Pawns In The Bishop's Game

by Emilia Finn

  “I’m stepping up for Jess.” I swing the front door open. “I’m stepping up for Jess, and there’s nothing you can do that’ll stop me. I’ll check back in when I’m done.” I skip down the front stairs. “Find Jay! Find him. Don’t let us down.”

  He waves me off and turns back into the house. “I’m trying.”

  “And Abel. Find out where he is. I can’t do shit if I don’t know where he is.”

  He nods. “Keep your cell on. I’ll call you.”

  I sprint along the dark residential street, since my truck is still at Paddy’s truck stop, and head toward Main Street to find the real estate office I saw in those photos.

  I’ve gotta start somewhere, and I can’t go to the club to ask around.

  I’m not sure if I’m doing this because she’s Jess’, or because she’s identical to the woman I love.

  Am I doing it because I thought it was Jess in the pictures? Would I do it for just any woman?

  No. Because there are hundreds of club whores, and I never did anything about them.

  This is for Jess.

  This is for her sister – identical, but so fucking scared it hurts my gut.

  Slowing to a jog, my heavy bag slaps my back and the guns inside rattle together. I’m armored up enough to fight a war, but instead of heading to the front line, I’m taking a detour to visit an animal, and in the process, risking being found by either side; Turner’s cops, or Abel’s men.

  I’m not welcome on either team.

  I turn the corner onto Main and stop against the wall of a photography studio when police cruisers speed through with flashing lights. I check my watch; it’s closing in on six, which means Turner’s people have had their ‘how the fuck do we find him?’ meeting, and now they’re moving.

  They won’t find me until I’m ready, but they might come close. There aren’t a whole lot of places to hide in this tiny ass town, so no doubt we’ll cross over a dozen times before this is done.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket. Stepping further into shadow, my breath comes out in pillowy white clouds. The hour before the sun comes up is the coldest, and I’m out here all alone while my heart sits in a police station.

  Jess: Come back.

  Jess: I need you.

  Jess: Please be safe. I’ll be your lawyer. I’ll fight for you. There’s nothing I can’t fix for you, just don’t hurt my cops.

  I push my phone back into my pocket, swallow my nerves, and pray I see her again. I pray I’ll speak to her again. I pray our last communication isn’t her asking for me and me ignoring her.

  It goes against everything in my soul to not reply, to not come when called, to not do anything she wants, but I have a target on my head and I can’t stand still.

  We’re sharks, and sharks die if they’re still for too long.

  Taking a deep breath, I move out of the shadows and toward the real estate offices this douche is employed in.

  He’ll go down. He’ll go down painfully. He’ll apologize to Jess’ sister before he dies, and by then Eric will have found Abel, and I’ll head over and take care of that, too.

  Sirens come closer as the cops hit one end of town and circle back. I dart across the empty street, into the park, and race across the open space toward a giant spruce and an empty bench. I press my back to the thick tree and watch as red and blue lights illuminate the sky around me, but as blind as they are, they move on.

  Two, three, four cruisers.

  As soon as the sky returns to black, I move to the park bench and lie down. Pulling a thick coat from the bottom of my bag, then a pair of Steiner military grade binoculars, I bring the coat over my body until it covers most of my face.

  Bringing the binoculars up, I zoom in on the real estate office and read the signage.

  Jackson and Jackson Real Estate Professionals.

  Your trusted home for finding a home to trust.

  I read the names listed under the signage, and the letters that come after, the letters that prove they went to school to learn how to sell shit.

  Did the girls say his name? Did the twin say his name while I had her trapped at the cells? Did Flynn say his name?

  No.

  I know what he looks like, I know the ink on his hand, but I don’t know his name.

  Drawn to her as intensely as a drug addict is to his hit, I take out my cell, turn the screen brightness down, and open the text box to Jess’ name. It’s like I can feel her women’s rights lecture again.

