by Nobody, Joe
Throwing open the door, Bishop rolled into the passageway, covering left. Nick was right behind him, his weapon pointing right. Nothing but silence met the attackers’ ears.
Motioning toward a brass plaque mounted on the wall, Bishop read, “Suites 301-319 to the right. Suites 320-339 to the left. The Presidential Suite is left, too. That has got to be it! That bastard’s been living high on the hog in the Presidential Suite.”
They were moving again, choreographed motions covering every opening and doorway as the large wooden doors at the end of the corridor loomed ahead.
“Should we fill a bucket with ice before we drop in?” Nick asked as they passed a closet-like space filled with vending machines and the ice maker.
“No, but Terri would kiss us both if we brought her home a chocolate bar.”
Finally at the end of the corridor, each took one side of the entrance. “I’ll let you do the honors,” Nick whispered. “After you,” he stated, his head tilting politely. His free hand swept in a grandiose gesture to offer his friend dibs on the drug kingpin.
Taking a deep breath and flipping off his safety, Bishop mustered all his weight and strength into a powerful kick, his boot landing just below the fancy, brass knob.
The door flew open, the attackers bursting into a large, elaborate suite fitted with windows along one wall. The bed was lavishly furnished and unmade. The carpeting was thick, as was the cigarette smoke drifting from an ashtray resting near a plush chair.
A woman was huddled there, her eyes wide with terror as the two intruders rushed into the room. She was seated on the floor, her knees drawn tight against her chin. After making sure she wasn’t armed, Bishop continued further into the suite, finding the sitting room, a second bedroom, and huge master bath. All were void of human occupants. “Clear!” he barked so Nick would know.
“Clear!” the big man responded a moment later. “No one in the closets or on the balcony. I think we missed him.”
“What is she doing here?” Bishop asked, motioning toward the freaked girl.
The woman hid her face in her hands, her entire body trembling in overwhelming fear. As Bishop knelt beside her, he gently lifted her head by placing two fingers under her chin. She couldn’t have been more than twenty years old. “Tell me, where is Blackjack?”
“Please don’t sell me on the black market!” she blurted, eyes full of water, blood trickling from her nose and lips.
“Sell you?” an incredulous Bishop exclaimed, throwing Nick a what-the-hell look.
“Ketchum said the homeless people were organizing to take over. He said they were desperate… that if I got lucky they would sell me… and if I didn’t they would pass me around like a joint until I burned out!” she shouted. “He wouldn’t take me with him. He said he only had room for Candy and Piper. He said I ran my mouth too much and couldn’t go away with him.”
“Did he hit you?” Nick asked, noticing the swollen tissue on what was otherwise a very pretty face accented by delicate features.
“I really wouldn’t make a good slave anyway,” she babbled as she backed even further away from Nick and Bishop. “I begged him to let me go with them. I pleaded with him to not leave me here to be auctioned off to the highest bidder,” she explained between hysterical sobs. “When they started to leave, I jumped on his back to stop him. He got mad, shook me off and then punched me in the face. Please, I will do whatever you want. Please don’t hurt me.”
“Miss, we don’t know anything about a black market,” Bishop reassured. “Now, where did Blackjack go?”
“They had cars and trucks downstairs. I heard them drive off,” she cried. “He ran out with some bags and the other two girls, and they left me here alone!”
“How long ago?” Bishop barked.
“About ten minutes, give or take,” she responded, cringing in fear at Bishop’s angry tone.
“Damn it!” Bishop snapped, sharply standing and throwing the chair across the room in the same motion.
The celebration at Sister Rose’s church was a grand affair. Two dozen folding tables, all heaped with food, were the centerpiece of the merry party. The nun’s followers had wasted no time scavenging Blackjack’s warehouses. They had even breached and raided one of Ketchum’s secret wine cellars.
A single, dark cloud dimmed the opulence of the festivities. Charlie’s team had suffered four casualties in the Battle for the Big Easy. The bodies of another sixty-three men, all former employees of Ketchum Jones, had been recovered, stacked unceremoniously in an empty lot, and burned.
