Chapter Twenty Nine
Even Up the Odds
Rachel Williams
Branches whip at my arms as Bishop drags us through the trees, the forest exploding around us in a blur of motion and terror. My lungs burn. My legs ache. But none of it matters.
Because behind us are the people we trusted.
Behind us are killers.
And they’re coming.
I hear them crashing through the underbrush, hear Beth’s shrill commands, hear David’s low, furious curses. Every sound is a reminder of how wrong we were. How blind. How close we came to dying in that compound.
Bishop isn’t blind now.
He moves with terrifying certainty; no hesitation, no confusion, no fear. He cuts through the undergrowth like he’s been living in these woods his whole life. He doesn’t need a trail. He doesn’t need a map. He doesn’t even need to look back.
He knows exactly where he’s going.
And suddenly I understand.
He wasn’t scared of the woods.
He knew something was off. He felt it long before I did.
Now he’s not scared at all.
A gunshot cracks behind us.
Bishop yanks me sideways, shoving me behind a tree as bark explodes where my head had been. Another shot. Another. David is firing blind, but he’s getting closer.
“Move!” Bishop orders, grabbing my wrist and pulling me deeper into the thick growth.
We dodge between trees, sprinting through shadows, Bishop clearing a path with his body; taking branches, thorns, anything that would slow us down. He’s bleeding. I’m bleeding. None of it matters.
We break through the last line of trees…
And stop.
A river churns before us fast and violent, icy water slamming against rocks. The current is brutal. The cold hits my skin even from here.
“We can’t cross that,” I gasp.
“We’re going in,” Bishop says.
He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look back.
He grabs my shoulders, forcing my eyes to meet his.
“They’re tracking us,” he says. “We need to break the trail. The river will hide our prints.”
“They’ll shoot us in the water.”
“They’ll shoot us easier on land.”
He’s right.
Behind us, branches snap. Voices rise. David and Beth are close.
Bishop steps into the river first, the water swallowing his boots, his legs, his waist. He winces at the cold but keeps going.
He reaches back for me.
“Rachel,” he says, voice steady, unshakeable. “Trust me.”
I do.
I always have.
I plunge into the river after him.
The cold hits like a punch. The current grabs me instantly. My breath disappears.
Bishop’s arm wraps around my waist, anchoring me against the pull.
“Hold on,” he says. “We’re not dying today.”
Behind us, David screams in frustration. Beth curses. Shots fire again.
But the river takes us.
And swallow us whole.
The current hits like a living thing. Violent, icy, merciless.
It grabs my legs, my waist, my chest, dragging me sideways as Bishop holds me tight against him. The cold is blinding. My breath disappears. My fingers go numb instantly.
Behind us, Beth and David shout from the riverbank, their voices sharp and furious; but they don’t come in after us.
Of course they don’t.
Hunters don’t jump into rivers. Hunters wait for the prey to come out or drown.
Bishop keeps one arm locked around my waist, the other cutting through the water as he fights the current. “Stay with me,” he says, voice tight, controlled. “Don’t let the river take your legs.”
I try. God, I try. But the water is too strong, too cold, too fast.
We’re swept downstream, bouncing off rocks, swallowed by waves, dragged through rapids that feel like they’re trying to tear us apart. My teeth chatter so hard I taste blood.
But Bishop never lets go.
Not once.
Eventually the current spits us out near a bend in the river, calmer but still brutal. Bishop pulls me toward the bank, muscles straining, breath ragged. We crawl out onto the mud, shaking uncontrollably.
I collapse onto my hands and knees, coughing up river water, my whole body trembling.
Bishop drops beside me, chest heaving, water streaming off him. He looks at me, and I see the fear in his eyes.
Not fear of David. Not fear of Beth. Fear of losing me.
“We have to move,” he says, voice hoarse. “They’ll follow the bank.”
I nod, even though I can barely feel my legs.
We hike back upstream, staying low, staying hidden, staying off the obvious path. Every step is agony. My clothes cling to me like ice. My fingers are stiff. My lips numb.
But the sun breaks through the trees.. It helps. Not enough. But enough to keep us moving.
“We need shelter,” Bishop says. “Heat. Cover and high ground.”
I swallow hard. “How do you know exactly where to go?”
He hesitates.
Just for a second. Just long enough for me to see it.
The darkness.
The past.
The part of him he never talks about.
“You’ve done this before,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t answer.
But he doesn’t deny it.
And suddenly everything makes sense; his instincts, his precision, the way he moved through the woods without fear, the way he fought David like he’d done it before.
“Bishop,” I whisper, “what were you before the FBI?”
His jaw tightens. “Later.”
“No,” I say, stepping in front of him. “Now.”
He meets my eyes, and the truth is right there. Heavy, dangerous, buried deep.
“I’ve done things,” he says softly. “Things I don’t want you to know. Things I don’t want you to look at me differently for.”
My heart pounds.
Because I already know.
His past isn’t just dark. It’s lethal.
And right now, that darkness is the only thing keeping us alive.
He looks toward the ridge, scanning the terrain with a soldier’s eyes.
“We keep moving,” he says. “We get high ground. We make a stand.”
I nod.
Because whatever Bishop used to be, whatever shadows he carries, I trust him.
And we’re going to need every piece of that darkness to survive what’s coming.