Page 9 of The Hitman's Omega Priest
At six-forty-five, a representative from the orphanage gave a brief speech about what tonight’s raised funds would be spent on, and then another door prize ticket was revealed. Bishop was used to long stretches of boredom so he hid his well, while gently deflecting questions from his fellow volunteers and a few women who came up to his station to flirt.
The attention was flattering, but they were very much not his type. His type was dark-haired, mysterious, and male, and his type was currently telling an animated story to a young couple at a nearby table. Kensley had been his type since he’d first begun transforming from a gawky adolescent into a handsome young adult. But Kensley was the most forbidden type of all: a priest.
An omega priest who was his best friend’s younger brother.
Jonathan wheeled out a cart laden with slices of store-bought cakes and fancy cookies, and guests began getting up to select dessert. Bishop helped Gloria bring out two large carafes of coffee, and they eased into the final hour of the evening. Doors were open until eight, and then they’d begin the full cleanup of food and utensils. He’d hoped for a chance to speak privately with Kensley tonight, even if only for five minutes, but as the clock’s long hand inched around its face, that chance shrank.
The banquet room slowly emptied and singles, couples and groups left, bellies full and a few with door prizes. Volunteer cooks took the leftovers into the kitchen to mix the pasta and sauce—someone said it was easier to reheat that way—so Bishop volunteered himself as a busboy and collected empty bread baskets. Something to do instead of just standing there watching Kensley.
He could watch Kensley all damned night.
Less than a quarter of the original guests still lingered when everything went straight to hell.
Five men dressed in black and wearing masks swarmed the room like a trained SWAT team, guns up, shouting for everyone to freeze in place. Bishop only had a few split seconds to clock each man: four were boring, nothing to note, but the fifth sent a block of ice into his gut. The guy held his gun like a pro, supported by his left hand, and on the four exposed fingers was a tattoo. A pattern Bishop recognized as belonging to one of their rival families.
An enemy of King’s. An enemy of Kensley’s.
Training kicked in, alongside the expected chaos of fifty-odd people faced with shock, fear and the completely unexpected. Bishop located Kensley by the kitchen door, frozen.
Bishop hunched and rushed toward Kensley, adrenaline fueling his speed and focus, and he yanked Kensley down.Instead of pushing through a swinging door and gaining the attention of the masked men, Bishop shoved Kensley farther into the back of the banquet hall, toward a simple door marked Exit. He didn’t know where it led, but this back corner was unlit and shadowy, and it didn’t squeal with an alarm when Bishop pushed it open.
“What are y—?” Kensley tried to ask. Bishop wrapped a hand around his mouth and got them both through the door, opening it as little as possible and shutting just as fast.
They ended up in a dark corridor that dead-ended ten feet to the left, but went on a good hundred feet to the right, with a few interspersed standard doors, before ending at what looked like a heavy fire door. No motion-sensors triggered lights, but it wasn’t pitch black. Bishop grabbed Kensley’s hand and dragged him toward that fire door.
“What’s going on?” Kensley asked.
“Hush! Don’t talk.” Bishop ran. Kensley didn’t pull against him, but he wasn’t keeping up, and that was almost annoying enough for Bishop to toss Kensley over his shoulder. But the corridor was short, and Bishop slammed into the release bar. Nothing.
“Fuck.” Bishop tried again. Locked.
“Are you crazy?” Kensley asked. “We should have stayed and done what they wanted. It was obviously a robbery.”
And hopefully nothing worse, but Bishop wasn’t about to take that chance. In the fourteen years since he’d been tasked with keeping a distant eye on this cathedral, it had not once been the target of an armed robbery, and especially not during a fundraiser. But a robbery happened the first night Bishop was directly involved? The first open-to-the-public fundraiser after he and King became aware of a possible threat to Kensley’s life?
Not a fucking coincidence.
“We don’t know what this is,” Bishop hissed. He hit the door once more, but they were not getting out this way. “Is there another exit?”
Kensley shook his head, fear glinting in his eyes in the dim light. “Only back the way we came. Why are you protecting me?”
“It’s my job. Come on.”
He took Kensley’s wrist and tugged him to the first door, no marking. Locked. The next one opened, though, and he went inside. A flash of dimness showed shelves, a mop bucket, and cleaning supplies. Janitorial closet. He shoved the door shut, brain whirring with his next move. He could probably find weapons in this closet, but nothing that would stand up to gunfire. And his “pen” only had one small bullet, which wouldn’t help him against five aggressors. Not if what he suspected was true: those armed men were here for Kensley.
It was the only sensible conclusion.
He felt all along the door and knob, but he didn’t find any locking mechanism. And why should he? No one locked a janitorial closet from the inside. He yanked off the cheap tie he’d purchased for tonight, pulled the door open just enough to hang the tie off the exterior knob, and then shut it again.
“Take off your clothes,” he snapped at Kensley.
He could barely see Kensley in the dim light but heard the affronted squawk. “Excuse me?”
“Look, if my hunch is right, and those men are looking for you, then they’re looking for a celibate omega priest, not a gay guy into closet hookups. If you want to live, then strip.”
“You’re insane.”
“No, I’m not, and if you trust me and we get out of this, then I promise I will answer all of your questions as honestly as I can. But I can’t do that if I’m dead and you’re captured.”
