The Bishop Directive
Chapter 3: Into the Fire
The Bishop Directive
Chapter 3: Into the Fire
The ground was harder than it looked. Bishop hit the desert floor with a jarring thud, the impact sending a shockwave through his legs and up his spine. He rolled instinctively, using his momentum to keep from twisting an ankle or snapping a bone, and came to a stop in the shadow of a jagged rock formation.
The parachute billowed above him, catching the wind like a ghost trying to escape. Bishop fumbled for the quick-release buckles on his harness, freeing himself from the straps as the silk collapsed in a heap beside him. His ears were still ringing from the chaos of the plane, the sound of gunfire and the deafening roar of wind fading into the eerie silence of the desert.
“Callahan!” he called, his voice hoarse, his throat raw from the dry air.
A muffled grunt answered from somewhere nearby. Bishop rose to his feet, his knees protesting the motion, and scanned the area. The moonlight cast long, distorted shadows over the sand, transforming the landscape into a surreal nightmare of jagged shapes and shifting textures.
“Here,” Callahan said, emerging from the darkness, his chute bundled in his arms. He looked rough, his face streaked with sweat and dirt, but he was moving under his own power, which was more than Bishop had hoped for.
“You good?” Bishop asked, his eyes darting to the horizon, searching for any sign of movement.
“Still breathing,” Callahan replied, dropping the parachute into a pile and wiping his face with a grimy sleeve. “Can’t say the same for my pride. I ate sand the second I hit the ground.”
“Could’ve been worse,” Bishop said, kneeling to inspect his gear. His sidearm was still secure in its holster, but the magazines he’d carried on the plane were gone, lost in the scramble to escape. “Check your gear. We’re on borrowed time.”
Callahan nodded, patting down his body and pulling free a folding knife and a compact first-aid kit. “That’s about it,” he said, his voice laced with frustration. “No food, no water. This is gonna suck.”
Bishop didn’t respond. His focus was on the wreckage of their situation, cataloging every resource they had left and every potential liability. The parachutes might be salvageable for shelter if it came to that, but right now, their priority was movement.
“What’s the plan?” Callahan asked, his voice tight with tension.
Bishop stood, his jaw set, his eyes scanning the desert. “We head south,” he said. “Marrakesh isn’t far. We’ll move fast, stick to cover where we can, and hope they don’t have ground teams waiting for us.”
“Hope,” Callahan repeated, his tone dark. “That’s comforting.”
“It’s what we’ve got,” Bishop said flatly. He pointed to the rocks ahead, their jagged edges rising like teeth from the sand. “We keep to those. They’ll give us some cover if they send drones. If we stay out in the open, we’re done.”
Callahan grunted, shouldering his pack. “Lead the way.”
They moved out, the silence of the desert settling over them like a shroud. The sand shifted underfoot, every step a reminder of the harsh reality they were walking into. Bishop felt the weight of their predicament pressing down on him, the odds stacking higher with every second. But there was no time for doubt, no room for hesitation.
This was survival, plain and simple. And survival meant moving forward, one step at a time.
The Bishop Directive
Chapter 3: Into the Fire (continued)
The desert didn’t just stretch—it swallowed.
Bishop moved with calculated steps, feeling the unforgiving terrain shift beneath his boots as if the earth itself wanted to drag him down. The sand was fine and dry, slipping into every crevice of his gear, clinging to the sweat on his skin, turning his clothes into a layer of rough, grating fabric. Each step sent up tiny plumes of dust, barely visible in the moonlight, vanishing into the void before they could settle.
He adjusted the strap on his shoulder, feeling the deep ache setting into his muscles. The weight of his parachute harness was gone, but in its place was something worse—a bone-deep exhaustion that clung to him like a second skin. The crash, the jump, the sheer chaos of the last few hours had drained him more than he was willing to admit.
Callahan trailed a step behind, his breathing heavy but controlled, a steady rhythm that told Bishop the man was running on the same fumes he was. No words were exchanged. There was nothing to say. Their world had shrunk to movement and survival, anything beyond that was wasted thought.
The heat from the day still radiated from the sand beneath their feet, baking them from below as the cool desert air whispered over their skin. It was a cruel contrast—the biting chill of the night, the smothering heat rising from the dunes. Sweat beaded on Bishop’s brow, rolling down his temple before disappearing into the dust coating his skin. It wasn’t just uncomfortable—it was suffocating.
