NO WAY OUT BUT THROUGH

The Hunters

The phone kept buzzing.

Slade stared at the cracked screen. Each vibration sent a spiderweb of fractures spreading across the glass. The messages piled up unseen.

Kane pulled the SUV to the side of the road. "You need to answer that."

"No. I need a break."

"You don't get breaks. Not anymore." Kane reached over and took the phone. He read the messages, his face hardening. "There's a new one. From someone called The Bishop."

Slade's stomach tightened. The Bishop. The name Lyric had mentioned. The man who murdered her sister.

"Give it to me."

Kane handed back the phone.

**Unknown:** The Bishop here. You've been making noise, Crowe. The Society doesn't like noise. I've been tasked with silencing you. Consider this your final warning: stop hunting the Minotaur, or I'll start hunting your people.

**Unknown:** I already know where Ember sleeps. Where Kane's daughter goes to school. Where Sloane's mother lives. Don't test me.

Slade's blood ran cold. Kane's daughter. He hadn't even known Kane had a daughter. The man kept his private life locked away behind walls of steel and silence.

"Your daughter," Slade said. "He mentioned your daughter."

Kane's face went white. "What about her?"

"He knows where she goes to school. He's threatening her."

Kane's hands gripped the steering wheel. His knuckles went white. "I'm going to kill him. I'm going to find him and I'm going to kill him slowly."

"Get in line."

Slade typed a response.

**Slade:** You touch any of them, and I'll make you wish you'd never been born.

**The Bishop:** Big words for a man who doesn't even know who he's fighting. But fine. I'll give you a chance. Come to the old Verance Opera House. Midnight. Come alone. If you bring anyone, Ember dies. If you're late, Ember dies. If you try anything clever, Ember dies.

**The Bishop:** Tick tock.

Slade read the message twice. The Opera House. A relic from the city's golden age, now abandoned and crumbling. Perfect for a trap.

"He wants me to come alone," Slade said. "He's got Ember."

Kane shook his head. "It's a trap. You know it's a trap."

"I know. But I have to go."

"Slade, listen to me. Your father is the Minotaur. He's been running this game for years. He's not going to let anyone kill you. That's the point of the game. He's testing you. So if you walk into this trap, he'll have a backup plan."

"And if he doesn't? What if this is the real deal? What if The Bishop is acting on his own?"

Kane was silent.

Slade looked at him. "Tell me about your daughter."

Kane's jaw tightened. "Her name is Raven. She's twelve. She lives with her mother in a suburb outside the city. I see her every other weekend. She doesn't know what I do. She thinks I'm a security consultant."

"You never told me."

"I didn't think it was relevant. You were always so focused on Mira and the mission. I didn't want to complicate things."

Slade nodded slowly. "I understand."

"Do you?"

"I have a father I thought was dead. A mother who died alone. A partner who betrayed me. I understand more than you think." Slade's voice was quiet. "This game... it's not just about me anymore. It's about all of us. Everyone we care about. The Society is hunting us. And the only way to stop them is to become the hunter."

Kane looked at him for a long moment. Then he nodded.

"Let's go save Ember."

---

The Opera House loomed against the night sky like a skeletal hand.

Broken windows. Crumbling stone. A sign above the entrance, faded and illegible. The building had been abandoned for twenty years, left to rot after the city's arts funding dried up.

Slade parked three blocks away. He checked his weapons—two pistols, a knife, a flashbang. He wore a light Kevlar vest beneath his jacket.

"You wait here," he said to Kane. "If I'm not out in an hour, you go in. Find Ember. Get her out. Don't worry about me."

"Not going to happen."

"Kane—"

"I said not going to happen." Kane pulled a second rifle from the back seat. "I'll take the rooftop. Overwatch. If The Bishop shows his face, I'll put a round through it."

Slade nodded. "Just be careful."

"Always."

They moved.

Slade approached the Opera House from the side, staying in the shadows. A rusted fire escape led to a second-floor window. He climbed, his boots silent on the metal grating.

Inside, the building was a cavern of dust and decay. The main hall was vast, with a stage at one end and rows of rotting seats stretching toward the back. A single light illuminated the stage—a spotlight, probably powered by a generator.

Ember stood in the center of the stage. Hands bound. Mouth taped. A rope around her neck, tied to a beam above.

The same setup as the warehouse. The same message.

Slade moved through the shadows, scanning for threats. The balconies were dark. The aisles were empty. But he could feel eyes on him. Someone was watching.

A voice echoed through the hall. Calm. Almost amused.

"Slade Crowe. Right on time."

The Bishop stepped onto the stage from the wings. He was tall, thin, wearing a black suit. His face was masked—a porcelain mask with a painted smile.

"Let her go," Slade said.

"Of course. Eventually." The Bishop walked to Ember and touched her cheek. She flinched. "But first, I want to talk. I want to understand you. Everyone in the Society is talking about you. The man who turned Sloane Vance. The man who shot at the Minotaur. The man who's been tearing through the circles like they're nothing."

"I'm not special."

"That's what makes you special. You don't see your own potential." The Bishop circled Ember, his movements slow and deliberate. "Your father sees it. That's why he chose you. That's why he's been preparing you."

"My father is dying. He's not preparing me for anything."

"Oh, he's preparing you. He's preparing you to take his place. To become the new Minotaur. To control the Labyrinth Society." The Bishop stopped, facing Slade. "But I can't let that happen. See, I've been waiting for my turn. I've been playing the game for years. I've killed. I've schemed. I've done everything they asked. And now I'm supposed to step aside for some washed-up interrogator? I don't think so."