  Jess: I’m mad that you ran away. I’m mad that you make out you’re guilty. You’re not! You’re not a bad person, but running says you are. I’m so mad at you.

  Jess: I’m mad that you left me here.

  Jess: I’m mad you kissed my sister. I’m mad that she’s been hurt and I didn’t know about it. She’s my twin, and I didn’t know she was hurting.

  Jess: I was mad at her for spending all her time with Graham, but all the while, she was hurting.

  Graham. His name’s Graham. Thank you, Jessie.

  Jess: I’m so fucking mad at you, Kane! You knew this was coming. You knew you’d run and leave me all alone. That’s why you took me to Spencer’s. You knew you would leave, and you never warned me.

  Jess: I’m not done with you, asshole! You didn’t give me a chance to say goodbye.

  Jess: I’m mad that you’re not replying. And I’m mad that I can be mad and worried at the same time.

  Jess: Don’t hurt my cops. That’s the only thing you can do that I won’t forgive. They’re my family, and I know you don’t like them, but I won’t forgive you.

  Jess: Please don’t make me choose between them and you.

  Jess: I’m mad that you’re reading these right now. I can see the ‘read’ banner. You’re RIGHT THERE but you’re not answering me.

  Jess: I’m mad that I fell in love with a guy like you. You’re an asshole, but I still love you, and now my heart hurts because you ran away before I could tell you.

  32

  Jess

  Protection Detail

  Riley – Alex and Oz’s junior deputy – steps forward and watches Laine and I huddle on hard plastic chairs lining the wall. We’re sitting where criminals sit. Both sniffling and shaking, but for two completely different reasons.

  But at the same time, for the same reasons.

  “Girls.” Riley’s somewhere in his twenties, close to thirty, I think. He’s buff and built, with strong shoulders and muscled thighs. He clearly works out, and his hands show he’s a working man that doesn’t mind working hard. But his face… he doesn’t look a day over infancy. “You need to go home. Go to the estate. Let them cover you until Bishop’s done.”

  I shake my head and pull Laine closer when she tenses up. I never noticed before how tense she is. I never noticed how her shaking turns almost violent when a man is near. Somehow the quieter, shier, softer sister has become the protector, when since the day we could talk, Laine was always the louder one. She always jumped in head first.

  Graham broke her, and for that, he deserves to die.

  I’m a changed woman now, and knowing what he did to her, not even knowing all the details, I know he deserves to die. I’d represent whoever did it.

  “Not going anywhere. I’m staying until they bring Bishop back.”

  “And if they don’t bring him back today?” Riley cocks his gun decorated hip. “You gonna risk a dead ass for however long it takes?”

  “I’m not leaving. He needs representation when they bring him back. I’m just saving myself the trouble of driving across town.”

  “You can’t rep him, Jess! Jesus. One, you didn’t even sit the bar yet. And two, the security feed I watched seems to imply a conflict of interest.”

  I shrug. “I’m not moving. But I could do with a coffee. That’s what you do around here, isn’t it? You fetch coffee for the real cops.”

  “No.” His thick brows pull low over light eyes. “This is bigger than you know. You need to leave. Go back to Britt’s place and s
tay put. That’s what the chief told you to do, so why haven’t you done it?”

  “Because I’m not a fucking sheep!” I sit taller and square my shoulders. “I don’t jump just because the chief told me to.”

  “You should! He’s trying to keep you safe, dumbass.”

  “I don’t need his help. I don’t need yours, either. Jules is gone; she did as she was told. She’s home and safe. Now I’m waiting for Kane.”

  “He doesn’t want you here! He wants you behind the fighters’ gates. He wants you safe.”

  “How could you possibly know what he wants? You literally don’t know him. You’re spouting off orders Alex laid down like the good little junior you are, but you don’t get to speak for Kane. You’re here to arrest him. You’ll shoot him the first chance you get, so go away. There are three people on this planet I trust. Kane’s one. My sister is another. You aren’t the third.”

