nice, exceedingly feminine women in the agency who were quite capable of blowing a person’s brains to bits if the job required it.
It would all have been so much easier if only he had gotten one dependable look at Malloche, just one. But the Mist never did business personally, and when he did come into the open to any extent, he used disguises and very often, substitutes. This time, though, he was nearing the end of the line.
Bishop’s studio was on the third floor of the rickety four-floor walk-up. He hadn’t slept much since coming to Boston, but still, he was pleased to note, his legs had some spring. He reached his apartment door and had his key in hand when he stopped. The two hairs he had set in place between the door and the jamb were gone. They might have fallen or been blown free, but there was no breeze at this level. His .45 was inside the room, wrapped in a towel beneath a corner of the mattress. There was no way he could have brought it in to work. Running away now would ruin any chance he had to get Malloche. If someone had been in his apartment, or was there now, dealing with the situation immediately was his only option. And the fire escape was his only chance.
Bishop crept softly up to the fourth floor, then up the narrow flight to the roof. Totally under control, with the arm strength of a gymnast, he swung himself over the roof’s edge, lowered himself onto the wrought-iron fire escape by the fourth floor, and inched down a flight. The curtains to the west window of his apartment were drawn, but he could just make out furniture shapes through a narrow opening between them. The lights were off, but there was some illumination from the south-facing window just over the pullout that was his bed. From what he could see, the place looked empty.
For five minutes, ten, he remained crouched on the landing, motionless, peering in. Then suddenly he saw movement just to the left of the door. A man, solidly built, arose and went into the john for a minute or so, then returned to his spot. Bishop couldn’t be positive, but it appeared the intruder was carrying a gun loosely in his right hand. He continued observing between the curtains until he felt certain the man was alone. A gun in trained hands versus surprise. Under most circumstances, Bishop knew, he would take his chances with his reflexes and the gun. This time, he had no choice. He might well end up cut to shreds before he reached his target, but the windowpanes were small and the wood framing them was old. Besides, this wouldn’t be the first time he had gone through a window—in either direction.
He took an Almond Joy from the plastic bag, opened the wrapper, and took a bite, careful as he always was to get the right mix of coconut, chocolate, and almond. What remained of the bar he held on to as he stepped up on the railing of the fire escape. He flipped it against the window lightly enough to produce a sound but preserve some ambiguity. Then he reached up and grasped one of the stairs leading to the fourth floor.
The intruder warily approached the window. Bishop didn’t wait for him to open the curtains. A feet-first entry would have been safer, but infinitely less effective. Instead, Bishop pulled his uniform jacket over his head and dove straight in. Wood and glass exploded into the room. His head hit the man in the midchest like a medicine ball, while his hand latched onto his wrist. He hyperflexed the joint and the gun clattered free even before the two of them had hit the floor. A sharp elbow to the jaw, followed by a powerful backhand to the opposite cheek, and it was over. Five seconds—maybe six.
Bishop rolled over the pieces of wood and shards of glass and had the muzzle of the man’s Smith & Wesson .38 jammed up under his chin before his cobwebs had cleared. The intruder was beefy enough—taller than Bishop by a couple of inches, and a good twenty to twenty-five pounds heavier. But he was just a kid.
“Scoot toward the door!”
It would all have been so much easier if only he had gotten one dependable look at Malloche, just one. But the Mist never did business personally, and when he did come into the open to any extent, he used disguises and very often, substitutes. This time, though, he was nearing the end of the line.
Bishop’s studio was on the third floor of the rickety four-floor walk-up. He hadn’t slept much since coming to Boston, but still, he was pleased to note, his legs had some spring. He reached his apartment door and had his key in hand when he stopped. The two hairs he had set in place between the door and the jamb were gone. They might have fallen or been blown free, but there was no breeze at this level. His .45 was inside the room, wrapped in a towel beneath a corner of the mattress. There was no way he could have brought it in to work. Running away now would ruin any chance he had to get Malloche. If someone had been in his apartment, or was there now, dealing with the situation immediately was his only option. And the fire escape was his only chance.
Bishop crept softly up to the fourth floor, then up the narrow flight to the roof. Totally under control, with the arm strength of a gymnast, he swung himself over the roof’s edge, lowered himself onto the wrought-iron fire escape by the fourth floor, and inched down a flight. The curtains to the west window of his apartment were drawn, but he could just make out furniture shapes through a narrow opening between them. The lights were off, but there was some illumination from the south-facing window just over the pullout that was his bed. From what he could see, the place looked empty.
For five minutes, ten, he remained crouched on the landing, motionless, peering in. Then suddenly he saw movement just to the left of the door. A man, solidly built, arose and went into the john for a minute or so, then returned to his spot. Bishop couldn’t be positive, but it appeared the intruder was carrying a gun loosely in his right hand. He continued observing between the curtains until he felt certain the man was alone. A gun in trained hands versus surprise. Under most circumstances, Bishop knew, he would take his chances with his reflexes and the gun. This time, he had no choice. He might well end up cut to shreds before he reached his target, but the windowpanes were small and the wood framing them was old. Besides, this wouldn’t be the first time he had gone through a window—in either direction.
He took an Almond Joy from the plastic bag, opened the wrapper, and took a bite, careful as he always was to get the right mix of coconut, chocolate, and almond. What remained of the bar he held on to as he stepped up on the railing of the fire escape. He flipped it against the window lightly enough to produce a sound but preserve some ambiguity. Then he reached up and grasped one of the stairs leading to the fourth floor.
The intruder warily approached the window. Bishop didn’t wait for him to open the curtains. A feet-first entry would have been safer, but infinitely less effective. Instead, Bishop pulled his uniform jacket over his head and dove straight in. Wood and glass exploded into the room. His head hit the man in the midchest like a medicine ball, while his hand latched onto his wrist. He hyperflexed the joint and the gun clattered free even before the two of them had hit the floor. A sharp elbow to the jaw, followed by a powerful backhand to the opposite cheek, and it was over. Five seconds—maybe six.
Bishop rolled over the pieces of wood and shards of glass and had the muzzle of the man’s Smith & Wesson .38 jammed up under his chin before his cobwebs had cleared. The intruder was beefy enough—taller than Bishop by a couple of inches, and a good twenty to twenty-five pounds heavier. But he was just a kid.
“Scoot toward the door!”
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