by Joe Nobody
As Bishop secured the door to their new room, Terri started giggling. “What’s so funny, Terri?”
“I’m sorry Bishop, but I feel like I’m involved in some sort of college prank here. Switching rooms in the middle of the night, setting up booby traps, and scurrying around like someone is chasing us. It all just seems funny.”
After pondering his wife’s words for a moment, Bishop had to agree. “Yeah . . . I guess you’re right. It probably does seem like getting ready for a snipe hunt or a panty raid.”
Terri did her best to sound indignant and whisper at the same time, “And how would you know anything about panty raids, mister?”
Bishop whispered back, “I don’t know a damn thing, other than what I’ve read in books. I was far too studious in college to partake in any such nefarious activities.”
“Bullshit.”
Terri eventually settled down and went to sleep on the bed. Bishop pulled a chair close to the door and waited, pistol in his hand and rifle leaning against the wall.
Chapter 5
Fort Bliss, Texas
December 23, 2015
It wasn’t the booby trap that woke him—something else had disturbed the night. Bishop moved slowly at first, his body complaining about falling asleep in the barely-stuffed, upholstered chair. After cracking a few joints and a good, cat-like stretch, he gingerly shifted toward the peephole and viewed the entrance to their old room. The hallway was empty.
Next, he checked the room’s sole window, which provided a wonderful postcard view of the parking lot. Bishop’s quick scan through the curtain slit revealed nothing out of the ordinary.
You didn’t hear anything. Go back to sleep, he thought.
Bishop stood, vacillating between the torture chair and the inviting soft space next to Terri on the bed. He was scheming about how to get under the covers without waking his wife, when the background hum of the building’s furnace suddenly went quiet. Glancing at the alarm clock next to Terri’s head, he confirmed the worst case. The big red digital numbers were dark. The building’s power was out.
Bishop moved to Terri’s side and gently placed his hand on her arm. The drowsy woman jumped just a little and tried to blink the fog out of her eyes. When he was sure she could comprehend, Bishop whispered, “Terri, call the MPs. The electricity just went out—something’s going on.”
A yawn, followed by a sleepy, “Okay,” was her only response.
Bishop whispered, “It could be nothing. Maybe I heard a transformer blow . . . maybe that’s what woke me up. I don’t like it though.” He returned to the peephole, peering out into the hall. The battery-powered emergency lights illuminated the passageway almost as brightly as the normal lighting. The corridor was vacant.
Behind him, Terri set the phone back into its cradle. She whispered, “Bishop, the phone’s dead.”
“Shit. Not good.”
Keeping an eye at the peephole, Bishop could hear Terri rustling around, no doubt getting dressed. He sensed her beside him a few moments later. “What do you see?”
“Nothing—just an empty hall and the door to our old room.”
“Can I see?”
Bishop started to snap a harsh “No” at his wife, but realized she couldn’t help but be curious. He moved away, motioning for her to have a look, knowing it would help them communicate if she could visualize what he was seeing.
Terri let Bishop have his spot back, but remained at his side.
A few moments later, they both heard the sounds of someone sneaking down the corridor. Bishop’s eye, glued to the viewer, perceived a dark shadow first, and then two men clearly came into view. He chanced a glance at Terri, held his finger to his lips and then flashed two fingers, pointing at the hallway. There are two of them outside the door to our old room.
Both of the men in the hall were dressed in dark clothing and wore masks. I guess that confirms they’re not the cleaning crew, Bishop thought. One of them kept a vigil, glancing up and down the hall, his pistol pointed in the air. Bishop noted the weapon was equipped with a tube-like device extending from the barrel—a CAN, or noise cancelation device, which would make the small handgun practically silent.
The second man produced a ring of keys and began looking for just the right one.
Clearing the question from his mind, Bishop signaled Terri with two fingers and then pointed to his own pistol. They both are armed.
Bishop moved his head to the side for a moment, motioning Terri to have a quick look. When she pulled away from the tiny porthole, her expression flashed a mixture of fear and anger. Quickly returning to watch the men in the hall, Bishop could see a key being inserted into the lock, and then a test of the doorknob—it turned.
