The Last Quarter (A James Bishop short story)

by Jason Dean

  Foland swallowed and said, ‘Swear to God, you’ll never see me in this part of the—’

  ‘Shut up,’ Bishop said. ‘I’m not finished. I need you to understand that we won’t be coming to kill you. That if anything happens to that woman, anything at all, even if it looks like an accident, we’ll find you and plant enough shit on you to put you away for a lifetime.’

  Willard was nodding his head. ‘And as treasury agents we got access to evidence rooms all over the country, so we can get hold of the sickest paedo shit imaginable, believe me. And you know what they do to kiddie-fiddlers in the pen.’

  ‘You’ll be singing soprano the rest of your life,’ Doubleday said. ‘If you’re lucky.’

  Foland’s Adam’s apple moved up and down like a golf ball as he swallowed again. ‘I hear you. Loud and clear. I’m gone, I swear.’

  ‘Then get lost.’ Bishop waved the Uzi. ‘Before I come to my senses.’

  Foland looked at each of them in turn, clearly not quite believing it. Then he turned and simply ran full pelt for the open entrance. They all watched him go. Once he was finally out of sight, Bishop turned to Willard and said, ‘Paedo shit? Was that in the script?’

  Willard grinned. ‘The idea just came to me. Worked, didn’t it?’

  Bishop smiled. It had worked, all right. A few minutes earlier, Bishop had been about to ‘shoot’ Foland in the head when Willard had gripped his wrist and jerked the barrel away. Bishop’s finger had contracted on the trigger and Doubleday had immediately dived out of the way as the sound of a dozen rounds suddenly ricocheting off the vehicle carcass echoed throughout the warehouse. It had all looked and sounded perfect, just as Bishop had hoped.

  Handing the prop Uzi back to Doubleday, Bishop said, ‘Real nice work. Those squibs on the car looked so good you almost had me believing it. Great sound effects, too.’

  ‘That’s why the studios pay me the big bucks,’ Doubleday said as he ejected the magazine and inspected the remaining blanks. ‘So we can wrap this up now?’

  ‘Yeah, we’re done.’

  Which meant they could all go back to their normal lives until the next job, which would be mainly down to Bishop. And he might not even use the same people. That was what he liked about contracting for Equal Aid. The almost complete freedom with which he was allowed to pick and choose. But then, he’d insisted on that right from the start, or forget it.

  He liked his clients too, which made a change from his old career. But that wasn’t too surprising. After all, Equal Aid was a non-profit organization for domestic abuse victims. Most could escape their predicaments with financial aid alone. But some needed more than just a cash injection, and that’s where Bishop came in.

  Ellen Meredith, for example, had managed to put a long history of drug abuse and petty thefts behind her to start a new life for herself in Pennsylvania. She’d even gotten herself a job in a bank. But her old boyfriend, Foland, had recently been released from prison and tracked her down, threatening to open up her past if she didn’t siphon off some cash for him. Knowing he wouldn’t ever stop pushing and that he would only get more demanding and more violent, Ellen had approached Equal Aid and asked for help.

  Enter Bishop, who decided to pose as a maverick treasury agent ‘investigating’ Ellen’s bank for drug money laundering, with Ellen as his inside source. The rest was just a matter of details, preparation, and personnel. Doubleday was a movie special effects whizz Bishop had used before. Willard was a newbie Giordano recommended. The three of them rehearsed everything over and over until they had it all down. Then earlier tonight they’d raided Foland’s apartment, knocked him out and brought him here.

  Bishop was pleased with his two choices. They’d acted their parts well. To be honest, if it had been up to Bishop he would have used a real gun to threaten Foland with, and real bullets. After eight years in the Marine Corps and another six in the close protection business, he was used to being around live ammunition, but he was aware most people weren’t. But Doubleday had definitely come up trumps this time. Bishop’s instincts told him Foland wouldn’t be back after tonight’s performance. And his instincts were rarely wrong.

  Rubbing his hands together to counter the chill, Bishop walked over to the SUV and pulled his cell phone from his pocket. He unmuted it and was greeted with a message telling him he had voice-mail. He dialled the number and punched in his personal code.

  The phone message started. ‘Bishop, this is Gerry,’ the familiar voice said. There was a pause. ‘I thought I should . . . Look, we’re at the hospital. It’s about Amy . . .’

  As he listened to the rest of the message, Bishop’s heartbeat quickened. He was staring at the car, but didn’t see it. All he saw was his sister’s face. Amy. The only direct family he had left since the deaths of their parents over twenty-five years before. The main constant in his life. If he was honest, the only one.

  As soon as the short message ended, Bishop, still staring straight ahead, pressed the off button and carefully placed the cell back in his pocket. In the space of a minute, everything in his life had been reduced down to one simple objective.

  He had to get back to New York immediately.