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

“Anwar!” Faiza screamed.

Bishop watched as the limp body of his biological father fell to the ground. He saw the splotch of blood begin to pool under the man’s chest, and he watched as Dawoud struggled to push the dead weight off of him. As he struggled, Bishop saw Dawoud’s face, glaring at him.

Bishop’s vision narrowed with a surge of adrenaline. He could see nothing except the body of his father and the face of the man who murdered him. Nothing else in the room registered. He tried to stand, but something held him back. In his state, he could not tell what it was, so he pushed against it. Bishop’s muscles bulged as he struggled to move forward.

Seeing the life drain from his father’s body—a man he would now never get a chance to know—focused Bishop’s rage. He strained tighter against his bonds. Had he still been able to regenerate his body, he would yank until the flesh peeled from his bone. The sting of fresh wounds on his wrists and the trickle of warm blood over his palms told him he was about to do just that. But he banked on his muscles and bones being strong than plastic, and pulled harder. His wounds might not heal in an instant, but they would not kill him.

He would heal in time.

His father would not.

Bishop gave a quick, hard tug, and the plastic relented to his brute strength. With the resistance gone, Bishop stumbled forward, off balance. Free of his restraints, he saw Dawoud sitting up, reaching for his pistol, which lay on the floor next to him. Bishop got there first, however, and kicked the gun across the room. Then he reached down, grabbed Dawoud by his shirt collar and picked him up. He didn’t even notice the weight.

In his mind, all he saw was a threat, and Bishop’s instincts told him what to do next. He reached his hand around Dawoud’s throat and started to squeeze. The muscles in his massive arms bulged as his grip tightened, and Dawoud sputtered and cursed as he tried to claw at Bishop’s forearms. Soon the terrorist’s head turned an ugly shade of purple.

A loud crack sounded through the room, and at first Bishop thought he had broken Dawoud’s neck, but then the pain in his shoulder registered and his left arm dropped from Dawoud’s throat. It took him a moment to realize he’d been shot. His field of vision opened up, and he was able to see everything clearly. His mother squatted next to the chair he’d been strapped to, a small knife in her hand. As strong as Bishop was, he hadn’t been the one to break the plastic bonds. It had been his Faiza’s—his mother’s—blade. He would have to thank her. Later. His current concerns were Dawoud’s men, who pointed their pistols at him and continued shooting.

Amateurs, Bishop thought. They could have killed Dawoud. That the men had poor aim was a good thing. But their inexperience also made them dangerously unpredictable.

He released Dawoud and dropped to the floor just as a round buzzed by his head. He rolled to the side and hid behind one of the tanks just in time to avoid another bullet as it passed within an inch of his shoulder.

From behind the tank, he saw that Faiza had gone. She must have used the distraction to escape. The only people left in the room were Dawoud and a pair of his henchmen. Dawoud was getting to his feet while the two men fired at Bishop. They weren’t very good with their pistols, but at this range, they didn’t have to be. If not for his instincts, Bishop would be full of holes.

“No,” Dawoud screamed, “You’ll release the Ergot-B!” But it was too late. The man on the right fired a shot that penetrated one of the tanks, and ergot-contaminated water began to spray into the room. “You fools! The ergot can soak through the skin!” he turned to run, and Bishop needed no further urging. He leapt out from behind the tank and ran after Dawoud.

He only made it halfway across the room when a heavy weight crashed into him from behind and he tumbled to the floor, landing on his injured shoulder a few feet from the growing puddle of poisoned water. Bishop winced in pain, and the guard who had tackled him saw an advantage. He pressed his knee into the back of Bishop’s shoulder, sending waves of pain through him. For a moment, Bishop’s vision blurred, and then he heard the unmistakable click of a pistol slide behind his head.