weapon out of the other male's grasp. She took off running from the study as the gun clattered out to the foyer floor. Bishop lunged for his guard. They were an equal match, Bishop having the advantage of his fierce determination, his fury like a madness pounding in his blood and brain. With an unhinged roar, he grabbed Mason by the chest and flung him with all his might against the far wall of the study. He didn't give the guard so much as a second to react. Leaping at him, he crushed the heel of his Italian loafer into Mason's groin. The vampire bellowed in agony, his eyes burning like coals, fangs tearing out of his gums. Bishop chuckled. He couldn't help himself from taking some enjoyment in the pain he was causing the other male. He would kill Mason slowly before strangling Regina with his bare hands.
As the thought danced through his mind, he caught a rush of movement in the foyer. Regina had come back, hadn't gone very far at all. She had Mason's gun in her hands. Bishop swung a hard look on her - just in time to hear the metallic pop of the hammer as she squeezed the trigger. The bullet discharged, sailed toward him on a small cloud of smoke. He jerked out of its path at the very last moment. Behind him, the curtained French door exploded with a crash of breaking glass. Afternoon sunlight poured in through the hole in the thick curtains, bringing with it the chill December breeze.
Bishop snorted, about to ridicule his Breedmate's shaky hands and lousy aim. But then she fired again. She fired at him again and again and again, and this time there was no chance to evade the hail of bullets. She fired until the gun had been emptied into him. He staggered back on his heels, looking down at the field of scarlet that seeped out of his chest. He couldn't stop the bleeding, could only stare in baffled astonishment at the hellish damage. He felt his heart labor to keep its rhythm, each breath a raw scrape of talons in his chest. His legs grew weak beneath him.
And now Mason was on his feet, standing before him, animosity rolling off his big body like a dark thundercloud.
Bishop knew this was his end.
The bullets alone might not kill him, but they had sapped him of much-needed strength. His lungs were punctured, his heart as well. But he clung fast to his fury - the only thing he had left in this, his final moment.
With a roar that seemed to shred him from deep inside, Victor Bishop began to lunge for his Breedmate.
Mason's unyielding hands stopped him. Took hold of him and lifted him off the floor. And then he was flying, pitching backward, into the tall French doors that opened out onto the lawn of his Darkhaven estate. His body crashed through the curtains and glass, coming to rest broken and bleeding on the frozen ground outside.
He stared up into the sky above him, unable to move. Unable to save himself from the excruciatingly slow death that awaited him as he peered up in wonder at the glorious, merciless light of day.
Chapter Thirteen
Dragos snapped his cell phone closed, irritation still rankling him from the news he'd received a few hours ago from his lieutenant in New Orleans.
Henry Vachon, a longtime ally from his time in the Enforcement Agency, was gravely concerned that he was soon to get a visit from one of the members of the Order. Dragos didn't doubt it for a moment. Based on the information Vachon had received from a very anxious Victor Bishop in Detroit, Dragos was guessing that retaliation from the Order would be more a matter of when than if.
To soothe Vachon and ensure that the operation didn't lose yet another asset to Lucan's warriors, Dragos had called in heavy reinforcements and given them orders to kill. As for Victor Bishop, he had served his purpose long ago. Now he was nothing but a liability, no matter how he'd apparently groveled when he'd called to alert Vachon to the trouble. If Bishop was ever fool enough to show his face, Dragos would take great pleasure in tearing it off. His foul mood of the past few hours wasn't helped at all by the hellish jostle of his limousine as his driver barreled along a godforsaken stretch of twilit, rural dirt road in northern Maine.
"Must you hit every