Chapter 41

FORTY-ONE

Beauregard Covington paced the length of his bedroom, his breath coming in shallow bursts. His movements were frantic, tossing clothes into the open suitcase without care. Each shirt he threw in seemed to make his hands shake more. The phone pressed to his ear felt like an anchor pulling him under, its weight dragging his anxiety deeper. On the other end of the line, Ambrose’s voice was low and lethal, each word landing like a blow.

“This town isn’t worth the trouble,” Covington spat, his voice thick with fear. “It’s falling apart, and when it goes down, everyone’s going down with it. I’m not staying here to be buried with them.”

Silence greeted him on the other end, Ambrose’s lack of response more menacing than any threat. Finally, his voice came through cold and final. “No one fails me. You think you can just walk away? You’re part of this, whether you like it or not.”

Covington stopped packing for a moment, sweat beading on his brow. His hand gripped the edge of the suitcase as he tried to steady himself. “It’s only a matter of time before the story breaks. Crystal Springs, the senator—it’s all going to blow up. And when it does, I’m not sticking around. I’m getting out before the feds swarm this place.”

The silence on the line stretched again. Covington swallowed, his heart racing. He could hear Ambrose’s slow, deliberate breath through the phone, and the weight of it made his stomach churn.

“Your name will be the first I drop when they ask who ran Pinewood Falls into the ground.”

Covington let out a shaky laugh, but it sounded more like a desperate gasp. “Good luck finding me. I’ll be long gone before it comes to that.”

Disconnecting the call before Ambrose could respond, he dropped the phone on the bed with a muted thud. For a moment, the silence in the room was a relief. He stood there, breathing heavily, staring at the mess of clothes in the suitcase as if it held some answer he couldn’t see.

“Goddamn psychopath,” he muttered, zipping up the suitcase with trembling hands. He turned toward the door and called out, “Daryl! Get up here and help with these bags!”

Silence.

Covington’s brow furrowed. “Daryl!” he shouted louder, his frustration rising with each unanswered call. He stormed out of the bedroom, his heart thudding in his chest as he stepped into the hallway. “You useless?—”

The words caught in his throat.

Daryl, his trusted enforcer, lay slumped against the wall, his lifeless eyes staring into nothing. A dark pool of blood had spread beneath him, glistening in the dim light. For a moment, Covington couldn’t move. The world narrowed to that single horrific image—the man who was supposed to protect him, crumpled and dead.

His breath hitched, panic seizing him. His feet stumbled backward, but before he could fully process the shock, a figure emerged from the shadows at the end of the hall.

Bishop.

Covington’s legs buckled, and he collided with the doorframe. His wide, terrified eyes locked onto Bishop’s, calm and cold, like death itself.

“Bishop …” Covington’s voice was barely a whisper. Taking a shaky step backward, desperation crept into his words. “I I can pay you. Whatever Ambrose is giving you, I’ll double it. Triple it, even.”

Bishop didn’t respond immediately. His face was unreadable, his eyes fixed on Covington without a hint of emotion. He stepped forward slowly, each movement deliberate, as if giving Covington time to squirm. The silence stretched, heavy and oppressive. When Bishop finally spoke, his voice was low, final. “This one’s pro bono.”

Panic erupted in Covington’s chest. He scrambled backward, tripping over his own feet as he fell onto the bed. His hands fumbled, reaching for something—anything—to protect himself, but there was nothing. “Please,” he begged, his voice rising in desperation. “Please, I can help you. We can?—”

The last word died on his lips.

Bishop raised the pistol, the sleek black suppressor catching the dim light as he took aim. His finger squeezed the trigger.

A single shot.

The muted pop of the silencer was almost anticlimactic. Covington’s body jerked, a crimson bloom spreading across his chest. His eyes went wide in shock, mouth open as he gasped his final breath. Blood trickled from his lips, staining the front of his once-pristine shirt. His body slumped forward, lifeless.

Bishop holstered the gun, his expression unchanged. Without a second glance, he stepped over the fallen man, his boots silently leaving even prints across the floor. The silence of the house enveloped him as he made his way toward the door, the wind outside carrying the faint sound of rustling leaves as if the world had already moved on.

Another loose end tied.