Left To Die

Weapon raised, left arm bent, she followed John into the hotel suite, the sound of their footsteps muffled by thick carpet, but the sounds of their voices blaring forth, attempting to control the room with sheer volume, resonating in the large space.

The suite was at the top floor of the hotel, reserved for affluent clientele. There were ebony counters along a small area that served as an en suite kitchen; a chandelier dangled above the two agents, illuminating marble tiles on either side of the stretch of red carpet leading from the door, down two steps, and into a lounge area.

Adele was mediocre with firearms, but in surveying a crime scene, there were few better. She instantly cataloged three adjacent doorways in the suite. Two of them were shut, but one was propped open. Large, tinted windows circled a bulging, spherical wall, giving a view of the city below. And there, lying over the top of a mauve, cushioned sofa, a redheaded man had a woman pinned beneath him.

The man wore a strange black outfit. Beneath him, Adele could hear the quiet shouts and fearful cries of the woman.

The man’s hands jutted skyward, as he spun to face the two agents. “Please!” he shouted. “Please don’t shoot!”

John hurried over to the woman, keeping his gun trained on the man.

Adele couldn’t see any blood. Adrenaline laced through her body as she took quick stock of the man. He didn’t seem to be armed.

She felt a slight jolt of discomfort as she realized he was wearing black latex all up and down his body. Her gaze flicked to the woman and realized she was wearing a similar outfit. There were conspicuously cut holes in the body of the outfits, allowing no room for decency, but ample room for intimate access.

John had pulled up sharply, and clicked his tongue in a disapproving sound. “Christ, put that away, will you?”

The man hesitated, his cheeks turning the same color as his hair. He began to lower his hands to zip up his suit, but just as quickly, Adele barked, “No sudden movements!”

The woman also covered herself, trying to keep some modicum of decency by placing herself between the couch and the agents. No blood. No weapon. No injuries.

“Dammit,” Adele said. She lowered her gun, shaking her head in disgust. “Mademoiselle, are you hurt?” This, she directed toward the woman.

The woman shook her head wildly and pointed toward the man. “He’s a friend,” she said. “Purely a friend. We’re not doing anything illegal. I’m here for free!”

John’s gun also lowered, and he sighed. “Interesting comment to volunteer,” he said, with a wry shake of his head. Some of the burning wildfire in his gaze had faded now.

Adele could feel her frustration mounting, but John seemed to have found the humor in the situation. He winked at the woman and gave her a quick glance up and down. “What’s the going rate?” he said. “I might have some spare time tomorrow.”

Adele stared in shock at her partner, but then, when the woman didn’t react in outrage, she glanced back.

Agent Renee holstered his weapon and winked at the woman. “Pretty sure while this is outside of my jurisdiction, you’re not supposed to be paying for it. It’s not 2016 anymore, my friend.”

The man, who had, with slow, careful motions, managed to zip up his latex suit for some amount of decency, shook his head. Adele noticed a long, leather strap on the ground, as well as a riding crop. She noticed a couple of bruises on the exposed side of the woman’s hip. But nothing in the woman’s posture suggested she was afraid of the man next to her. If anything, she seemed embarrassed.

“It isn’t like that,” the man said, taking a shuddering breath. He continued to fidget nervously, his hands still down by his waist. His gaze flicked between Renee and Adele, the red hue of his cheeks now matching his hair. “Perfectly consensual. Tell them—well? Tell them!”

The woman glanced sidelong at him and hesitated for a moment, a shrewd look coming across her eyes. She considered the comment, and Adele could see the wheels turning in her brain as she seemed to mull over her options. At long last, though, she sighed, and said, “He’s right. Perfectly willing.”

The red-haired man sighed in relief.

Adele tried to suppress her frustration. Clearly, this wasn’t the Benjamin Killer. It couldn’t be. Could it?

John moved over to the couch and plopped down, leaning back and crossing his legs, tossing his feet onto a footstool. The lack of professionalism sent another jolt of annoyance through Adele. Their argument from earlier had faded to the back of her mind, but the cavalier way in which John conducted himself put her ill at ease.

“Well,” said John, addressing the red-haired man, “I’m going to guess that you aren’t French. I haven’t heard an accent like that since American Princess first spoke back at the office.”