Out in the forest, meanwhile, Bishop waited for his chance at the man with the gun. They were in the barracks now, in the room on the second floor. It was a long room, without much in it. A couple of air mattresses. A square card table. Chairs. A bare bulb that hung down from a wire.
Chase, the gunman, sat at the card table, tilted back in one of the chairs. The bulb sent a circle of glare down over him, cast him in stark light, dark shadow. He was a squat powerhouse of a man. His torso was the shape of an upside-down triangle and his head was like a boulder perched on top of it. He never took his meaty hands off his HK. He never took his beady eyes off Bishop.
Bishop was facing him, leaning against the opposite wall, his leg bent back, his foot pressed flat against the wall’s surface. His hand rested lightly against his midsection and a wisp of smoke trailed up from the cigarette he held between his fingers. He was thinking, wondering. Wondering what a mutt like Hirschorn was planning to do with an attack helo. Wondering if he could get out of here in time to stop him. Wondering if he’d have to kill this Chase guy when he got the chance and made his move.
After a while, he pushed off the wall. Strolled over to one of the two windows. He drew the blind aside a little. Peeked out into the night. The second gunman, a black man, six-foot-four, was standing guard outside the ground-level door. There was some kind of meeting going on down there, it sounded like. Bishop could hear voices coming up through the floor. He could make out Hirschorn’s voice and at least two others. Which meant there were probably at least four gunmen in all. Whatever he did up here, it was going to have to be quick and quiet so as not to alert the whole gang of them.
He let the blind slip shut again. Let his eyes wander around the steel box of a room. There was only one door. It led to the stairway outside. The stairway led down to where the black gunman was posted. There was no way to get around him. It was a nice little puzzle.
He glanced over at Chase.
“How about I step out on the stairs and get a breath?” he said.
“How about you don’t,” said Chase in his deep monotone rasp. “How about you just breathe in here.” He rocked back and forth on the hind legs of his chair. He never took his eyes off Bishop.
Bishop strolled toward him. Chase watched him with a thin bouldery smile on his big bouldery face. It amused him to think that Bishop might make a play.
“What the hell is this?” Bishop said. “Am I a prisoner here?”
“Only in the sense that if you try to leave the room I’ll kill you,” said Chase.
“Oh,” said Bishop. “For a minute there, I was starting to get worried.”
He turned before he came within reach of the gunman. No way to angle in on him with him as watchful as that. He strolled to the other side of the card table. Chase’s eyes followed him and his gun barrel followed him.
“To tell the truth, I don’t think killing me’s all that smart,” Bishop said.
“Hey, don’t criticise my ideas,” said Chase. “It damages my self-esteem.”
Bishop came around behind the chair across from him. He put his hands on the back of it. He wondered if he was fast enough to lift it, swing it at the guy’s head. He might’ve been, but he thought Chase would probably shoot him dead if he tried it. Which seemed a major drawback to the plan.
“I mean, it’d be kind of tough for your boy Hirschorn to find a new pilot on such short notice, wouldn’t it?” he said.
“Yeah,” said Chase. “But it’d be kind of tough for you to come back to life too.”
“I see your point.” Instead of swinging the chair, Bishop pulled it from under the table and sat on it. He shuffled his cigarette pack out of his T-shirt pocket and tossed it down on the tabletop. “Help yourself,” he said. He thought if Chase reached for the pack, he might be able to break his arm, then his neck.
But Chase didn’t reach for it. His bouldery smile grew wider. “Hey, you know what I think?” he said.
Bishop considered the question. “No,” he said then. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re looking for ways to take me.”
“Really?”
“I do.”
“That’s startling. Why would I?”
“Hey, don’t ask me,” rasped Chase. “If you’re smart, you’ll just sit tight and smoke your cigarettes. Give yourself cancer—you’ll live longer.”
Bishop smiled himself a little. Lifted the last of his smoke into the smile and sucked the flame down to the filter. Then he dropped what was left to the floor, twisted his shoe on the ember, crushed it out. All in all, he thought, yes, he might well have to kill this guy. The gunman was too good to take a chance on.
The two men’s eyes met across the card table. Chase knew what Bishop was thinking. He knew and it didn’t stop him from smiling. Which probably wasn’t a good sign.
But no matter. Whatever Bishop was planning, he didn’t get to pull it off, not just then. Because just then, there was a sound outside, a rhythmic beating of the air. A chopper, a little Jet Ranger or something by the sound of it. Coming in close and low. Too close, too low. It had to be landing on the nearby runway.
“You expecting someone?” Bishop asked.
Chase didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Bishop could read his expression: He was surprised.
Bishop’s mind raced. Who would show up here unexpected? The helo sounded too dinky to belong to the cops. No one else would be able to find this place. And that meant it must be one of Hirschorn’s friendlies. And that meant they were bringing news, surprising news that couldn’t wait.
And that meant Chris must’ve woken up, must’ve gotten his chance to tell them who “Frank Kennedy” really was, what he’d been up to.
And that meant, finally, that Bishop’s time had just run out.