Time blurred. There was no reference point, no city lights in the distance, no roads, no signs that the world they had known still existed beyond the vast, indifferent wilderness that stretched in every direction. Their only guide was the stars, faintly glimmering above like distant memories, and the moon, a pale guardian casting jagged shadows across the dunes.
The wind picked up, cutting across them with a dry rasp, carrying sand that stung their exposed skin like tiny razors. Bishop felt the grit wedge itself into the cracks of his lips, tasted the bitterness of it as he swallowed. His tongue felt swollen, dry as parchment.
They needed water. Soon.
Callahan let out a sharp breath, breaking the silence. “I’d kill for a bottle of water.”
Bishop didn’t look back. “Get in line.”
“Maybe we should’ve stayed on the plane,” Callahan muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
“Would’ve been a short stay,” Bishop replied, scanning the horizon, his eyes trained on the jagged outcroppings ahead. “Keep moving.”
Callahan fell silent again, but Bishop could feel his unease. It wasn’t just the exhaustion or the dehydration—it was something deeper, something neither of them wanted to say out loud.
They weren’t alone.
Bishop had felt it ever since they’d hit the ground, a prickle at the back of his neck, a tightening in his gut. At first, he’d chalked it up to instinct, to paranoia sharpened by years of survival. But as the night deepened and the air grew still, the sensation had solidified into something real. A presence. A shadow moving just outside the reach of their senses.
They were being followed.
Not drones—he would have heard them. Not vehicles—the terrain was too unforgiving for anything but foot travel. No, this was something else. Someone else.
He slowed his pace slightly, just enough to let Callahan close the gap beside him. “Don’t react,” Bishop said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But we’re not alone.”
Callahan didn’t speak, didn’t turn his head, but his fingers twitched slightly near his belt where his knife was secured.
“How many?” he asked, his voice equally low.
“Not sure,” Bishop admitted. “But they’re good. Too good.”
The wind shifted, carrying a new scent—faint, but unmistakable. Metal. Oil. The kind of residue that clung to weapons and gear, the smell of gunpowder and machine grease that didn’t belong in the wild.
Bishop’s pulse quickened, but outwardly he remained the same, his pace steady, his movements controlled. He couldn’t let their trackers know they were made. Not yet.
A crunch.
So faint it could’ve been mistaken for the natural shifting of sand, but Bishop knew better. Someone had miscalculated, stepped too forcefully, and given themselves away.
Callahan caught it too. His hand drifted closer to his knife. “We make a move?”
“Not yet,” Bishop said, his eyes scanning the darkness. “Let them think we don’t know.”
His mind was already working through possibilities. If they were being tracked, it meant their enemy wasn’t in a hurry to kill them—not yet. They wanted something. Intel. Confirmation. Maybe even an extraction.
Or worse.
Maybe they wanted to see how far Bishop and Callahan would run before they collapsed. Before they were easy.
The thought sent a slow, burning anger curling in Bishop’s gut.
He wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction.
Not now.
Not ever.
They kept walking, the weight of unseen eyes pressing down on them like a vice. The dunes loomed ahead, dark and shifting, offering both concealment and potential death.
And somewhere, out there in the silence, the hunt had already begun.
The Bishop Directive
Chapter 3: Into the Fire (continued)
The desert had a way of swallowing sound, absorbing it into the endless dunes and suffocating anything softer than the wind. Bishop and Callahan kept moving, but now every step felt deliberate, controlled. The weight of unseen eyes pressed on their backs, the knowledge that they were being tracked gnawing at the edges of their minds.
Bishop kept his breathing steady, his gaze sweeping the terrain in front of them. The moon cast long, jagged shadows across the sand, distorting the landscape into something more sinister. The rocky outcrops ahead were the only real cover in this wasteland. If they could reach them, they might have a chance to break line of sight—maybe even turn the tables.
“We keep pace,” Bishop murmured, barely moving his lips. “Let them think we don’t know.”
Callahan nodded subtly. His hand never strayed too far from his knife, his fingers twitching at his side like a runner waiting for the starting gun.
Bishop counted his breaths, forcing himself into a rhythm, keeping his heartbeat steady. He could feel the sand grinding against his skin, could hear the whisper of it shifting beneath his boots with every step. And beneath that, fainter than the wind, the footsteps of their pursuers.
They were close.
Too close.
Then—another mistake. A sharper crunch. A fraction of a second too long between steps.
There.
