The Bishop Directive

Chapter 2: No Safe Place (continued)

The minutes ticked by, stretching the silence of the stash house into something taut and almost unbearable. Every sound, every faint creak of the building, felt magnified, pressing down on Bishop’s nerves. He knew he was safe here—for now—but that wouldn’t last long. He was a ghost in this city, but so were they, and the longer he stayed in one place, the thinner his cover became.

Callahan’s words hung heavy in his mind: “They’re not just trying to take you out, Bishop. They’re making a statement.” He could almost feel the weight of that statement looming over him, like a shadow with hands reaching for his throat.

He stood, pacing across the cluttered floor, unable to shake the feeling that there was something else he was missing, something just out of reach. The USB, the high-level encryption, the whispered threats—all pieces of a puzzle he was only beginning to understand. But behind it all, there was something personal, something that felt like a thorn buried deep in his skin.

For a moment, his thoughts drifted back to a night long past, years ago but clear in his memory as if it had happened yesterday.

He was still on active duty then, stationed stateside between assignments. His phone rang in the middle of the night, a call that would split his life in two. He remembered the hospital lights blinding him, the smell of antiseptic, the murmurs of nurses talking softly, as if anything louder might shatter the fragile walls of that place.

His sister, Elise, and her husband had been in a car accident. The details were sketchy—a slick road, a late night, and a crash that left no survivors. He remembered standing there, numb, the heaviness of it settling over him like a crushing weight, and then the moment when he realized what it meant.

Her little girl, his niece, had no one left. Just him. Poor Amelia.

The grief, the rage—all of it had merged into a single, silent vow that night. He’d protect her, keep her safe from the shadows he knew all too well. He’d spent years sending her to the best schools, far away from the danger that stalked him. But no amount of distance ever really severed the threat. She was 16 now, tucked away at a private school in Paris, far from his world but still always at the edge of his thoughts.

His hand clenched reflexively, feeling the ghosts of the past tighten their grip around his throat. If they ever found out about her… The thought was too dark to entertain, a nightmare he buried alongside all the others.

A knock at the door snapped him back to the present, his mind instantly sharpening. He grabbed the Glock, leveling it at the door as Callahan moved over, his own pistol in hand, signaling that he’d take the lead. They exchanged a nod, and Callahan opened the door just a sliver, revealing the thin, wiry figure of a young man dressed in street clothes.

“Easy,” the man said, holding up his hands. “Name’s Malik. Callahan, you reached out to me.”

Callahan eyed him suspiciously, his gun never wavering. “That depends. You got what I asked for?”

Malik gave a nod, slipping a small data drive from his jacket pocket. “Everything I could find on short notice. Mercenaries, private contractors, a few black-market arms dealers. All of them with new activity in the past month—like someone flipped a switch and set the whole underworld humming.”

Bishop lowered his weapon slightly, his eyes narrowing as he studied Malik. The kid looked young, barely out of his twenties, but his posture was confident, his movements precise. He was clearly used to moving in dangerous circles.