James chuckled, but it was Bishop who answered. “Of course you’re not going to the cops. You’re coming with us.”
Oh.
There it was. The terror again. It spiked through Kit like an icicle to the heart, and he couldn’t answer. Couldn’t breathe. Kit felt it with a distant fascination. All around him, rivers of blood seemed to sway and flow. A rising tide to carry him away.
He needed to run now, because following these two monsters to a second location was a bad fucking idea.
But his legs wouldn’t respond. His vision swam red, and his knees buckled.
Kit slid to the floor, unable to flee from the two men approaching him.
2
“Good boy.”
Concern dropped Bishop to his knees. Caution kept his hand on his gun. This boy could be anything—perpetrator, witness, or victim—and Bishop hated uncertainty. Behind him, James paced and swore.
“Hey. Kiddo.” Bishop brushed the long bangs back from Kit’s forehead to get a better look at him. “Kit. You with me?”
Kit’s face was ice-white, his lips colorless. His eyes were shockingly green against his pallor, but glazed over with the near faint. He blinked once, twice.
Then he shuddered. Tried to shove himself backwards. With the wall behind him, there was nowhere to go.
Probably a good sign, Bishop decided. Fuck, this operation was a mess.
“Hand me my bag,” Bishop ordered.
“Fuck, this is so fucked up,” James hissed behind him, echoing Bishop’s thoughts. “Who is he? Why is he here?”
The duffel bag landed next to Bishop.
“Doesn’t matter right now.” There was something about the young man. Something Bishop wanted to spend time taking apart. But he didn’t have time for that now. He seized Kit gently yet firmly by the jaw—the kid was too weak and frightened tofight back. “The cops will be here soon, and all they’re going to find is corpses. How many they find is up to you. You’re going to have a better time coming with us, understand?”
With his other hand, Bishop rifled through his bag until he found what he was looking for.
Kit shuddered again. “I understand.”
“Good boy,” Bishop said, and locked the handcuff around Kit’s left wrist. Kit barely had time to flinch before Bishop had the other wrist trapped too. There was something immensely satisfying about the sight of cold steel gleaming harsh around narrow bones.
“I said I understand,” Kit protested. Then bit his lip, with that coy little look he tried on James already. His voice was much softer when he added, “I’ll be good.”
“I know you will.” Bishop patted his cheek, ignoring the way Kit’s invitation stirred his blood. “You’re going to be so cooperative. I’m just giving you some extra props, to help you out. James, grab the tape. How much time do we have left?”
James reappeared at Bishop’s side, waving a phone too quickly for Bishop to read the screen. “Five minutes. What’s the plan?” He grabbed the duct tape from the bag and ripped a strip off.
Kit’s eyes widened, but he didn’t struggle as James smoothed it over his mouth. Another wave of that strange satisfaction clicked inside Bishop. Like jerking off in the morning. Like putting a bullet in a skull that deserved it. Something about seeing Kit bound and gagged, under his control, feltright.
Shaking off the distraction, Bishop seized Kit’s arm and dragged him to his feet. Kit staggered, and only Bishop’s grip kept him upright. Holding Kit up was so easy—he was a foot shorter than Bishop, with a birdlike fragility.
No time for a plan. Which meant Bishop had to fall back on the usual basics: control the timing and control the scene.
“You handle cleanup,” he told James. “I’ll take him and figure this out.”
“I should take him,” James said, not quite casually enough. “I have a building nearby.”
Bishop didn’t dignify that with a reply. “Text when you’re done.”
“Greedy bastard,” James muttered.
