Callsign: Bishop (Erik Somers) (Chesspocalypse #5)

The man from the photo, Dawoud Abbasi, stepped around CJ and stood in front of Bishop, staring down at him. “You are not my son,” the man said.

“Best news I’ve heard all day,” Bishop retorted.

CJ chuckled, but Dawoud silenced him with a glare.

“Apologies, Dawoud,” CJ said. “He caught me off guard with that one.”

Dawoud nodded and then turned back to Bishop. “You are the bastard son of my wife and her driver. His features are stamped all over your face.”

Bishop said nothing, keeping his face neutral and calm, but inside, he felt a surge of relief that he was not, in fact, related to a terrorist leader.

“What are you going to do to him?” CJ asked.

Dawoud reached over to the small table and picked up the Sig Sauer pistol. He checked the clip, then slid it home and pulled back the slide. “I should think that would be obvious,” he replied.

“Sorry, B,” CJ said. “I never intended for you to get killed. You were supposed to be his son.”

Bishop just glared up at him.

“That’s right,” Dawoud said. “He was supposed to be my son.” Without another word, Dawoud whirled around, put the pistol to CJ’s head, and pulled the trigger. The sound inside the stone chamber was deafening, and Bishop winced in spite of himself. The side of CJ’s head exploded in a burst of red as blood and bits of brain and bone flew outward from the exit wound. As the body tumbled to the floor, Bishop couldn’t help but notice that CJ’s ever-present smile was forever replaced by a look of surprise and fear.

“I don’t like it when people fail me,” Dawoud offered by way of explanation. “I paid him a great deal of money to bring my son to me, and instead he brought you.”

Bishop looked up, knowing he was next and wanting to meet his fate head on. To his surprise, Dawoud turned away from him and set the pistol on the table. When he looked back at Bishop, his features hardened.

“I have sent men after my wife and your father,” he said. “They will bring them here soon enough. I want her to watch as I kill the two of you.”

***

Massai couldn’t believe his eyes when he read the text message on his phone.

They were still in the Sikorsky, but were nearing their destination. He and Ahmad had been going over every piece of information they could get on the tomb of Xerxes I, hoping to find a clue about how to get inside the Naqsh e-Rustam. They hadn’t found anything, and were beginning to worry that they might not be able to get inside.

Then he’d received the text.

After reading it, he looked up from his mobile device. “I know how to get in,” he said.

“How?” Ahmad asked.

Massai showed him the text.

Ahmad smiled. “See? Allah will—”

“Provide,” Massai finished. He turned to Ishak. “How long until we reach the site?”

“Twenty minutes,” Ishak replied.

Massai put the phone back in his pocket and began to check his pistol, wanting to make sure it was fully loaded. Twenty minutes, and now they knew how to get inside the facility. He took a deep breath, said a rare prayer and waited. His muscles itched in anticipation, but he forced himself to stay still. His arms and legs would get a workout soon enough.





14.



The sound of a metal door clanging against stone brought Bishop to attention. He couldn’t see the door, but he heard the voices. One of them, a woman’s voice, pleaded for mercy.

“Please do not do this,” she screamed. Her cries ended with the sound of a slap.

“Bring them,” Dawoud said.

In a few seconds, two people were dragged in front of Bishop’s chair—a man and a woman; both looked as though they’d been roughed up by their captors. He recognized the tear-streaked face of the woman, having seen it in the photo. The man with her must be his real father. This was not at all how he envisioned meeting them.

“Erik!” the woman cried. “Erik, please forgive me.”

Bishop would have liked to forgive her, but at that moment, he was too angry. The pressure in his head had been building up ever since Dawoud had told him the truth, and by the time his biological parents were brought in front of him, all he could see was a wall of red. At the center of that wall stood Dawoud Abbasi, his pistol loaded and pointed right at Bishop’s head.

“Tell your son goodbye,” Dawoud said.

“No!” Faiza cried. “No, please, Dawoud. Please!” She reached over to clutch at his leg, but he kicked her away.

“Tell him goodbye, Faiza!” Dawoud’s face was bright red, his jaw clenched and tense. “Tell him goodbye or I will kill him slow.”

Faiza squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. Bishop understood. She couldn’t do it.

“Goodbye,” Bishop said for her.

Movement to the side caught his eye as the man, his father, jerked free from his captors and launched himself at Dawoud. Voices filled the chamber as four men swore in Persian. Dawoud had just enough time to turn and fire before both of them fell into a heap on the floor.