Bishop didn’t stop walking, didn’t turn his head. Instead, he let his peripheral vision lock onto the dark sliver of movement against the dune crest to their left. At least two figures, maybe more. The lead was crouched low, keeping pace, but he wasn’t perfect. He was human. And that meant he could be beaten.
Bishop slowed slightly, just enough for Callahan to notice.
“How many?” Callahan murmured.
“Two I can see,” Bishop said. “More could be flanking.”
Callahan’s exhale was slow, measured. “Options?”
Bishop kept walking. The outcrop ahead was a jagged wall of stone, its uneven formations offering just enough concealment. But more importantly, it gave them a chance to fight on their terms.
“We draw them in,” Bishop said. “Break sight, use the rocks for cover. They think we’re prey. Let’s show them they’re wrong.”
Callahan gave a ghost of a grin. “About damn time.”
The tension in the air was thick enough to choke on. Bishop flexed his fingers, feeling the stiffness in his joints from dehydration, from exhaustion, from the relentless pull of gravity and heat. But pain was just another variable—one he knew how to control.
The moment they reached the first rock formation, they moved.
Bishop didn’t hesitate. He veered sharply left, Callahan right, both vanishing into the darkness. It took all of half a second for the men trailing them to react, and that was all the time Bishop needed.
The lead pursuer was fast, his silhouette darting into the rocks in pursuit. His partner hesitated a fraction longer, likely scanning for Callahan.
Wrong move.
Bishop struck fast. He was already moving as the man stepped into the narrow gap between boulders, grabbing his wrist before he could raise his weapon. He twisted hard, the crack of bone muffled by the desert night as the man let out a strangled gasp. Bishop didn't let him drop. He spun him around, using his body as a shield just as the second pursuer turned toward the noise.
The hesitation was all Bishop needed.
He lunged forward, dropping his broken-armed captive like dead weight and driving his fist into the second man's throat. The impact was brutal—cartilage crushed inward, sending the man stumbling back, choking on nothing. He clawed at his throat, gurgling, his body spasming as he collapsed to his knees.
Bishop turned his attention back to the first man, who was barely staying upright. His broken wrist dangled uselessly at his side, but his other hand was reaching for a knife strapped to his thigh.
Too slow.
Bishop caught the wrist mid-draw, twisting until he felt the tendons strain, then snap. The man barely got out a strangled noise before Bishop drove his knee into his sternum, folding him in half. He collapsed, wheezing, body twitching in the sand.
Silence.
Bishop exhaled, scanning the darkness for Callahan. A few feet away, another body lay sprawled across the sand, motionless.
"Clear," Callahan murmured, stepping forward. "These weren't locals."
Bishop crouched down, running his hands over the nearest man’s body, feeling for weapons, IDs, anything useful. The gear was standard military issue—suppressed pistols, combat knives, lightweight armor designed for mobility. But no insignias. No identifying marks.
“Private contractors,” Bishop muttered.
Callahan rolled his shoulder, wincing. “Meaning someone’s paying good money to hunt us.”
Bishop’s jaw tightened. This wasn’t just cleanup. They weren’t just being hunted—they were being studied.
“Then we make whoever hired them rethink their investment,” he said coldly.
But even as the words left his mouth, he knew—this was only the beginning.
The Bishop Directive
Chapter 3: Into the Fire (continued)
The rush of adrenaline still pulsed through Bishop’s veins as he surveyed the fallen bodies around him. The fight had been clean, efficient, and decisive.
Too decisive.
Something felt off.
Callahan stepped up beside him, rolling his shoulder with a grimace. “Well, that wasn’t so bad,” he muttered, nudging one of the bodies with his boot. “They thought they were dealing with amateurs.”
Bishop barely heard him. The prickling sensation at the back of his neck hadn’t faded. He scanned the rocks, the dunes, the darkness beyond. The desert was silent, but it felt like it was holding its breath.
A sharp whip of air sliced through the stillness.
Bishop barely had time to turn before the sting hit him—just below the collarbone, sharp, precise. His body locked up instantly, his breath hitching. He looked down, his fingers brushing against the slender dart protruding from his skin.
The world blurred.
He heard Callahan curse, saw him stagger as another dart hit his neck. The ground tilted sideways. His muscles wouldn’t obey him.
Then, everything went black.
Pain brought him back.
A slow, creeping ache that built like fire licking at his nerves. Bishop groaned, his head lolling forward, his body feeling like it had been dipped in lead. A thick metallic taste coated his tongue, his throat raw from dehydration.
