand pointing toward the base of the door as she prepared to raise it the moment they entered.
Then John twisted the handle, pushed it open, and both of them started shouting at once.
“DGSI! Show your hands!”
“FBI! Don’t move!”
Their voices blared into the room, and they stepped in, one after the other in perfect synchronicity, both of them immediately sliding past the door frame and putting their backs to the nearest portion of wall.
Adele found her shoulders scraping against the wooden knobs of a cabinet, but her eyes swept the bedroom.
A man crouched over a suitcase at the base of the bed, his silhouette framed by the light gleaming through the bedroom window.
At the shouting, the man whirled, startled, and reeled back, his face turning pale. The man didn’t have red hair, but he matched the photo in the employee records of Peter Lehman.
“Show me your hands!” Adele shouted. “Now!”
Lehman didn’t hesitate, and his hands shot to the sky, his fingertips illuminated by the fluorescent bulbs in the fixture above.
John quickly scanned the room and sidestepped to look into a closet, making sure all threats were contained. Then he reached for his cuffs, and in a couple of deft motions stepped over and handcuffed the chemist.
The German grunted as John handled him, and the breath left his body as he was knocked into a sitting position on the bed. Vaguely, Adele wondered if she was supposed to check with Agent Marshall when arresting someone—but it had all happened so fast.
“Don’t move,” John snapped, kicking at the man on the bed.
Adele walked over and noted the suitcase. “Returning from somewhere?” she said. “France, maybe?”
Peter Lehman was trembling now, his mouth quavering, his lips trying to form sentences, but failing. “Who are you?” he demanded at last.
“I said be quiet,” John shouted in French.
But Peter glanced up with a look of confusion on his face.
John glared down at the man. “Don’t pretend you don’t speak French. That’s how you lured that poor girl into the underpass, isn’t it?”
Peter looked even more flabbergasted. He replied in German, “I don’t understand. German. Do you speak German? Who are you?”
Adele flashed her FBI badge. At that moment, Agent Marshall also joined them, her own weapon raised in trembling hands. She surveyed
the scene and released a small gasp of relief, quickly holstering her firearm as if she were discarding a hot coal. “BKA task force with Interpol,” she announced, importantly through the room. “You, Peter Lehman, are under arrest for the murder of five US citizens and one French national.”
At this, Peter’s pale face turned downright ghostly. Sweat broke out across his forehead beneath his fading gray and brown hair. “I didn’t kill anyone!” he said, sputtering. “What is this about? A drug I worked on? I assure you, anything in my capacity for Lion Pharmaceutical is covered by the company’s liability. If any patients are suffering side effects, we have a shield of immunity from prosecution as individuals. Which project is the issue?” He was shaking his head. “I know that hair regrowth cream isn’t the best. But it wouldn’t have caused anyone’s death.” Peter was talking rapidly now, the words spilling from his throat. He shook his head side to side, looking pleadingly from John to Adele and back to Agent Marshall.
Adele had to hand it to him. He was good. She could understand why Marion would’ve gone with him into the underpass. There was a sincerity in his words and his expression that would have put anyone off guard. Still, facts didn’t lie.
“Check his suitcase,” she said, pointing at John.
The large agent pushed Peter roughly in the chest, causing him to collapse backward, lying down against the bed. Then John dropped to a knee and unzipped the suitcase.
A pile of folded clothes and neatly arranged toiletries comprised most of the compartment. Adele frowned, wondering if they would find the knife. But as John tossed clothing from the suitcase, causing a couple of shirts to land on Peter’s face, the tall agent froze.
“Sharp, look,” he said, pointing.
Adele stepped further into the room and peered down into the case. She spotted a small white container with translucent glass. Sealed within the container, six small test tubes protruded from circular compartments, secured by rubber clasps.
