Page 4 of The Hitman's Omega Priest
“I’m not hungry.” He’d drank some water from the bathroom faucet, but his stomach was a horrid mix of hunger grumbles and anxiety wobbles.
“Bishop told me what’s going on. Can we talk? Please, brother?”
A new wave of fury at Bishop had Kensley up and limping to his door. He hadn’t locked it, but King was always respectful and waited for permission, instead of barging in. Even during the worst of Kensley’s grief over his mother’s death, during the worst of his anger fits and screaming bouts, King showed kindness, respect, and love.
Bishop had betrayed him by lying.
Maybe his brother’s love and respect would help Kensley figure this out.
ONE
14 YEARS LATER
Bishop Anders gazedup at the wolf-shaped gargoyle looming over the northeast corner of Holy Order Ninth Cathedral, its gray, stone face a silent observer of all who entered. Rainwater pelted his face and trickled down the sides of the statue in a never-ending stream that had been going since early morning. The terrible weather only added to Bishop’s mood over his current assignment, and he hesitated to carry such a heavy cloud of anger into the church. He didn’t believe in Heavenly Father or any sort of higher power, but he’d been shot at enough in his thirty-eight-years that it wouldn’t surprise him if lightning struck the moment his booted foot touched the marble steps.
Exhausted of the cold rain soaking his skin and through his jacket, he squared his shoulders, gave the angry gargoyle one more glare, and took a step forward.
No lightning.
Other parishioners moved past him, eager to get out of the evening chill and into the glowing warmth of the church’s vestibule. The eye-watering odors of burning sage nearly made Bishop sneeze, and he tracked the source to a small altar on his left, beneath a portrait of Holy Father Absolom, the leader of this particular sect of the Church. He was the most powerful HolyFather in River City, a leader in both spirituality and politics—which made him Bishop and King’s organization’s biggest opponent.
Entering one of the man’s cathedrals made Bishop’s skin itch.
But his boss and best friend, Alexander “King” Kingston, had ordered Bishop to attend services tonight and make contact with his new assignment: an omega priest named Kensley Thorne.
He followed the flow of parishioners through the wide vestibule, toward the double doors that led into the sanctuary. Once again, he had a fleeting moment where he expected to be struck down for his lack of faith, in a society that placed all its power in the hands of a few highly religious figures. But as he walked into the cavernous sanctuary, with its vaulted ceilings, massive paintings, and ornamental arches, he felt only a slight shift in the air temperature. Cooler, somehow sharper, and he didn’t understand why.
Bishop’s gaze never stopped moving, despite keeping his head mostly still, observing all angles without being obvious about it. The pews were sectioned off, the back rows stained a dark wood tone, like mahogany. The closer to the front of the sanctuary, the lighter the stain. Bishop’s reconnaissance told him this was to distinguish everyone by their social class. The wealthy in reserved seats up front, the poorest of the poor vying for space in the rear.
Ushers in matching tan suits and bright red ties stood every few rows, watching who sat where. An elderly couple in fancy clothes was escorted personally to one of the first rows, while a young woman in a plain, faded dress was prevented from moving any closer than the fourth pew from the back.
The distinctions infuriated Bishop, who’d been raised in a small church, under the tenets that all were equal in the eyes of Heavenly Father. But when money became the driving force ofreligion, and faith was twisted to serve goals other than loving their neighbor, Bishop had opted out. Out of faith and into a life where loyalty was key to survival, and Bishop decided his own value as a man. Yes, his lifestyle and work required a specific hierarchy to keep everyone safe and alive, but no one was subjugated.
Not the way the church subjugated the poor—or the way they subjugated omega males and alpha females.
Bishop took off his damp coat, which showed off his simple navy suit. Nothing fancy, nothing high-end. He wanted a decent spot to see the service and observe his assignment, but he didn’t want to be noticed—especially as someone brand-new to this church. So, he chose an aisle seat in a pew just south of center, giving him an easy escape should he need one.
Organ music began to play, urging attendees to be seated. He checked his watch. Five minutes to six. He continued observing his surroundings, noting the three doors up on the stage, positioned behind the pulpit. One led to the High Holy offices, two to other offices for the various priests and church officers. Below and to the right of the stage, two connected doors led, according to his study of the building’s blueprints, to conference rooms. The cathedral also had a basement with other conference and meeting rooms, as well as a kitchen, storage and an emergency exit.
Bishop knew this building inside and out. Every door, every window, and every fire alarm, despite having never set foot inside before. It was his job to know.
He also knew how to turn the innocent-looking ballpoint pen in his pocket into a single-shot projectile weapon in less than twenty seconds, should the need arise. Every door to the church had hidden metal detectors that would have known if he’d carried a gun inside with him. But Bishop never went anywhere without backup.
Not even sacred ground considered neutral territory.
At precisely six p.m., the organ music reached a crescendo, and a line of people filed in from one of the rear stage doors. First came the choir in their blue robes and red sashes. Bishop counted fifteen men and women, mostly young. Two junior priests in red robes and white sashes followed, taking their places in chairs near the pulpit. Then the senior priest, the man Bishop was here to observe, took his own chair. Bishop didn’t pay close attention to the arrival of the Holy Father and Holy Mother, because his attention was on his target.
Elder Kensley Thorne was twenty-eight-years-old, with hair so black it gleamed under the stage lights. Steel-gray eyes that Bishop couldn’t see from his spot, but he had looked into so many times in the three years he’d known a grieving, teenage Kensley. Soulful eyes that didn’t understand the violent world he’d been thrust into, thanks to his older half-brother King. Eyes that always seemed to look right inside Bishop and see through his bravado and bullshit.
Eyes that seemed cold now, as he gazed over the heads of his congregation, seemingly bored while a junior priest stepped to the pulpit and opened the service with prayer.
Bishop bowed his head slightly out of respect, and to fit in as much as possible, without lowering his guard. He always assumed an enemy was nearby. That had kept him alive these last two years, while the rest of the world thought he was dead.
He went through the necessary motions of kneeling and pretending to pray, mouthing the words to hymns he didn’t know or feel any connection to, mostly observing the congregation, until Kensley approached the pulpit.
Bishop leaned forward.
“Good evening, brothers and sisters,” Kensley said in a clear, familiar voice that warmed Bishop’s chest in an unwanted way. The same way it had as Kensley went through puberty,maturing from an irritating eleven-year-old into a handsome, young teenager—who had been and always would be off-limits to Bishop or anyone else associated with King.
