wanted nothing to do withthe place.
But right now, it had its uses.
At the second-floor landing, Bishop entered the first door on the left. The drapes in his old bedroom were drawn, but the
light fabric let in enough daylight. His bed was still against the wall. He walked over to the window and checked through
a gap in the drapes. The two cops were still in their Plymouth,still looking everywhere but up.
He turned, took off the baseball cap and dropped his full length onto the bed. A cloud of dust glittered in the soft light
of the room. He closed his eyes and relief washed over him like a wave. He was out. He’d made it. He didn’t know for how long,
or even if he’d still be alive this time tomorrow, but he was here now. Onthe outside. He’d forgotten how much he missed
having empty space around him. And he knew at that moment he wouldn’t go back inside. Not for anything. They’d have to kill
him first.
The thought forced him off the bed. He needed to concentrate. It wouldn’t be easy finding who’d set him up, he knew that,
but he’d look at everything with the same commitmentand focus he’d always had.
Inside the built-in closet next to the bed were five deep shelvesthat held his few remaining possessions. He’d never been particularly materialistic, but some things were hard to get rid
of. Or maybe just easier to hold onto, he’d never figured out which. He took hair clippers from behind the books and CDs on
the second shelf downand tossed them on the bed, along with a number four blade and a spare set of batteries.
On the carpeted floor lay his old equipment bag and he knelt down and unzipped it. Feeling under his Corps fatigues and dress
uniform he pulled out his old M9 service Beretta with the serial numbers filed off. Another holdover from Staff Sergeant Hill’s
school of life:
You never know when you might need an untraceable gun
. Or at least,
most
people never know. Funny thing was, many of his fellow NCOs back in the day had looked down on the M9. Bishop had never understood
why. In his experience, it was more than up to the task it had been designed for. He also pulled out a box of ammunition and
his cleaning kit and placed them on the bed with thegun.
The second shelf from the bottom held his last surviving clothes and he inserted his hand under the pile until his fingers
touched something hard. He removed the black 9¼-inch USMC Ka-Bar combat knife and ankle holster. These joined his Beretta
on the bed.
After giving the street below another glance, Bishop picked up the clippers,the number four blade and the batteries and walked
to the bathroom.
Bishop cocked a round into the chamber, flicked the safety on and tucked the 9mm in the back of his pants as though it were
the most natural thing in the world. Which, to him, it kind of was. A little oil and TLC and the action felt as smooth now
as when he’d last used it elevenyears ago, back when he was in uniform.
Bishop picked up the folded bed sheet containing his prison hair and unhooked his leather jacket from the back of the door
and slipped it on. As he descended the stairs, he brushed his hand across his new buzzcut. He felt like a new man again. Looked
like one, too. Amy always said Mom had passed on her youthful goodlooks to both her kids, but while that might have been
true in his sister’s case, Bishop now looked every one of his thirty-six years. In the mirror, he’d noticed a few extra lines
around the mouth and forehead that hadn’t been there before and his hair had receded a little above the temples since the
lasttime he’d paid it any attention. Hopefully, the changes wouldwork in his favour.
At the bottom, Bishop passed the door to the living room and opened the one to the garage. He walked over to the pile of old
newspapers in the corner and inserted the folded bed sheet in between some damp, ancient copies of the
Times
.
Retracing his steps, Bishop locked the kitchen
But right now, it had its uses.
At the second-floor landing, Bishop entered the first door on the left. The drapes in his old bedroom were drawn, but the
light fabric let in enough daylight. His bed was still against the wall. He walked over to the window and checked through
a gap in the drapes. The two cops were still in their Plymouth,still looking everywhere but up.
He turned, took off the baseball cap and dropped his full length onto the bed. A cloud of dust glittered in the soft light
of the room. He closed his eyes and relief washed over him like a wave. He was out. He’d made it. He didn’t know for how long,
or even if he’d still be alive this time tomorrow, but he was here now. Onthe outside. He’d forgotten how much he missed
having empty space around him. And he knew at that moment he wouldn’t go back inside. Not for anything. They’d have to kill
him first.
The thought forced him off the bed. He needed to concentrate. It wouldn’t be easy finding who’d set him up, he knew that,
but he’d look at everything with the same commitmentand focus he’d always had.
Inside the built-in closet next to the bed were five deep shelvesthat held his few remaining possessions. He’d never been particularly materialistic, but some things were hard to get rid
of. Or maybe just easier to hold onto, he’d never figured out which. He took hair clippers from behind the books and CDs on
the second shelf downand tossed them on the bed, along with a number four blade and a spare set of batteries.
On the carpeted floor lay his old equipment bag and he knelt down and unzipped it. Feeling under his Corps fatigues and dress
uniform he pulled out his old M9 service Beretta with the serial numbers filed off. Another holdover from Staff Sergeant Hill’s
school of life:
You never know when you might need an untraceable gun
. Or at least,
most
people never know. Funny thing was, many of his fellow NCOs back in the day had looked down on the M9. Bishop had never understood
why. In his experience, it was more than up to the task it had been designed for. He also pulled out a box of ammunition and
his cleaning kit and placed them on the bed with thegun.
The second shelf from the bottom held his last surviving clothes and he inserted his hand under the pile until his fingers
touched something hard. He removed the black 9¼-inch USMC Ka-Bar combat knife and ankle holster. These joined his Beretta
on the bed.
After giving the street below another glance, Bishop picked up the clippers,the number four blade and the batteries and walked
to the bathroom.
Bishop cocked a round into the chamber, flicked the safety on and tucked the 9mm in the back of his pants as though it were
the most natural thing in the world. Which, to him, it kind of was. A little oil and TLC and the action felt as smooth now
as when he’d last used it elevenyears ago, back when he was in uniform.
Bishop picked up the folded bed sheet containing his prison hair and unhooked his leather jacket from the back of the door
and slipped it on. As he descended the stairs, he brushed his hand across his new buzzcut. He felt like a new man again. Looked
like one, too. Amy always said Mom had passed on her youthful goodlooks to both her kids, but while that might have been
true in his sister’s case, Bishop now looked every one of his thirty-six years. In the mirror, he’d noticed a few extra lines
around the mouth and forehead that hadn’t been there before and his hair had receded a little above the temples since the
lasttime he’d paid it any attention. Hopefully, the changes wouldwork in his favour.
At the bottom, Bishop passed the door to the living room and opened the one to the garage. He walked over to the pile of old
newspapers in the corner and inserted the folded bed sheet in between some damp, ancient copies of the
Times
.
Retracing his steps, Bishop locked the kitchen
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