The man working on the door shifted to the side, and tapped his partner on the shoulder. Signaling one finger, then two, and finally three, both men bolted into the entrance, flinging the door into Bishop’s booby trap. The sharpened screw struck the primer as planned, causing a louder than anticipated discharge. Both attackers froze for just a moment, stared at each other, and then continued their rush into #11.
These guys are pros, thought Bishop. No one goes into a room like that after hearing a gunshot. That takes balls.
When the “phfzzt phfzzt phfzzt” sound of gunshots reached Bishop’s ears, he reached to open #12’s door, and at the same time, he clicked off his pistol’s safety. Those bastards had shot the two lumps of pillows he had left covered in their old bed. Murderers! Cold blooded killers!
Before he could turn the lock, he felt Terri’s grip on his arm. Looking down into his wife’s face, he clearly could see her mouth the word, “No.”
Bishop ignored her tug, dismissing the protest. Terri held on. She felt his weight shift and sensed the muscles tighten in his arm. She knew Bishop could flick her off without effort, but she held on, determined to stop him from charging into a battle.
Hot, molten rage surged through Bishop’s body, his imagination conjuring up images of Terri lying dead in a pool of blood. Those men were trying to kill his wife and unborn child, and he would deal with them. He would put them down—put them down hard.
Terri shifted slightly, trying to wedge herself between Bishop and the door. The move caused Bishop to glance down, and for a moment, Terri didn’t recognize the man standing beside her. His eyes were reptilian-like, unblinking, and full of a terrible, cold violence. Bishop wasn’t in there anymore—he’d been replaced by something else, something full of fury and death, straining to unleash its wrath.
She tried again, her voice in a hushed, but stern tone, “No, Bishop. Don’t go. Stay here with me.”
Something about Terri’s words cut through the fog of vengeance clouding Bishop’s mind. Something about the pleading expression on her face pulled him back, restraining the desire to engage and destroy the evil lurking across the corridor.
Noise from the hallway snapped Bishop’s attention back to the peephole. The two assassins were exiting the room now. They paused at the threshold, their body language indicating frustration. One of the men put his hand on his partner’s shoulder and pointed at #12.
Terri felt Bishop tense, and then the shadows of the room blurred. Terri sensed weightlessness—her feet dangling in the air—and then the carpet against her cheek. She rolled over, looking up to see Bishop on the balls of his feet, pistol aimed at the door.
They’re coming in, thought Bishop. He inhaled, waiting on the sound of a key in the lock, anticipating the door crashing inward. His vision narrowed, finger tightening on the trigger.
The assault never came. After waiting for the breech for what seemed like a lifetime, Bishop cautiously peeked back into the corridor, and found it empty. The partially opened door to #11 was the only visual evidence of the attack.
The flashes from the digital camera reminded Bishop of a thunderstorm’s lightning as the photographer snapped pictures of the scene in #11. The hallway was filled with military police, nightclothes-clad residents, and soldiers, all mi
lling around and chattering with excitement. Bishop watched absentmindedly as a confused MP struggled to take a statement from a visiting Polish officer, who was staying a few doors down. The detective’s frustration with the foreigner’s broken English manifested itself when the cop’s notepad flipped closed without so much as a single sentence being recorded.
The MP hadn’t had much more luck taking Bishop’s statement a few minutes prior.
A disturbance appeared at the end of the hall, the sea of onlookers and police officers parting for General Westfield as he barreled his way through. The base commander threw Bishop an annoyed glance and curt nod as he stepped directly into #11 and inquired who was in charge. Bishop couldn’t make out any specifics, but the voices drifting across the hall clearly indicated the general was receiving an update.
A few minutes later, Westfield appeared at Bishop’s side. “How’s your wife, Bishop?”
“She’s a little shaken up, but doing fine, sir.” Bishop nodded toward the bed in #12, where Terri sat talking in hushed tones to a female MP.
