Page 13 of Bishop

The numbers stop moving at eighteen.

“You were meant to be here hours ago. Fucking call me, asshole.” I disconnect and shove the cell back into my pocket as the elevator numbers start their descent.

Abri hasn’t given me much time, but I did some digging on the old man she’s with. Shipping magnate. Republican donor. Wife with three adult kids who I guess are all older than the woman he’s trying to fuck. And he’s got no known association to underworld crime…yet.

I assume that’s about to change.

I slam my hand against the elevator call button. Wait a few seconds for my carriage to arrive. Then I climb in and press the number for her floor.

I didn’t sign up for this shit.

Well, actually, I did. I put my hand up to leave Langston with his brothers in Virginia Beach because all they had to do was talk to Lorenzo. Fucking talk.

It may have been a temperamental conversation where Langston planned to ask permission from the head of the East Coast mafia to kill his own father—Lorenzo’s brother-in-law—but that’s all it was. A conversation. A plan. Then the three fucking brotherly amigos were meant to follow me to Denver.

So where the hell are they?

The itch under my skin is an inescapable reminder that Langston has never left me high and dry before. After years side by side, not once has he let me down.

What the fuck happened?

The elevator doors open on level eighteen and I’ve got no strategy for how to approach Abri.

I step into the hall, expecting to see the two guards waiting in front of a suite door, ready to hammer me with questions. But when I glance down either side of the expansive thoroughfare, nobody is there.

I wipe a rough hand over my mouth, gliding my gaze over all those doors. All those fucking potential hiding places.

I should smash the fire alarm and make my job easy. It’d provide plausible motivation for me to haul that woman over my shoulder and carry her from the building.

Instead, I take the right side of the hall and start on door 1840, hovering close to listen for voices, checking the peephole for movement.

There’s none. Not a hint of life from inside.

I move to the next room, then the next, making my way down the numbers.

I don’t hear a voice until 1826.

Female. Old. Not Abri.

I keep moving, marching my way back along the left-hand side. I don’t even know what I’ll do once I find her.

It’s not my job to stop her giving blow jobs to the elderly if that’s her goal in life. But three men entered that elevator and none remain in the hall. Even if this is an arranged situation, what happens if those pricks take more than she bargained for?

I stop beside yet another door and cock my ear against the wood.

Nothing. Nada. Not even a fucking whisper.

Where the hell are you?

I start for the next suite, the slight murmur of voices carrying from nearby. I pause. Listen. I trudge farther in search of the sound, passing one room then another.

The voices get louder. Clearer.

I stop before room 1803.

“Take your fucking underwear off,” a guy demands.

It’s not Gordon. The voice is unfamiliar. But my anger spikes regardless.

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