Page 54 of Dreadful

Bishop lets go and drops into a crouch beside the table. Duct tape releases from the underside with a sharp, papery tear. Something cold and heavy drops into my waiting palm.

I don’t need to see it.

More tearing from the direction of the couch—a hidden seam giving way—and then Bishop is beside me again, close enough that I can feel the heat coming off his arm.

“It’s dark. Don’t fucking shoot me.”

My fingers move without being told. Slide, guard, grip. The familiar geometry of it pulls something taut and useful out of the panic still loose in my chest.

Somewhere past the kitchen wall, something large and heavy meets the floor. Voices spike and cut off.

My ribs unlock, just slightly.

His hand skims my lower back. “Move.”

We clear the table. We don’t clear much else.

A flashlight beam cuts across the far end of the hallway and disappears. Boots follow—slow, deliberate, crunching through glass like it’s gravel on a driveway.

He hooks me sideways into the shadow at the edge of the doorframe.

Two men enter. Both armed, both scanning. The nearer one is enormous, balaclava pulled tight, a leather kutte stretched across his shoulders.

Bishop starts slinking down the wall. But I already know I won’t be able to follow him. The angle is wrong. The men are too close and the room is too open and the moment I shift, one of them will catch it.

I go completely still and seal my lips shut against the sound of my own breathing.

The faint blue glow from the pool lights finally catches the man closest to me, illuminating the balaclava stretched tight over his skull just as his head turns. His eyes land on me, and his posture shifts—shoulders dropping, weight settling back on his heels.

“Well, shit.” The words come out like gravel. “Got ourselves a girl.”

The way he says it makes my stomach turn, but it’s better than an immediate bullet.

Bishop’s voice cuts through the dark, low and venomous. “Don’t fucking move.” He presses the barrel of his gun against the back of the other guy’s head.

The first man starts to turn toward the sound. My arms lift, the gun heavy and unfamiliar in my grip. I aim at the center of his face.

“Stop,” I rasp. My hands shake, but I lock my elbows, my breath caught somewhere behind my ribs.

He takes a step anyway.

Movement flashes in my periphery—Bishop bringing the butt of his gun down hard. There’s a wet thud. The second man staggers, colliding with the first.

He uses the momentum, lunging for my barrel. His hand—thick-fingered, leather-clad—clamps over the slide and shoves downward. The force wrenches my wrists. I try to hold on, muscles burning, but he’s too strong.

His other hand swings back and connects with my cheek.

The impact rattles my bones. I stumble backward, shoulder blades hitting drywall. Pain blooms hot and sharp across my face.

“You just signed your death warrant, motherfucker,” Bishop seethes.

Then everything fractures.

A fist cracks against flesh. Two bodies crash into the couch, sending it screeching across the tile.

The second man advances, closing the space between us. I scramble back, heels catching on nothing. The hallway walls feel too close.

He swings again. I twist away, but his knuckles graze my temple. My hip slams into the edge of the card table. Wood splinters. The table collapses.