"You can have it. I don't want it."

"Too late. The Society has already chosen you. They've placed their bets. If you walk away, they'll lose millions. And they don't like losing."

The Bishop pulled out a remote control. He pressed a button.

A screen descended from the ceiling, showing multiple camera feeds. Kane on the rooftop. Sloane's safe house. Dante's garage. Ember's office. Every location Slade had visited.

"I've been watching you, Crowe. The Society has assets everywhere. I know where you sleep. I know where you eat. I know who you trust." The Bishop's voice hardened. "And I know how to break you."

He pressed another button.

The rope around Ember's neck began to tighten.

"Wait," Slade said. "What do you want?"

"I want you to kneel."

Slade's hands clenched into fists.

"I said kneel."

Slowly, Slade lowered himself to one knee.

The Bishop laughed. "There it is. The great Slade Crowe, on his knees. The hero of the game. The chosen one. Begging for the life of a woman he barely knows."

"Let her go."

"I will. After you do something for me." The Bishop pulled out a phone and showed it to Slade. A video. Sloane, tied to a chair in a room Slade didn't recognize.

"You're going to tell me where your father is. The real location. Not the decoy, not the false lead. The actual place where Zane Crowe is hiding."

"I don't know."

"Then Sloane dies."

"I don't know. He never told me."

The Bishop studied him. Then he nodded. "You're telling the truth. Pity."

He pressed another button. The video feed showed a figure entering the room where Sloane was being held. A man in a black mask, holding a knife.

"No," Slade said.

The figure raised the knife.

But before it could fall, the screen went black. Then static. Then the camera came back, showing Sloane standing over the man's unconscious body. She looked at the camera and gave a thumbs up.

The Bishop's mask cracked. Literally. A hairline fracture appeared along the painted smile.

"What—"

Kane's voice came through Slade's earpiece. "Sloane is free. She tracked the signal. She's on her way."

Slade stood up. The time for kneeling was over.

"Your move, Bishop."

The Bishop dropped the remote and reached for a pistol. But Slade was faster. He drew his weapon and fired.

The shot hit the Bishop's hand. The pistol clattered to the stage.

The Bishop screamed, clutching his bleeding fingers. "You'll pay for that!"

"Probably." Slade walked to the stage. "But not today."

He cut Ember's bonds. She fell into his arms, gasping.

The Bishop tried to run. Slade kicked his legs out from under him and pressed a boot to his chest.

"Where is the Society? The real headquarters. Not the decoys. The real one."

The Bishop laughed through his pain. "You think I'm going to tell you? I'd rather die."

"That can be arranged."

"Slade." Ember's voice was soft. "Let him go."

"Why?"

"Because he's not the real target. He's a pawn. Just like you."

The Bishop's laughter faded. He looked at Ember with something like respect.

"She's smarter than you," he said. "The real Bishop is still out there. I'm just a mouthpiece. A decoy. The Society uses people like me to test the players."

Slade pressed harder. "Who is the real Bishop?"

"I don't know. No one knows. That's the point." The Bishop coughed. "But I can tell you this: the Society is planning something big. Something called The Event. It's going to happen in three months. And if it happens, millions of people will die."

"What kind of event?"

The Bishop's eyes went distant. "I don't know the details. But I know it's tied to the games. The betting. The power. They're not just playing for money. They're playing for control."

Slade stepped back. He holstered his weapon.

"Kane, get down here. We're leaving."

Kane appeared a moment later, moving through the shadows. He looked at the Bishop, then at Slade. "We're not going to finish him?"

"He's not worth it." Slade grabbed Ember's arm. "Let's go."

---

They drove for an hour in silence.

Ember sat in the back, shaking. Her hands were raw. Her eyes were unfocused.

Sloane met them at the garage. She was bruised, her clothes torn, but alive. She nodded at Slade as they walked in.

"The fake Bishop is secured," she said. "I've got him in a storage unit. He'll talk eventually."

"Good." Slade sat down heavily on a chair. "We need to find the real Bishop. We need to stop The Event."

"And we need to find your father," Sloane said. "The clock is ticking."

Slade pulled out his phone. The screen was cracked but still functional. He opened the message from the real Minotaur—his father—and read it again.

*The game is yours to inherit. But you have to earn it.*

He typed a response.

**Slade:** Where are you?

**Unknown:** You know where I am. You've always known. You just didn't want to see.

**Unknown:** Look at the place you once called home. The place where everything began. That's where you'll find me.

**Unknown:** Tick tock.

Slade stared at the screen.

The place where everything began.

His childhood home.

The house on Maple Street, where he'd grown up. Where his father had taught him to throw a punch. Where his mother had tucked him into bed.

The house he'd sold years ago, after her death.

Slade stood up.

"I know where he is."

The room went quiet.

"Where?" Kane asked.

"My childhood home. The house on Maple Street."

Sloane frowned. "Why would he be there?"

"Because it's the one place no one would look." Slade grabbed his jacket. "Let's move."

Kane stopped him at the door.

"Slade. Before we go... I need to tell you something."

"What now?"

"The night Mira died... I didn't just cut the rope. I was ordered to. By someone in the Society. Someone who wanted her dead."

Slade turned. His voice was cold. "Who?"

Kane's eyes met his.

"Your father."