Bishop, for his part, stayed on the sidelines, nursing a melancholy mood while trying to be polite. Nick, mostly hovering by his friend, offered, “We’ll head out tomorrow, brother. Just don’t forget that we did a good thing here. I know we didn’t get our hands on Ketchum, but that little plan of yours crippled the fiend’s organization and tipped the scales of justice toward the good guys.”
“We broke his back,” Bishop acknowledged with a single nod. “It was like one of our SAINT missions. We brought another community into civilization’s fold.”
“And now Ketchum is on the run,” Nick added. “He’ll get desperate and stupid, and somebody will put a bullet in his head. That’s what always happens to those clowns.”
“Maybe,” Bishop replied. “Somehow, that guy always seems to be one step ahead of me. Every time I think I’ve got his hide nailed to the barn door, he manages to escape.”
The other New Orleans thugs had all fled or surrendered. Their fate was to be decided during the coming weeks by Sister Rose and her people.
As the celebration was winding down, the nun approached Nick and Bishop with a smile on her face. “You have both done God’s will here,” she offered. “You are angels sent by my Lord. I can’t thank you enough.”
“We had the Big Man on our shoulders looking out for us,” Bishop replied, looking towards the heavens. “Plus, your people stood up for themselves and earned the victory. We only offered guidance and support.”
“I know you’re disappointed you didn’t catch Blackjack. I can only remind you that God works in mysterious ways. I’m sure resolution will come… that it will bring peace to your soul.”
With that, Sister Rose drifted off, a group of her supporters motioning her over to join their conversation. Glancing up at Nick, Bishop said, “It’s not my soul that needs peace to move on. It’s Terri’s.”
On their way home across Texas, Bishop and Nick stopped by Pete’s beach house to bathe, shave, and enjoy a hearty, hot meal.
Normally, Terri made her husband shuck off his clothes on the back porch when he came home from an op. More than once, given the lack of hygiene available in the field, she had threatened to hose him off before letting him into the house. “If I had a dollar for every ring of dirt I have left in the tub, I’d be a wealthy man,” Bishop informed his friend. “Given the report I have to make when we get back, I think it would be best if I smelled a little less like a goat before delivering the disappointing news.”
After a few hours’ sleep, the two colleagues continued west, most of their journey passing in the silence of contemplation. Bishop’s mind was engaged with alternative universes – each offering a different scenario for making his dismal report to his soulmate. Nick was worried about the mountain of paperwork that had been collecting on his desk.
They arrived in Alpha late in the afternoon, rolling into the estate that was Diana’s official residence after successfully passing through two rings of security. The remote mountainside home had belonged to a wealthy retiree before the collapse, and it had the distinction of having been designed to keep the occupants safe in addition to providing the amenities commonly expected in an upscale retreat. The former banker who had once owned it had a bad heart that required medication and a strict diet. He didn’t survive very long after the apocalypse.
Carrying his kit inside, Nick entered the expansive foyer. Setting down his duffel, he nodded to Bishop and announced, “I’m going
to find Diana. Good luck, my friend.”
One of the security men informed Bishop that his wife and son were on the back veranda. “Did she shoot anybody while I was gone?” the Texan nervously teased the stoic bodyguard.
“No, sir, not that I’m aware of,” was the man’s stone-faced reply.
“Dang. I had hoped she would run out of ammo before I got back,” Bishop joked.
His frazzled attempt at humor falling flat, Bishop headed for the back of the home. There, through the glass door, he spied Hunter playing with a plastic dump truck while his mother reclined in a chaise lounge, a stack of papers in her hand.
Both wife and son peered up as he stepped through the doorway onto the outdoor patio, both instantly moving to greet him. “Daddy!” Hunter yelled, forgetting the toy and rushing to wrap his arms around his father’s legs. He never got the chance, Bishop scooping the boy up and squeezing him tight.
