Page 54 of A Breath of Life (Shadowy Solutions #4)

Diem

“ I can’t feel my fucking fingers. If you won’t untie me, at least loosen the fucking wire some.”

I’d been left alone with the Bishop for what felt like hours, and the man seemed to have found a sadistic sort of pleasure in sharpening his collection of knives in front of me.

If he thought the act was threatening, he was wrong.

He was nothing more than a bad-tempered man, playing with his toys because he’d been commanded to watch the prisoner when he clearly had other places he’d rather be.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Mr. Krause.”

“Why? Did your god tell you not to?”

“My common sense tells me not to. You’re a big man with an even bigger temper. Over the years, I’ve learned that pain motivates people to be cooperative. Lessening yours could result in complications that would be detrimental to your health.”

I huffed. “To your health, maybe. You’re afraid I’ll get free. ”

“I’m afraid you’ll try, and since you outweigh me by at least eighty pounds, I would be forced to subdue you with these.” He held up a blade, letting the sharpened edge catch the light.

“You think that scares me?”

“Based on the scars you carry, not much does. Hence your tight bindings.”

Bargaining was useless. I stared at my bleeding wrists.

The wire slowly embedded itself into my flesh.

The lack of sensation was an unnatural discomfort that made staying still impossible.

Even without feeling in my fingers, they radiated cold.

The freshly raised welt on my left cheek, however, burned and throbbed, but even it didn’t bother me as much as the deadened sensation in my hands.

It wasn’t so much that I cared about the discomfort—pain and I were lifelong companions—but it compromised my dexterity. If there was ever an opportunity to grab the hidden knife still strapped to my leg, I wasn’t sure I would be able to grip the weapon without fumbling it.

I wouldn’t get two chances, so I had to make the first count.

“What time is it?”

The Bishop consulted his watch. “Nearly eight. Have somewhere to be?”

“Fuck you.”

I’d lost more than a few hours. Had they located Tallus?

Was he safe? The more I considered his predicament, the faster my heart raced.

The task he’d been given was beyond his reach.

His PI skills had improved, but he tended toward hotheaded and gung ho.

Success would depend on his slowing down and thinking, making smart decisions.

Even then, the task might be impossible.

Clarence was on the run, and YouTube would only get Tallus so far .

“I’m thirsty. Any chance I could get some of that top-shelf bourbon I had last time? I’m sure your friend won’t mind.”

The Bishop seemed to consider before putting away his toys and wandering to the sideboard where the Consigliere’s array of fancy liquors lined a shelf. He selected a decanter and filled a tumbler with about two fingers of amber liquid before approaching.

He offered it at arm’s length as though wanting to keep a distance. Without backup nearby, the wise man didn’t trust the rabid animal, no matter how tightly bound. Smart, but stupid too.

“How do you expect me to hold it, dumbass? Numb fingers, remember?”

With an irritated twist of his lips, the Bishop stepped forward and pressed the glass to my mouth. I drank it down in one gulp, basking in the glory of the burn as it slid down my throat. Ice on fevered flesh. A balm on an infected wound. Heaven.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, Dr. Peterson whispered, A crutch.

I shoved his admonishments away.

“I could use about ten more of those.” Maybe if everything was numb, I wouldn’t care about my hands or my predicament. I could let the river of oblivion take me away, like I had so many times in the past.

“I’m not alleviating your pain, Mr. Krause.”

“I would think incapacitating me with liquor would be more beneficial. Especially if I’m willingly consuming it.”

He seemed to consider the logic.

“Or a smoke. I could do with one of those if you’ve got one?”

“Smoking is bad for your health.”

“You think I give a shit about my fucking health right now? I might be dead in less than twenty-four hours. Consider it a last request. I’m tied to a fucking chair.

I can’t feel my hands. You have a guy sitting beside my grandmother’s bed.

One phone call could end her life. I’m not exactly a threat to you, Bishop . I’m a pawn in your fucked-up game.”

Let your guard down , my inner voice screamed. I didn’t have a plan. I was outnumbered, and the risks were too high to do something stupid, but sitting and doing nothing reminded me too much of the days I’d submitted to my father’s abuse.

I was not a coward anymore.

With a hard-done-by sigh, the Bishop produced his phone and made a call. “The prisoner is requesting a cigarette.” He paused and pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s not your call… I don’t care what brand. He’s not in a position to be choosy. Get whatever you can find.”