“Bishop, I have a thousand questions for you.” The general tilted his head toward the exit, indicating Bishop should follow. The general grunted, when instead of moving immediately, Bishop glanced back at Terri with a concerned look on his face.
“Bishop,” the general said softly, “I understand your desire to protect your wife, but I’ve known that officer sitting with Terri for over two years. Your wife is safe.”
Bishop’s head snapped toward the general, his voice low and harsh. “You’ll pardon me for being a little skeptical of that, sir. You’ll forgive me for not being 100% convinced that anyone can guarantee her safety right now.”
Fire flashed behind the general’s eyes, unused to anyone speaking to him with that tone. The anger quickly passed, and the military man’s response sounded more fatherly than commanding. “I understand, Bishop, but this will only take a few moments.”
With a hesitant shrug of his shoulders, Bishop pivoted to follow the base commander.
Like Moses parting the Red Sea, the crowd in the hallway split for the base commander as he made his way to the front exit. Once outside, he turned to Bishop and questioned, “Why didn’t you tell me you were worried about your safety?”
Bishop stared at his feet. “I don’t know, General. I wasn’t sure there was anything to investigate, and I didn’t want to bother anyone in case my suspicions were unfounded. Even Terri thought I was just being paranoid.”
General Westfield didn’t buy it. “You weren’t sure enough to mention it, yet you steal a key and set up a dangerous booby trap. That doesn’t make sense, Bishop.”
Bishop began explaining the sequence of events that led to his actions. General Westfield listened intently, interrupting only a few times for clarification. Bishop summed it all up, “So, you see, General, I really didn’t have anything to report. I took the precautions mainly because of intuition … a warning going off inside my head.”
Westfield’s response surprised Bishop. “I understand. Some of the best men I’ve ever served with paid attention to that voice inside of their heads. Still, I wish you had come to me. Word of this incident will spread like wildfire across the base. We don’t need another distraction right now.”
Bishop agreed with the general’s assessment.
The sound of more vehicles joining the already crowded parking area drew both men’s attention. Out of the sea of headlights and police strobes, Bishop made out two men stepping quickly toward the scene of the crime. It was Agent Powell and one of his men.
The Secret Service man made for Bishop and the general. “What’s going on, General? I heard on the radio that there was an attempted …”
Bishop charged, growling, “You piece of shit! You set us up!”
The attack took Powell by surprise. As Bishop’s shoulder slammed into the agent’s chest, the angry civilian’s palm shot upwards into the shocked man’s chin. Powell landed hard and rolled away. Before he could manage to stand, Bishop took one step forward and kicked like a football punter, his boot landing squarely into Powell’s midsection. Bishop started circling the panting man like a wolf about to finish the elk.
The other agent drew his pistol, but the action was curtailed by General Westfield. “This isn’t a gunfight, young man. I think these two need to work things out.”
“You son-of-a-bitch,” hissed Bishop. “You don’t give a fuck about anything but your precious legacy. You set us up.”
“I did no such thing,” panted Powell. “You’re fucking crazy.”
“I’ll show ya crazy, federal boy,” and Bishop took a step toward his victim.
Powell’s leg shot out, catching Bishop above the knee. Before he could recover, the agent swept his leg into Bishop’s ankles, causing him to flop and land squarely on his butt.
In less than a second both men were poised in half-bent crouches, slowly circling each other, guardedly watching for an opening. Powell took the offensive, stepping forward and launching three quick rabbit punches at Bishop’s face. The blows grazed harmlessly off Bishop’s raised forearms, but the action had been a feint. A sweeping roundhouse kick landed squarely in Bishop’s stomach, causing the air to whoosh from his lungs and sending him staggering back.
The second agent had seen enough and moved to intercede. Bishop felt what seemed like two steel bands wrap around his chest. Sensing instantly what was happening, Bishop lifted both feet off the ground, the shift in weight causing his captor to lean forward for balance.
When he felt the agent tip forward, Bishop pushed down hard with both legs as if he was trying to jump while tilting his head backwards. The maneuver worked, the back of Bishop’s head slamming into the agent’s nose and causing him to release the hold.