Terri, just a bit slower, embraced her husband in a strong hug accompanied by a deep kiss. “I’m glad you’re home,” she said, burying her head into his shoulder. “I missed you terribly.”
For several minutes, Bishop and his family were content simply holding each other. It was a reunion born not only from separation but also the knowledge that a loved one had been in harm’s way while absent.
Finally, after everyone had gotten their share of hugs and kisses, Hunter returned to playing with his truck while mom and dad retired to the nearby lounge chairs.
“You didn’t get him,” Terri began, her expression as blank as a piece of paper.
“No, we didn’t. About the only good news is that we crippled his organization and substantially reduced his resources,” Bishop replied, watching her reaction closely.
For the next thirty minutes, Bishop recounted the story of New Orleans, Sister Rose’s underground, and the fake flood. “He’s on the run, doesn’t have any assets to speak of, and is probably headed for the hills.”
Terri’s reaction wasn’t what Bishop expected. Instead of anger, or fear, or frustration, she seemed curious. “So, what’s the next step?” she asked, her voice even, unmarked by emotion.
“I don’t know just yet. I’m not going to give up, that much I can tell you for certain.”
Pointing to the project she’d been working on, Terri said, “Diana wants me to go back to Forest Mist with her. She’s planning a huge political event to announce the Alliance’s new immigration policy and programs. She thinks because I have done the research and helped her draft the legislation that I should be there,” Terri chanced a glance at Bishop to gauge his reaction before continuing. “Diana believes a trip to East Texas could be quite therapeutic for me. She is convinced that returning there will help me face my fears… a step that is critical to overcoming this emotional turmoil that is eating me alive.”
“What do you think?” Bishop asked, unsure if he liked Diana’s plan.
“I don’t know,” Terri shrugged. “The only thing I can say for certain is that I can’t continue the way things are right now. I need to heal. I rarely sleep at night, and my days are not much better. About the only thing that kept me going while you were away was burying my head in this project and working myself to the brink of absolute exhaustion every day.”
“You two ladies haven’t dreamed up some scheme that involves you being bait, have you?” Bishop asked with a wary eye.
“No, not at all. Diana is convinced that I need to confront my demons,” Terri explained. “I’m inclined to believe her. Nothing else seems to be working, Bishop. Worse yet… before this project… I was spinning out of control, my condition getting worse and worse.”
“I tried,” Bishop stated, his words heavy in his throat. “I really, really tried. We did a great thing in New Orleans, but Ketchum got lucky again. I think that guy should go and buy a lottery ticket.”
“I know you gave it your best, my love,” Terri cooed as she brushed her husband’s cheek. “And giving all those suffering people their city back… that was a wonderful outcome.”
“How soon do you have to make a decision on Forest Mist?”
“A few days… maybe a week.”
“Let’s think about this. Whatever decision you make, I’ll back you one hundred percent,” he announced with conviction. “Only you can know what you need to get better.”
Chapter 19
Five days had passed since they had returned from the Big Easy, Bishop busy with his job at Pete’s, Terri’s attention doubly divided between her oversight of the new house construction and adding the finishing touches to Diana’s project.
Even given the flurry of activity, Terri, for her part, was barely holding it together. Her nightmares were intense and disruptive, her mood withdrawn. Bishop knew she couldn’t last much longer without some sort of intervention. Otherwise, she would be facing the possibility of a complete breakdown or incident.
Terri still hadn’t reached a decision about returning to Forest Mist, nor was she in the frame of mind to discuss her thoughts. Bishop let it go, plodding through one day at a time, all the while aware of the ever-present, dark cloud shadowing their every conversation, darkening the mood of every family dinner, diminishing the joy they had always shared in their lives together.
Throughout this entire ordeal, anger had been building inside him. Terri had done so much for so many. Why weren’t there more people trying to help his wife? Nick had chipped in, risking his career, position, and life. Pete had done everything he could think of, but the trip to Beaumont had backfired badly. Diana’s suggestion seemed just as dangerous.