Another pause. The Bishop eyed me warily, glancing at my hands. “And see if you can locate a proper pair of handcuffs. I don’t want to hold the thing for him. He might bite my fingers off, and I’ll be forced to kill him before Ace gives the order.”

I snorted. Fucking right I would bite him if he got close enough.

The Bishop disconnected and glared as though expecting a thank you. It would be a cold day in hell. When he didn’t get what he wanted, he exhaled his frustration and wandered to the sideboard, refilling the glass. Excellent.

Cuffs, a cigarette, and another drink. I would take the wins where I could. “What’s your name?” I asked as the Bishop put the stopper in the crystal decanter.

“It’s not relevant.”

“If I’m going to be a corpse in twenty-four hours, what does it matter? Can’t tell your secrets if I’m dead. ”

Sauntering over, he observed me with a tilted head as though the new angle might give him an inner perspective of my mind. “You have no faith in your partner.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You’re convinced you’re going to die.”

“I have full faith in Tallus. It’s your boss I don’t trust to keep his word. He has no intention of releasing me. I know how these things play out. Once he gets what he wants, I’m as good as dead.”

The Bishop held the glass to my lips, and I welcomed the distraction. It burned less that time, slipping smoothly down my esophagus and coating my belly with warmth. When it was gone, I sighed. “So, no name, huh?”

“No.”

“Are you really a Bishop?”

“I’m a man of God.”

I snorted. “Why do I doubt that? I’m not a subscriber, nor have I read the bible, but I feel confident in saying that he probably isn’t a fan of your extracurricular activities.”

The Bishop smiled. “Your opinion is duly noted.”

The door opened, and the gunman from the car entered, his pockmarked face more menacing with his scowl. He glared daggers in my direction as he handed the Bishop the items he had requested.

“Anything yet?” the Bishop asked.

“Still in the wind.”

The Bishop tsk ed as he examined the handcuffs. “Should have sent me instead.”

“Because you’re a miracle worker?”

“Yes.” The Bishop nodded to my bound hands. “Help me switch to these. I don’t trust him. ”

The two made quick work of removing the wire and locking me into cuffs instead. With proper blood flow came excruciating pain. I growled and gritted my teeth as deadened nerves roared to life, screaming their protest at having been suffocated for so long.

At some point, as I recovered, the gunman must have left.

By the time feeling returned to my hands, I was alone again with the Bishop.

The white-hot rebirth of my senses brought fresh anger to the surface.

Short of throwing myself against the bindings, knowing it would do no good, I breathed, nostrils flaring.

“Better?”

“Fuck you,” I spat.

“The words you are looking for are thank you .”

Knowing I wouldn’t get anywhere with indignance, I gritted a thanks I didn’t feel through clenched teeth.

“You’re welcome.”

Only when I calmed down did the Bishop hand me a cigarette and flick a lighter.

A tiny flame burst to life. He stood a few steps out of reach, waiting for me to be ready.

I had to bend in half to get the cigarette between my lips since I couldn’t lift my hands higher than my waist. They had looped the cuffs under the rope that bound my legs, limiting my movements.

The Bishop lit the cigarette and pocketed the lighter. The alcohol had done a poor job of dampening my anxiety, but the cushioned haze of nicotine provided solace to my jittery nerves. I would regret it later, but on the off chance there was no later, I enjoyed every fucking haul.

I smoked while staring at the Bishop. He returned to his knives, meticulously honing their edges.

“Were you the one who killed Clarence’s wife?” I asked after I’d calmed a fraction.

The Bishop continued to work without responding .

“I know someone in Ace’s employ did. You seem to be his preferred weapon of destruction. Don’t you want to take credit where it’s due?”

Nothing.

I tried another angle. “How much does Clarence owe Ace?”

The steady scrape of the blade along the sharpening stone was the only reply.

“Who’s Michael?”

The Bishop’s gaze flicked up. A burst of anxious energy radiated between us. It was brief, but it was there.

Bingo.

Before I could press, the gunman poked his head in, and I silently cursed the intrusion. The man glared with a look of disgust at the low-burning cigarette between my fingers and the dusting of ash on the ground at my feet.

I glared back and shrugged. “No one offered me an ashtray.”

To the Bishop, he asked, “Is there a cleaning lady?”

The Bishop, his momentary unease packed away, studied the man at the door for a long moment. “Where?”

The gunman eyed me. “The office. Ace said you did surveillance and to ask you.”