Bishop's Folly Read Free

growled to himself and shifted. His gaze flicked away from Coyote, completely ignoring – or avoiding – the man's obviously annoyed stature. Bishop could smell the agitation coming off his Tribesmen brother. Part of him knew what the issue was already. That part of him wanted to put off the conversation and forget that something was wrong in his leadership. It would have to be addressed eventually.
     
    “Yeah, and they obviously caught onto your sweet-and-sour shit with Agent Holmes.” Coyote's bitter words smacked into Bishop's brain. The part of him that blatantly ignored, sidestepped, and evaded this issue bristled. This was not a conversation he wanted while bedridden with a bullet wound.
     
    Before Bishop could snarl a retort, a nurse skittered in. Her wide eyes flickered around the room, a syringe in hand. In a voice slightly too high for her, the nurse squeaked, “Sorry, am I interrupting? It's just time for Mr. Bishop's next dose of morphine.”
     
    “No, it's fine,” Bishop tersely replied. His eyes never left Coyote's, even as the woman scurried in. Her gaze remained averted and shoulders hunched to her ears as her heels clicked across the floor. Bishop and Coyote stared each other down, the atmosphere tense and uneasy.
     
    The woman must have felt the strain. Her fingers shook as she fiddled with Bishop's IV, injecting the crystalline liquid into the bag. Bishop watched the nurse from the corner of his eye, her sea foam green scrubs a spot of gaudy color in his otherwise dreary room. Finally, the woman pulled away and rushed from the room, head still bowed.
     
    After she shut the door solidly behind her, the tension in the room eased slightly. Bishop's stiff shoulders relaxed, but it was short-lived.
     
    “Boss, I think you need to cut out the shit with the fed.” Coyote stepped closer to the bed. His hands fell to the foot board, fingers clenching on to the plastic. Both of them knew he had no place telling Bishop what to do, but the vice president felt it was important enough to vocalize. “Unless you knocking boots with her benefits us, we're suffering.”
     
    Bishop took a deep breath, his head suddenly swimming with painful colors. He opened his eyes, but his gaze couldn't meet the heated leer on Coyote's face. He swallowed heavily before growling, “You don't think I know that?”
     
    “No,” Coyote's grip tightened, the bed frame creaking under his strength. His green eyes flared with rage as he spat out, “Because Newb is in the ICU with his chest full of lead.”
     
    “I didn't order him to climb into that van, Coyote.” The colors in his head and pain split along his synapses. Pain burned at the back of his eyeballs. His heart shuddered with sickening guilt and twisted in pain. Bishop knew he was to blame for Newb and that the fledgling’s blood would be on his hands. That's how it was in the Seven Tribesmen. All members knew the consequences, though that didn't ease Bishop's sense of responsibility.
     
    “No, but you didn't think before you rushed into that fight, Arthur.”
     
    Bishop paused at the vehemence in Coyote's voice. The two men leered at each other, pressure building and temperature spiking angrily. The room swam before Bishop's gaze, and his stomach clenched painfully. His heart raced in his chest, and suddenly breathing became a desperate action. His chest rose and fell drastically while his gaze bounced about the room. Colors bled and danced across his sight. Tears burned at the back of his eyes. He curled his fingers into the blanket, his chest aching from the force of his heart.
     
    “Boss?” Coyote's voice sounded so far, so close, so everything. The tenuous lilt forced Bishop's gaze to twitch to the green-eyed man's face. “Boss? You all right?”
     
    The lights seemed to buzz louder and brighten to glaring levels. Beeping and alarms shrieked from the monitors hooked up to Bishop's body. The sounds in the hallway sounded amplified and daunting and