In an act of desperation, he’d reached out for another kind of help. He had sent the message almost three days ago. It was a longshot, born of frustration and concern for his wife’s mental wellbeing. So far, there had been no response.
The roar of several motors heading through town shook the liquor bottles behind the bar, the ruckus interrupting Bishop’s self-induced funk. It was late in Meraton, a workday, and the tavern had closed an hour before. Stepping to the threshold and peeking outside, he observed nothing but his pickup and Harry’s old Chevy.
Ten minutes later, the bartender announced that he was ready to lock up for the night.
After the two men had secured the door, Bishop watched his co-worker start his engine and drive home. He studied the star field for a moment, but he didn’t receive any divine guidance from above. Inserting his key into the truck’s door, he froze at the sound of a footfall on gravel. The VP of Security pivoted, his hand reaching for the .45 automatic inside his belt.
Beside the bar’s outer wall, stood two strangers. His first impression was that they were military types, their high and tight haircuts and squared shoulders undeniable clues.
Moments later, an older, clean-cut gent sauntered around the corner. He was wearing a suit and tie, his dress shoes spit shined. As Bishop started to pull his sidearm, a voice behind said, “I wouldn’t do that.” That warning was followed by the distinctive click of a weapon’s safety being disengaged.
“Hello, Bishop. My name is John Brando,” the senior man started. “We only want to have a word with you. No need to be concerned.”
Surrounded, Bishop was both concerned, as well as supremely pissed at himself. He’d let his guard down, and these guys were clearly pros. “You better hurry, Mr. Brando. The deputies patrol Main Street about this time every night,” he offered, hoping to buy some time.
The man in charge held up his hands, signaling he didn’t want trouble. “Seriously, we mean you no harm.”
“Well, that’s a little hard to believe, Mr. Brando. After all, you could have just walked up to me in the pub and offer to buy me a drink. I’m not a big fan of this cloak and dagger bullshit,” Bishop replied.
“Too many prying ears, and besides, we’re not the ones who are going to do the talking. My boss wants to have a word with you.”
Bishop sensed they were capable, dangerous, and skilled, but not on the offensive. The men surrounding him were s
pread perfectly, and just out of reach. Besides, if they were intent on doing him bodily harm, they could have taken him down from the shadows.
“US Special Forces?” the Texan inquired, scanning the three no-necks that had him pinned.
“No, US Secret Service,” Brando answered, seemingly insulted by Bishop’s apparent indiscretion. “I was sent here to deliver a message. ‘The Colonel’ would like a confidential meeting with you. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”
Bishop nodded, happy that he’d finally received an answer, of sorts, to his communication. “You mean the president? Of those United States?”
Brando nodded, almost as if he didn’t want to say those words out loud. Bishop had always thought the Service overplayed operational security. Then again, it was the little things that got presidents killed, he supposed.
It was a fact that Bishop didn’t care much for the Secret Service, his run-ins with a certain agent fresh enough that the memory still carried its sting. “How is my old buddy Agent Powell doing these days?” he sarcastically inquired, rubbing the shoulder that the hard-headed agent had nearly dislocated.
“How’s the new house coming?” Brando countered, avoiding Bishop’s question. “I hear your son is growing like a weed.”
The mention of his home and son, in this context, caused Bishop to tense, a hard stare boring into the agent. “If you’re trying to fuck with me by mentioning my family, I would advise you to reconsider, Agent Brando. Your timing sucks, and I am not intimidated by the Secret Service. I should probably advise you that you have no jurisdiction here in Alliance territory…. And besides, I’ve whipped your asses before.”
Not accustomed to being challenged, Brando was taken aback for a split second. He’d read various reports about Bishop and was uncomfortable bringing such an individual to the man he was charged with protecting. Now, having met the Texan, he didn’t doubt the accuracy of the man’s dossier.
“I’m not threatening you,” the bodyguard stated, shaking his head as if amused. “You’re reading way too much into what I said. We are only following orders. You should relax.”
