“He went out the side door.” James’s grip tightened painfully on both phones—the one at his ear, and the one feeding him unpleasant data. “Five minutes ago. Fuck.”
More noises on the other end. None of them slamming doors. Bishop must be grabbing what he needed, instead of running recklessly into the night. Fucking asshole.
“I thought you gave him access to all the exits,” Bishop said.
“Giving him access is one thing. I still want to be informed of his every movement.” Probably a lot to say in front of the driver, but James didn’t give a shit. “He’s heading west, towards the park.”
On Bishop’s end, a door finally crashed shut. “Have someone follow in a vehicle. I’m going on foot.”
Sensible request. Except James got a bad feeling. “Don’t you dare hang—”
Bishop hung up.
Gravel crunched. The night was too loud and empty. Bishop looked forward to being berated by James later. That would mean everything worked out. Right now, Bishop needed his hands and head clear in case everything didn’t.
He slammed in the side gate code, then darted onto the stony walkway. The neighborhood would be buzzing about the suspicious man running across their lawns. Doubly so if anyone’s door camera picked up the gun in his right hand.
But the neighbors probably bought their cameras from San Corvo Security. James could clean that up when he was done chewing Bishop out.
After Bishop found Kit and chewedhimout.
One block away from the park, Bishop heard tires scratching out of sight. He sped up, in case—
Two figures rounded the corner across the street. They were hard to make out in the darkness, but the taller one held the other by the shoulder. Surreal recognition struck. That bulldog figure was Archie, who shouldn’t exist in the same reality as Kit.
Bishop had put Archie away. He ruined his entire career and social circle to do it. He killed his fantasy of law and order, replacing it with his own sense of justice.
Maybe he should thank Archie for that. Or maybe he should just serve Archie’s overdue sentence.
Bishop’s phone buzzed. Ignoring it, he raised his gun.
“Step into the light,” Bishop said, calm and clear. “No sudden movements.”
Uncharacteristically, Archie complied without argument. He brought Kit stumbling with him.
No. That wasn’t Kit.
The yellow streetlight illuminated an unfamiliar face. The resemblance was sickening, but this was the boy Holden had looked up. Shiloh Laudrie.
Kit wasn’t here.
“Put your hands up and step away from the kid,” Bishop gritted out. These two must have information.
Archie raised his hands to shoulder height. He looked haggard, no more ruddy swagger. “Hey there, Bishop,” Archie said, his bravado threadbare. “I’m going to set my gun down.”
“Easy does it,” Bishop said, poised to return fire.
But there was no need. Archie bent slowly and dropped the gun on the sidewalk. Then he straightened, just as slowly.
The decoy kid trembled in place. Kit would have taken the opportunity to run. Or to stab Archie in the throat. Something sensible like that.
“Shiloh, right?” Bishop said. “I’m a friend. Come over here and get behind me.”
Shiloh took a few halting steps, his gaze pingponging from Bishop to Archie. When Archie made no move to stop him, he sprinted over.
“Are you Bishop?” Shiloh asked, and the wary hope in his voice was a gut punch. Kit would have been far more suspicious.
“Yes, I am,” Bishop said, then flinched. Shiloh shouldn’t know his name.
