NO WAY OUT BUT THROUGH

The Betrayal

The church basement was cold.

Slade stood in the shadows, his back against a crumbling stone pillar. The only light came from the glow of Lyric's monitors—dozens of screens flickering with data streams and surveillance feeds. The air smelled of dust, old wood, and the faint metallic tang of electronics.

Lyric was at her station, her fingers frozen over the keyboard. Her eyes were wide, fixed on the door.

"He's coming," she whispered. "I can hear footsteps. Three people. One of them is him."

Slade's hand moved to his hip. No gun. He'd left all weapons behind as part of the deal. But his knife was strapped to his ankle, hidden beneath his pant leg.

"I told you to leave," Slade said.

"And I told you I'm not going anywhere." Lyric's voice was steady, but her hands were shaking. "He killed my sister. I want to see his face when he dies."

"You're not going to see anything. You're going to stay behind me and stay quiet."

The footsteps grew louder. Then a knock on the door.

Slade opened it.

The Bishop stood in the doorway, flanked by two guards. He was taller than the fake Bishop had been, broader in the shoulders. His face was hidden behind the same porcelain mask—painted smile, hollow eyes.

Behind him, the church's main hall was dark, empty.

"You came alone," The Bishop said. "Good."

"I said I would."

"And you meant it. That's rare in this world." The Bishop stepped inside, his guards following. "I've been watching you, Slade. Impressive work at the Opera House. You disrupted the gathering. You humiliated the Master. You made him look weak."

"That wasn't my intention."

"Of course it was. You're a destroyer. It's what you do." The Bishop circled him, his footsteps silent on the concrete floor. "Your father was the same way. He joined the Society to change it from within. But he failed. He became a part of the machine instead of breaking it."

"Until he tried to break it."

"Exactly. And now he's paying the price." The Bishop stopped in front of him. "I can take you to him. I can help you free him. But there's a price."

"I figured there would be."

"You help me become the new Master. You help me kill the current one and take his place. In exchange, I give you your father. And you walk away."

Slade studied the mask. "And why should I trust you?"

"Because I'm the only one who can save him. The Master has him in a secure location. Only I have access." The Bishop pulled out a phone and showed him a photo. Zane Crowe, sitting in a room, alive. Bruised. But alive.

Slade's jaw tightened. "When do we move?"

"Tonight. Right now. The Master is vulnerable. He's retreating to his private estate. That's where your father is being held."

"Where's the estate?"

The Bishop pocketed the phone. "I'll take you there. But first, I need proof that you're committed."

"Proof of what?"

"That you're willing to do whatever it takes." The Bishop gestured to Lyric. "She's a liability. She knows too much. If you're serious about this, you'll eliminate her."

Lyric's face went white.

Slade didn't move. "No."

"No? You'd risk your father's life for a hacker you barely know?"

"I'd risk my father's life for a lot of things. But not for murder."

The Bishop laughed. It was a cold, hollow sound. "You're exactly like your father. Noble. Principled. And doomed." He shook his head. "I should have known better."

"Then why did you meet me?"

"Because I wanted to see if there was any darkness left in you. There isn't. That makes you useless." The Bishop turned to his guards. "Take them both. Alive. The Master will want to kill them personally."

The guards moved.

Slade was faster.

He dropped to the ground, sweeping the first guard's legs out from under him. The man crashed to the floor. Slade rolled, pulling the knife from his ankle, and drove it into the second guard's thigh. The guard screamed, collapsing.

The Bishop drew a pistol. But Slade was already moving. He grabbed the guard's dropped weapon—a compact submachine gun—and fired three rounds into The Bishop's chest.

The porcelain mask cracked. The Bishop staggered backward, his hand pressed to his chest. Blood seeped through his fingers.

"You... missed," he said.

Slade stared. He hadn't missed. The bullets had hit center mass.

The Bishop pulled off his mask. Underneath was a face Slade recognized. One of the Society members from the gathering. The senator from California.

"I'm not the real Bishop," the man said, his voice fading. "I'm just... another decoy."

He collapsed.

Slade stood over the body, breathing hard. The guards were down. Lyric was frozen in the corner.

"We need to move," Slade said. "More will be coming."

Lyric nodded, her hands shaking. She grabbed a bag of equipment—drives, cables, a laptop. "I'm ready."

Slade grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the exit.

---

They burst out of the church and into the night.