The air smelled damp, old, laced with the faint, coppery tang of blood.
Not just his.
Bishop lifted his head, blinking against the dim light. He was chained—thick, rusted iron cuffs clamped tight around his wrists, arms spread, forcing him against a cold stone wall. His shirt was gone. He could feel the rough texture of the wall biting into his bare back. His skin was slick with sweat.
His body ached, deep and pulsing, but nothing was broken. Yet.
A slow clap echoed through the room.
“Well, well. Look who’s finally awake.”
The voice was smooth, rich, and undeniably amused. Feminine.
Bishop turned his head, his vision sharpening as he focused on the figure standing before him.
She was tall, effortlessly poised, draped in black. Her form-fitting blouse clung in all the right places, her dark slacks hugging long, toned legs. Her auburn hair was pulled into a sleek ponytail, revealing high cheekbones, full lips, and eyes that glimmered with something wicked.
She was beautiful.
And dangerous.
She smirked as she stepped closer, the heels of her boots clicking softly against the concrete floor. She carried no weapon—at least, none that he could see. But Bishop knew better.
Predators didn’t need to bare their teeth to be lethal.
“Had to hit you boys with something extra strong,” she mused, tilting her head as she examined him like a specimen under glass. “I was impressed, honestly. You made quick work of my men.”
Bishop flexed his fingers, testing the chains. No give. No slack. They were bolted into the stone.
She noticed.
“Oh, don’t bother,” she cooed, stepping closer until she was within arm’s reach—not that he could do anything about it. “I picked this place special. These walls have held men much stronger than you.”
Bishop’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
She reached out, trailing a single, manicured nail down his chest, her touch featherlight but unnerving. “I have to say,” she purred, her lips quirking, “you’re even more handsome in person.”
Bishop didn’t react, but his mind was already working.
She wanted something.
This wasn’t just about pain—at least, not yet.
“You got me out of bed, you know,” she went on, her fingers dancing lower, pressing just slightly into a bruise forming along his ribs. “I was very annoyed at first.”
Bishop clenched his teeth as she suddenly pressed harder, her nails digging into the tender flesh. He didn’t give her the satisfaction of a wince.
But she saw the flicker in his eyes.
She smiled.
“Oh, don’t be shy,” she whispered, leaning in, close enough that he could feel her breath against his jaw. “We’re going to have so much fun together.”
Bishop remained silent, but his pulse was thrumming against his skull.
She sighed, pulling back slightly, dragging a finger across his collarbone. “Tell me, Bishop,” she murmured, “how much do you really know?”
He stared at her, unblinking.
Wrong answer.
She moved fast.
A sharp, blinding spike of pain erupted across his abdomen. Bishop sucked in a breath as he felt the edge of a blade press into his skin, not deep, just enough to split the surface. A thin, warm trickle of blood ran down his stomach.
She twisted the knife slowly, just enough to burn.
“I have all the time in the world,” she murmured, watching him, waiting for him to break.
Bishop exhaled, long and slow, keeping his expression unreadable.
“Good,” he finally rasped, voice hoarse. “Because I don’t.”
She laughed—an actual laugh, rich and genuine. “Oh, I like you.”
Then she drove the knife deeper.
Bishop’s body arched involuntarily as the pain flared, white-hot. The blade didn’t hit anything vital—she knew exactly where to place it to hurt without crippling him.
She was a professional.
And she wasn’t done.
She withdrew the knife, wiping the blade against his thigh, slow, deliberate. “You’re going to tell me what’s on that USB,” she said, her tone conversational, as if they were discussing business over dinner.
Bishop gave a slight, humorless chuckle despite the fire lancing through his body. “Funny thing about that…” He lifted his head, locking eyes with her.
“I don’t have it.”
The moment the words left his mouth, she moved.
The knife sliced again, higher this time, across his ribs. The pain was instant, sharp, sending a fresh wave of agony through his body.
But Bishop didn’t break.
He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.
Not yet.
She exhaled, disappointed but not discouraged. “We’ll see,” she murmured, trailing her fingers along the fresh wound, smearing the blood. She brought them to her lips, inspecting them with curiosity before looking back at him.
“You’re fun,” she said, her smile widening. “I hope you last.”
Then she turned, moving toward a small table behind her.
Bishop’s stomach tightened as he caught the glint of metal tools neatly arranged in a row.
The real pain was about to begin.
And she was going to enjoy every second of it.