Powell took advantage of the distraction and was on top of Bishop before the blood had even begun to run out of his partner’s broken snout. Powell and Bishop hit the ground rolling, grunting and cursing. Blows sounded from the fray, the dim illumination of the parking lot lights revealing a swirling ball of limbs, fists, and legs.
A gaggle of MPs rushed to the scene and attempted to pull the two men apart. In a few moments, both combatants were on their feet, a military policeman holding each arm and leg. Bishop immediately relaxed, moving his hands into a “don’t shoot” position. “I’m done . . . I’m done . . . it’s okay guys … really … I’m cool,” he announced, smiling.
The two MPs restraining Bishop’s arms looked at each other and then loosened their grips, thinking cooler heads were prevailing. Without warning, Bishop’s right fist shot out, striking Powell squarely in the jaw and rocking the agent’s head backwards. “Bitch,” he hissed at Powell as the MPs struggled to control and separate the two surging men.
Westfield stepped between them and shouted, “Enough!”
In a calmer voice, the general continued. “I’ve let you two blow off some steam, but this ends right now, or I’ll have both of you in irons and enjoying a night in my brig.”
Powell and Bishop nodded their acceptance of the general’s wishes, and with trepidation, the MPs loosened their holds.
Bishop noticed Terri standing nearby, her hands on her hips and a smirk on her face. Glancing over his shoulder to keep an eye on the untrustworthy Powell, Bishop approached his wife.
Terri shook her head, “Assaulted any federal agents lately, my love?”
“He deserved it,” Bishop replied, wiping the blood from his lip on a shirtsleeve.
“We can talk about that later. Right now, let’s get inside so I can look you over.”
“I’m fine,” Bishop claimed, spitting a mouthful of blood into the grass and eyeing Powell again.
“Uh huh. Come on, Bishop. Let’s get in the light.”
Hooking her husband by the arm, Terri pulled Bishop back into room #12.
Thirty minutes later, Westfield, a bandaged Powell, and two burly MPs entered #12. They found Bishop perched on the bed, supervising as Terri repacked his blowout
bag. Two butterfly bandages and a greasy antibiotic crème accented Bishop’s scowl as he looked up.
The base commander wasted no time. “Gentlemen, we need to talk this out. Bishop, you think Powell did something to cause the attempt on your life tonight, but frankly I don’t think he had anything to do with it.”
“Seems like one hell of a coincidence, sir. Agent Powell approached me about using Terri as bait just this afternoon, and a few hours later, someone busts into our room and starts shooting. One hell of a parallel, if you ask me, sir.”
Powell looked at both Bishop and Terri and defended himself. “Yes, I did suggest that in a moment of desperation, but I didn’t act upon it. You were right, Bishop. It was a stupid idea.”
Bishop shook his head in disgust, “I’m not buying it. No way. You can’t really expect me to believe a couple of rogue men loyal to the Independents took it upon themselves to come after us. Why would they do that? The president’s dead.”
Powell spread his hands in exasperation. “Bishop, there could be a dozen reasons why someone tried to kill you guys. I’m telling you straight up, I didn’t do anything after we talked.”
Terri interrupted, “Why are you guys saying the Independents tried to kill the president? He told me they had nothing to do with it.”
Every head in the room snapped in Terri’s direction, Powell and Bishop both uttering “What?” at the same time.
“The president told me while we were walking. He told me he knew who tried to kill him, and that it wasn’t the Independents.”
Westfield took a step toward Terri, the woman clearly confused over why everyone was staring at her. “Terri,” the general said, “this is very important. What exactly did the president say to you?”
The intensity of everyone’s reaction made Terri uncomfortable, and she moved to Bishop’s side, reaching for his hand. “We were walking . . . the president and I were walking through Alpha right before he was shot. I asked him if there were going to be a civil war, and he said no. He went on to say that he was going to reach out to the Independents like Bishop and the colonel had suggested before things got worse.”