Callsign: Bishop - Book 1 (An Erik Somers - Chess Team Novella) (11 page)

He raised a tremendous row, threatening to bring legal and illegal retribution to everyone in the hospital, but in the end, it changed nothing. The Abbasi son was gone, and no one seemed able to find him. She played her part well, acting outraged and despondent. It was not difficult to pretend she was grief-stricken; sending her son away was the hardest thing she had ever done, but it was best. He would live, and so would she.

But now her secret would be revealed, and her son would pay the price. Dawoud was an ambitious man, and he was intelligent. It would not take him long to realize that Erik Somers was not his son. And then he would kill Erik, her and Anwar, as well.

But she still had one more card to play, and she had just played it.

She hoped it would be enough.

13.

When Bishop awoke, he was strapped to a chair inside a stone chamber. Next to him on his right was a row of large metal tanks, at least a dozen of them, each labeled in Persian: DANGER. The tanks also had the biohazard symbol stenciled on the side. Bishop had no trouble imaging what the tanks contained. And from the sheer quantity of fluid the tanks could hold, it appeared Dawoud meant to poison the entire world.

Across the room, on a small metal table, sat Bishop’s things. His Sig Sauer pistol, extra clips, knife and backpack. The bottle of water was just visible under the flap, but the knife would have been the most useful. The straps felt like thick plastic zip ties—the kind used by police to secure prisoners—but he couldn’t see them. Most likely they would be too strong to snap. CJ would have seen to that.

He tried anyway, but he was too weak. All he managed to do was make enough noise to draw attention.

“He’s awake,” came a familiar voice from his left. Bishop turned to see CJ standing over him, the Beretta in hand.

“You were part of it,” Bishop said. “You were with the jihadists in Hassi.”

CJ nodded. “Took you long enough.”

“You set the trap,” Bishop said.

CJ smiled. “Good thing you kept me from opening it quickly.

Bishop frowned. CJ’s rush to open the hatch had been a ruse, as was his feigned surprise that caused him to fall off the edge.

“Though I was kind of worried you’d take the shot full on. How’s the arm, by the way?”

“Fuck off,” Bishop said.

“Come on, B, don’t be like that. I just wanted to reunite you with your folks.”

“You just wanted to get paid.”

“Fair enough.” CJ winked.

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.

“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.

The pain vanished, and Bishop rolled to the side just as the shot went off. The bullet tore a chunk of stone from the floor just to the left of Bishops head, sending rock fragments everywhere. A few chips of stone flew into his face, stinging but doing little damage.

The guard who’d been sitting on his back lost his balance and fell over into the spreading puddle of ergot-contaminated water. The other guard stood over Bishop, pistol in hand, as he adjusted his aim. No time to do anything fancy. Bishop launched a kick to the man’s groin that lifted him off the floor. The man grunted in pain as he fell to the stone, just missing the puddle that was even now lapping at Bishop’s shoes. His pistol clattered away, coming to a stop underneath a bank of computer equipment.

With a manic shriek, the guard who’d fallen in the puddle of ergot shot to his feet. He craned his head back and forth, looking at the room with wide, confused eyes, as though he’d just woken up from a nightmare. Then his eyes locked on Bishop. The man’s fingers curled. He was clearly mad, and about to attack, but it wasn’t the man’s physical prowess that gave Bishop pause, it was the fact that the man was dripping with Ergot-B.

If the man landed a punch, or even managed to scratch Bishop, he would descend into madness.

“Not again,” Bishop said. “Never again!”

The man charged.

Bishop sidestepped at the last moment and delivered a spinning kick to the man’s back, sending him spilling into the stone wall. The impact would have made any rational man think twice about continuing the fight, but this man couldn’t be talked down from his ergot-induced mania. He shoved himself up and charged again.

This time, Bishop didn’t sidestep. He needed to end this fight.

Permanently.

He stepped back, into the pool of Ergot-B, protected from its effect by the thick rubber soles of his boots. As the man closed the distance between them, Bishop pushed himself up between two of the big tanks and kicked out with the steel-toed tip of his boot. There was a crack, and he felt the man’s head cave a little beneath the force of the kick. The man crumpled like God had reached down and yanked his power cord from the wall.

Bishop lowered himself carefully and stepped out of the puddle, making a mental note to be very careful when he took off his boots. The other man stirred, pushing himself up. Bishop stopped, smashed his sledgehammer fist into the man’s head, knocking him out, and then ran toward the exit. Along the way, he saw his pistol lying on the stone floor, miraculously untouched by the ergot water. He reached down to pick it up.