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 spat off to the side, waving a hand in front of her eyes, blinking tears against the sudden swirl.
She turned up the road and moved toward the fence. The gate was running on a trolley, closing automatically. The guard sitting behind the desk, inside his small cubicle in the gatehouse, looked at her, a slight flicker of surprise in his expression.
She gave a little wave, hoping to put him at ease, but he didn’t return the gesture. He reached down, grabbed a steaming mug, and took a long sip of the contents. She could practically feel the disgruntlement emanating from him. Clearly, this was not a morning person, but Adele was on a mission.
“Bonjour,” she said, with a dip of her head. “Good morning.”
“How can I help you?” the guard said, skipping pleasantries.
Adele swallowed and spat, realizing there was still dust tinging her lips. Sweaty, spitting, in running shoes and a running outfit, she supposed it didn’t present her in the most professional light.
“Apologies,” she said, curtly. “My name is Agent Sharp. I work with DGSI and Interpol.” She reached into her side plastic pouch which was strapped around her leg with Velcro. The same place where she held her phone to listen to music. Of course, Adele didn’t particularly enjoy music when she was running. She considered the distraction cheating. Endurance was built through pain; distraction numbed the effect.
“I need to enter and speak with the manager.”
She flashed her credentials and held them up for the guard to see. He looked at them, and then his eyes flicked to her. His gaze scanned her outfit, and then glanced back at the credentials. He scratched at the side of his chin and muttered something beneath his breath.
“Interpol?” he said. “Are you from France?”
She thought it a strange question, and instead of answering, said, “Open the gate, please.”
He held up a finger and said, “Hang on, I have to ask.”
He turned promptly away from her, picked up a dial phone next to his computer screen, and lifted the dusty black device. He pressed it to his cheek, and, muttering to himself after taking another long sip of coffee, he dialed a number.
She waited patiently, sweaty, breathing heavily, feeling the itch of dust which stuck to slick skin. Then, after a brief conversation, the gate guard lowered the phone. “First building, first office.”
***
Adele clicked her fingers together, tapping one hand impatiently against her upper thigh. She could feel the sweat slick against her brow, could feel one of the factory workers ogling her tight running outfit from behind. Her blonde hair was tucked in the white headband. She ignored the attention of the employee, staring at the sealed wooden door with the single black laminate plate which read Coordinateur de l’Assemblée Gregor Fontaine.
Adele rolled her shoulders and shot a look off to the side at the loading dock doors. She spotted another truck piled with brown boxes, pulling away. She thought of the cloud of dust, choking on the dirt. She thought of the many other trucks she had spotted, lining the loading zone behind the factory.
A lot of trucks, a lot of candy bars. A needle in a haystack. And yet, she could feel she was getting closer.
At last, the wooden door swung open, and a small, stiff-backed man with an ankle boot hobbled out. He had an aluminum crutch under one arm, and moved toward her.
For a moment, some of her impatience vanished to be replaced by a modicum of sympathy. “You okay?” she asked, jerking her head toward the boot.
The manager looked at her, but didn’t reply. Instead, he leaned against his crutch, adjusting the boot and sliding it with a scraping sound against the cold stone factory floor. “How can I help you?” he said. “Gate said DGSI.”