  I always took the junior deputy as kind of innocent. Babyish, even. But his bulging muscles and the anger in his eyes dare me to reconsider.

  Shaking his head, he turns away and freezes. “Oh, fuck!” His hand whips down to his hip, but too slow, his gun skitters to the floor when three loud pops echo in the room and blood sprays over my face.

  The hole in Riley’s back smokes. His strong body collapses like wet cardboard. And with his broad back out of the way, I come eye-to-eye with the Special Agent Fuckface and his smoking gun. And just to his left, Abel Hayes.

  The man I’ve dreamt of for months.

  The man that’s shot me a million times in my dreams.

  Each morning when I wake, I can still feel the blood that dribbles along my forehead. The fiery hot hole his bullet leaves behind.

  “Ladies.” Greasy black hair. A long-barreled gun resting by his leg. Expensive loafers that, if being objective, Kane would disapprove of how much he paid for them. He steps forward with eyes that remind me of the night Kane was sick. Death. Eyes of death. “Which one of you belongs to Bishop?”

  33

  Kane

  A Man Will Die

  I hang out on my park bench for two hours after Jess’ angry texts stop. Two hours of wishing she’d keep spewing anger at me just so I could feel her. Two hours of lying in the dark and waiting for Graham.

  I could’ve gone to him. I know his name now, and since he has letters on the front of the fancy building, too, it takes no more than a minute to look him up on my cell and find his address.

  But I don’t move.

  I need a plan, because even a guy going off script needs something more than kicking a front door in and scaring the prick with his pants down.

  So I watch the real estate instead, and I stare at my black screen like it’s her ocean blue eyes.

  Jess loves me, the stupid fucking danger magnet. She loves me.

  She has absolutely no idea how to keep herself alive. No idea how to be safe.

  She’s off script, too.

  Not only is she an unplanned side trip, but she’s the new script. I came to this town eighteen months ago with a fresh ID, a fabricated record that cites seven stretches in county jail ranging from single overnights to sixty days, one single thirty day stretch in a cocaine rehab center, and years of target practice proof at the local firing range.

  None of it’s true except the sniper level accuracy.

  But now that I’ve gone out on my own, now that I’ve ignored calls from the brass and told Eric to stop calling unless it’s to tell me he’s found Jay, I’m pretty sure I’ve become a legitimate criminal.

  Just like Jess thinks.

  Working deep undercover inside a filthy club for a year and a half wears on a guy. It drags you down to where you’re not sure you’re undercover anymore, or if that’s just the new you. The things you do, the drugs you consume, the women you fuck; it all starts out as a cover.

  I couldn’t not do those things, or Abel would have killed me.

  But eventually, you stop caring so much that the woman in front of you is a whore. Or worse, not willing. You stop caring that you’re not a user, because the high you get feels pretty fucking good. You stop caring about the people you kill, because they’re bad people anyway.

  I joined the force nine years ago and pledged my life to serve and protect. To never do any harm. To bring criminals in and let the legal system sort them out.

  But somewhere around my third or fourth month under Abel Hayes’ watch, I became judge, jury, and executioner.

  And I fuckin’ reveled in it, because as an undercover agent under the protection of the ATF, it wasn’t murder. It was my job; do whatever you have to do to keep your cover.

  I took that permission and I fucking flew with it.

  Almost a decade of putting assholes behind bars, only for a criminal defense attorney to get them off again. I had permission etched into gold to deal with it on the spot. There would be no DA. There would be no trial. And there would be one less murderer on the street.

  I’ll never be questioned for it. Never tried. I won’t have to look for a DA to plead my case.

  Because it’s all sanctioned under do whatever you have to do to keep your cover.

  Killing Lance wasn’t something I had to do to keep Abel’s faith.

  The opposite, in fact. Killing him nearly blew everything.

  But I had to protect her. I was drawn to protect her. She’s mine, and until my dying breath, I’ll be standing in her shadows and sweeping in to take care of her.