The van was parked a block away. Kane was in the driver's seat, engine running. Sloane was in the back, weapons ready.

"Get in," Slade said.

They piled in. The van screeched away.

Slade sat in the back, his hands covered in blood. Not his own.

"The Bishop was a decoy," he said. "Another decoy. They keep using them. They keep sacrificing pawns."

Sloane shook her head. "They're not sacrifices. They're tests. The Master wants to see how you react. Every time you face a decoy, he learns more about you."

"That means he's still watching," Kane said. "Still learning."

"We need to find the real Bishop," Slade said. "Not the decoys. The one who killed Lyric's sister."

Lyric looked up. Her eyes were glassy. "He's out there. The real one. I've been tracking his communications. He's careful. But he's not perfect. I found a pattern. A location he accesses every week."

"Where?"

"The Verance National Cemetery. He visits a grave. Every Thursday evening. Same time. Same place."

Slade looked at her. "Who's buried there?"

Lyric's voice broke. "My sister."

The van went silent.

Slade's mind raced. The real Bishop visited Lyric's sister's grave. That meant he felt something. Guilt. Remorse. Or just a sick need to relive his crime.

"That's where we'll find him," Slade said. "Not tonight. But soon. We need to be smart about this."

Kane nodded. "We plan. We prepare. We strike when he's vulnerable."

Slade turned to the back. "Ember, what do you know about cemeteries and the psychology of killers?"

Ember stepped forward, her face pale but focused. "Visiting the grave of a victim is a classic power move. He's asserting control. He's reminding himself that he won. But it also means he's obsessed. He can't let go. That's a weakness."

"A weakness we can exploit."

"Yes. But we need to be careful. He'll be on guard. He knows we're hunting him."

Slade pulled out his phone. The messages from The Bishop were still there. He typed a new one.

**Slade:** I killed your decoy. I know you're listening. I'm coming for you. Not for the Society. Not for the Master. For Lyric's sister. For everyone you've hurt.

**The Bishop:** I'm waiting.

Slade pocketed the phone.

"Thursday," he said. "That's when we strike."

---

The next three days were a blur of preparation.

Dante worked on the technical side, pulling satellite imagery of the cemetery and mapping every possible escape route. Lyric monitored the Bishop's communications, tracking his movements. Sloane and Ember trained together, running through scenarios, planning for every contingency.

Kane stayed close to Slade. The tension between them hadn't fully healed, but it had softened. They worked side by side, checking weapons, reviewing plans.

Slade didn't sleep much. Every night, he lay awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about his father. About Mira. About the Master.

And about the Bishop.

Thursday evening arrived, gray and cold.

The van rolled through the cemetery gates, the tires crunching on gravel. The sky was overcast, the air thick with the smell of rain.

Slade stepped out, his weapon concealed beneath a long coat. Sloane and Kane moved into position, flanking him from the shadows. Ember stayed in the van, monitoring.

Lyric was at her station, her voice in Slade's earpiece. "He's there. Section 12, row 4. The grave with the white stone. He's standing in front of it."

Slade moved through the rows of headstones, his footsteps silent on the wet grass. In the distance, he saw a figure. Tall. Still. Dressed in black.

The Bishop.

Slade approached slowly, his hand on his weapon. The figure didn't move.

"Lyric," Slade whispered. "It's not him. It's another decoy."

A pause. "How do you know?"

"Because he's not moving. He's too still. And he's alone. The real Bishop would have guards."

Slade's phone buzzed.

**The Bishop:** You're learning. But you're still a step behind.

**The Bishop:** I'm at the safe house with your father. Come alone. Or I'll kill him myself.

Slade turned. The decoy was gone. Vanished.

His phone buzzed again.

**The Bishop:** Tick tock.

Slade sprinted back to the van.

"He's got my father. We need to find the safe house. Now."

Lyric's voice came through the earpiece, desperate. "I'm trying. But he's good at hiding. I need more time."

"We don't have time."

Kane started the engine. "Where do we go?"

Slade's mind raced. His father. The Bishop. The safe house.

Then he remembered the safety deposit box. The files. The locations.

"The Maple Street house," Slade said. "That's where he'll be."

"Why would he be there?"

"Because it's personal." Slade's eyes hardened. "He wants to make me watch."

The van roared to life, racing through the night.

The game was almost over.

And Slade was about to face the monster.

His father.

And the Master.