Page 39 of The Hitman's Omega Priest
“I’m sorry.”
“None of that was your fault, sweetheart. Right now, you’re bearing the brunt of our sins, and you don’t deserve this.”
“Maybe not, but I got you, didn’t I? I got us, and I don’t regret a single moment of our time together, Bishop. I swear.” Kensley grabbed one of Bishop’s hands and kissed his knuckles. “No matter how this ends, I don’t regret anything. I wasn’t truly living until the day we escaped the abbey, so thank you.”
“No, thankyou, Kens. I wasn’t living, either.” He pressed his nose into the crook of Kensley’s neck and inhaled deeply. He tried putting all his hopes and dreams and promises into their embrace, holding Kensley tight without crushing him. “Let’s keep living this life for as long as we can.”
“Okay.”
By late evening, Bishop was a furious, anxious mess waiting for Walsh to arrive with a doctor that Ziggy had vetted. Kensley had continued to throw up anything he tried consuming, even plain water, and by the time King called about the doctor, his fever was lingering at 101 F. Dr. Fatima was expected to arrive around ten, and by the time nine-fifty rolled around, Bishop wanted to punch the wall. Maybe break furniture.
Kensley, on the other hand, was shivering in bed, pale and miserable, but strangely calm, considering the circumstances. “It could just be the flu,” Kensley kept saying. His constant need to reassure Bishop made him love Kensley even more—but it didn’t relax him one iota.
At nine-fifty-three, the thunderous noise of a small, low-flying plane filled the air, and Bishop’s chest squeezed with hope. Help was on the way. Bishop double-checked his gun was loaded, safety off, ready, and then tucked it back into the holster. He needed to anticipate trouble at every turn, especially in the middle of a minor crisis. They didn’t even have an evacuation plan in place.
King said it depended on what was wrong with Kensley and if it was safe to move him, or if they needed to go straight to a hospital. Dr. Fatima should be able to tell them.
Soon.
Bishop stalked to the front door and stood to the side, peering out one of the side windows. Watched until headlights flashed from the direction of the opening gate. They slowly approached. Bishop squinted, able to make out shapes in both the driver and passenger seats, but the headlight glare obscuredtheir faces. The Jeep circled around and stopped, the passenger side facing the house.
Right hand resting slightly behind his back, Bishop opened the front door with his left. Took half a stride out on the stone steps.
A woman with dark hair slid out of the passenger side, a woven bag in one hand. She was tall, wore a blue-and-yellow dress, and she took a full step forward before pausing. “Drew Burton?” she asked in a deep, lightly accented voice.
Bishop tensed, fingers brushing the butt of his gun, adrenaline narrowing his focus to the woman’s free hand, which was covered by the sleeve of her dress. He couldn’t have been more suspicious of the woman if she had said his real name. King only would have given the doctor the name on his passport. He shifted his attention to the person in the driver’s seat, barely able to make them out past the doctor’s shoulder.
Dr. Fatima took a wide step to the side, and Bishop barely had time to draw his own weapon before he heard the shot. Something slammed into his chest and knocked him backward, right into darkness.
TEN
“…think he’s coming around.”
“Bishop? It’s King. Wake up, brother, you aren’t dead.”
Heavy pressure in his chest and searing pain in his skull greeted Bishop as he pulled himself out of a black sleep he didn’t remember falling into. He followed King’s firm, familiar voice into wakefulness and cataloged other aches and pains in his body, but the worst was definitely center mass. He also became aware of being on something soft, and of other voices rumbling in the background.
“Wh’hap’n?” he slurred. Why was King here? Where was here? Was he still in the island house with—? “Kensley! Where are you?” He tried to sit up, but the pain in his chest took his breath away, and he fell back down.
A firm hand pressed on his right shoulder. “Rest a minute,” King said. “You’re lucky you aren’t dead, my friend.”
“Kensley?”
“They took him.”
The cold fury in King’s voice helped Bishop focus on his boss and best friend. Bishop was on the living room couch. King had dragged a chair closer and was sitting facing him, his hand on Bishop’s shoulder. While King’s eyes radiated anger, they alsoreflected a hint of fear. Fear that jolted missing information back into Bishop’s brain.
“Was I shot?” Bishop asked.
“Yes.” King held something up in his other hand. Something on a twine cord. “This stopped the bullet and saved your life.”
Bishop took it. The fork pendant Kensley gave him. The one he never took off. It was bent now, with a spent round smashed in the middle. His eyes burned, and he looked down at his chest. A white bandage covered the spot that ached the most.
“Half an inch in either direction would have killed you.”
He curled his hand around the pendant. “Where’s Kensley?”
“I don’t know. We’re still piecing together the details, but best we figure, someone intercepted the real Dr. Fatima on her way to the airstrip, took her place along with an unknown companion, and they are who entered the compound. They shot you, probably assumed you were dead, and took Kensley.”
