Chapter 20

TWENTY

Cold bit into Bishop's skin. Harsh. Unforgiving.

He crouched low beside the smokeless fire pit, its faint glow barely warming his fingers. What was supposed to be a swift in-and-out op had spiraled out of control. Now he was playing survivalist in the New Hampshire mountains, and going to be dodging dogs, deputies, and that ticking clock in his head.

Adapt. Survive. Escape. The mantra repeated in his mind, steady and grounding.

Steam rose from the damp socks he'd placed near the fire. Bishop's eyes never stopped moving, scanning the dark tree line for any sign of movement. Every rustle in the woods was suspect, every shadow a potential threat.

From his tactical vest, he pulled up the encrypted file. The light from his small flashlight cast a harsh glow on the image of Maggie Pierce—local girl, investigative journalist now living in the city. She’d taken her mother’s name when she left town. Smart.

Why her? It wasn’t his job to know. Loose ends led back to orders, and he followed orders. It was the way he’d always worked. Execute. Don’t question.

Then it came. A bark, sharp and unmistakable.

Bloodhound. Bishop's muscles tensed, instincts kicking into overdrive.

With a cold efficiency, he powered down his phone and tucked it back into his vest. His next steps formed swiftly in his mind, recalculating, adapting. As he began packing his gear, the distant baying of the dog pierced the quiet, carried on the rain-heavy wind. It was faint, but unmistakable. The manhunt had begun.

They were coming for him.

Moving with the precision of someone who had survived the world’s harshest environments, Bishop extinguished the fire, scattering dirt and stones over the orange embers until they were cold and lifeless. Wrapping the half-eaten trout quickly, he tucked it into his pack—a necessary source of energy for the night ahead. He pulled on his still-damp jacket, the fabric clinging to his skin, and slung his pack over his shoulders, securing it tight for mobility.

The terrain was unforgiving, but that made it his ally. Bishop knew every ridge, every ravine etched into his mind like a map. The dog might be on his trail, but they were chasing someone who knew these woods better than most.

The baying grew louder, more insistent, closing in as Bishop melted into the rocky terrain. His movements were fluid, silent, each step placed with deliberate care to leave no trace. The rain slicked off his jacket and disappeared into the forest’s mist-shrouded depths. His breath remained steady, his pulse unflinching, even as the gap between him and his pursuers narrowed.

Without a second thought, he reached into his pack, pulling out his riflescope. It was cold in his hands, the weight familiar, comforting. He brought it to his eye. The 56mm objective lens cut through the mist and rain, offering crystal-clear visibility for up to a thousand meters. These deputies were sloppy, slogging through the brush, easy to pick off if it came to that.

But then, he saw her .

The woman with the twisted scar on her arm. She moved like no one else out there—calm, methodical, lethal. She was not like the rest, guiding their way toward him. The way she carried herself told him everything. She was an operator, just like him.

Bishop’s pulse quickened. He felt a flicker of respect—an opponent who might know how to play the game.

But there was no time to admire. Time to move.

The wet socks would have to do.

Just then, his foot hit slick moss. The world tilted violently, and gravity took control. He crashed down the steep slope, sliding with jagged rocks ripping at his clothes. His shoulder slammed into a tree trunk, and pain shot through his body. The fall lasted for fifty feet, ending with a brutal, bone-jarring stop against the base of an oak.

The world spun, darkness clawing at the edges of his vision. He fought it off.

That’s when he felt it.

A branch. Thick, gnarled, and embedded deep in his thigh. Blood flowed freely, soaking through his pants. Bishop’s breathing quickened, but he didn’t allow the panic to take over. He’d seen worse. Been through worse.

Reaching for his rucksack, he dragged it closer with one hand while his other pressed against the bleeding wound. His movements were automatic, every step drilled into muscle memory. Unzipping the main compartment, he pulled out the med kit and flipped it open. He stuck a pen light in his mouth. The familiar tools glinting under the red glow.

First priority, he needed to remove the tree branch imbedded in his thigh. It resisted. Taking a two-handed grip, he yanked it free. In the stillness as fresh pain shot up his leg, white-hot and searing. He gritted his teeth, a low growl escaping as he used the trauma shears to cut away the blood-soaked fabric of his pants.

The laceration was deep but clean—no visible tendon or artery damage, no bone fragments jutting through the flesh. Could’ve been worse, he thought grimly, though the steady flow of blood told him he didn’t have much time.

He worked fast, cleaning the wound with isopropyl alcohol, the sharp sting slicing through the cold numbness spreading along his leg. His breath hissed through clenched teeth, but he didn’t stop. Keep it clean. Infection’s the enemy now.

Next: QuikClot. He tore open the packet, the powder sinking into the gash as he pressed gauze over it. Blood soaked through almost instantly, but he layered more, focusing on control rather than perfection. Finally, the compression bandage. He wrapped it tightly around the wound, firm enough to slow the bleeding without cutting off circulation.

When it was done, he leaned back for a moment, his hands trembling from exertion and pain. The bandage was holding, for now, but this wasn’t a permanent fix. I need proper stitching, or this’ll be a problem. He shoved the med kit back into the rucksack, securing it tightly before glancing around. The clock was ticking, and staying here wasn’t an option.

Bishop wiped his brow. Speckles of rain were still falling. It wasn’t perfect, but it would keep him moving. He forced himself to stand on the muddy slope. Sharp pain radiated through his body, and he fought the urge not to growl. He had lost blood, too much for comfort, but not enough to stop him. Not yet.

He berated himself. Sloppy. Amateur. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. One misstep, and now he was limping through the forest, an easy target for the bloodhound on his trail.

There would be no clean escape now, but he had to keep moving. Distance was his only hope. Find cover. Stay ahead.

As he limped through the dense forest, each step sent fresh waves of pain through his body, but he kept his focus sharp. He’d outsmarted hunters before, and he could do it again.

They were in his world now. But the woman, the operator with the scar, would be relentless. Just like him.

But Bishop wasn’t done playing yet. This wasn’t checkmate.

Moves always had countermoves. And he was about to make his.