  That includes dealing with Graham – though this one won’t be sanctioned. If I lay under this parka and execute him in the street, I’ll be tried as a citizen. I’ll be put away for so much longer, because of my training.

  But I can’t let him do what he did and not pay for it.

  The sun works hard to break through the frozen cloud cover. We’re getting closer to December and the snow is ready to drop. My feet ache in my boots, my balls are stuck to the bench, but when my phone vibrates and her name flashes on the screen, the shot of adrenaline that zings through my blood warms me the fuck up.

  Not just a text, but a call.

  Answer it; hear her voice.

  Don’t answer it; miss her.

  Answer it; give my location away.

  Don’t answer it; won’t be tempted to quit my job and become a bagger at Jonah’s store just so I can keep her.

  Her name flashes across my screen, and each time it lights up, I imagine her standing in front of me with her gun, demanding my fucking attention. It feels like a lifetime ago she stood in pretty little panties and tried to kill me.

  She’s the only person on this planet that has tried to kill me and remains alive to tell the tale. Not only is she alive, but the memory makes me laugh.

  She’s a spitfire. She’s everything I need in a woman, but unfortunately for us, we met in the wrong time, wrong place.

  The wrong fucking identity.

  When her call rings out, when I can’t bring myself to take her call and allow her to bring me in – because she could, I’d do anything she asked – instead, I chew on my bottom lip and wish I could touch her one more time.

  One hug.

  One nap.

  One more inhalation of the sweet fragrance that permeates from her hair. One more teasing remark where I’m so crude she nearly comes from my words alone.

  Just one more.

  My phone flashes again with a message. I expect the typical ‘you have a voicemail’, but instead, I get something that makes me snap straight on the frozen park bench.

  Al, I need you to call me. I’m in danger.

  She wouldn’t say that to trick me. She wouldn’t try to trap me… maybe. But I call anyway. Crushing my thumb down on the delicate glass screen, I push the thick parka into my backpack one handed and work to zip it closed while I wait for the call to connect.

  “Come on, baby. Come on. Answer me.” It rings and rings and rings. Frustrating the fuck out of me, I swing the bag onto my back and prepare for another sprint across town.
>
  Come on. You don’t get to claim emergency, then not take my call.

  The line clicks and gives me just half a second to relax before the sounds of Jess crying – because I fuckin’ know it’s her – then male laughter freezes me as surely as the cold weather does the grass at my feet.

  “Special Agent Kane Bishop…” That thick arrogance sets me on fire. “I shared cigars and whiskey with you.”

  “Hayes. Where the fuck is she?”

  “I thought I could trust you. I thought we were pals.”

  “Where is she?!” Birds flee the tall trees above me. My shouted voice echoes in the still empty Main Street until one single man steps out of the garage at the end and cocks his head to the side.

  “Where is she, Hayes? You have my attention. I’ll come to you.”

  “You know where we are. Run.”

  The club.

  As soon as the call disconnects, I slam my cell into my leg pocket and sprint straight for the guy with long hair and greasy hands. He watches me approach, and though he brings his hands up semi-defensively, he doesn’t do much more than rest a twenty-inch wrench against his beefy shoulder. “Can I help you?”

  “I need a car.” I skid past him and into his garage. The sun’s not yet through the clouds, but this guy’s garage is open and he has three cars in each slip, and another in the parking lot out front. “I’m a cop, and I need a car. I promise you’ll get it back.” I duck my head into each car in search of keys.

  “You’re a cop?” He casually kicks one ankle over the other and leans against a Chevy pickup truck. “I know the cops around here. You aren’t one of them.”

  “Alex? You know Alex?”

  His eyes narrow. “I might.”

  “Call him. Tell him Bishop said hey. Tell him I’ve gone to Infernos.” Get the cops there. Get help.

  “Infernos? That filthy club no one goes to unless you already have STDs and a death wish?”

  “Yeah, that one.” I sprint to the next car. “Tell Turner he has to go there. And to watch his six. He has a contract on his head.”