Sophie Oak - Once Upon a Time in Bliss

Five years before present day

A classified location in Colombia

The man known only as Bishop looked down at his handiwork.

So much fucking blood. Why did the human body have to contain so much blood? The average male body contained six quarts of blood. Thirty-six quarts of blood. That was what hed spilled today. Thirty-six quarts of evil, drug-running blood, and it wasnt enough and it never would be. The US government would make sure of that.

Bishop took a long breath, the hot Colombian air humid in his lungs. He was so fucking sick of foreign countries. He didnt go to the nice ones. He went to the pits of the worldthe places where humanity and rights were a distant dream. Somalia. Afghanistan. Iraq. Now here in a drug-torn section of Colombia.

The SEAL team hed gone in with high-fived and smiled. They were heroes. Theyd done their job, and theyd done it with precision and the perfect amount of mercy. They didnt play with their targets. They took them out quickly when they could, giving the vicious killers an easier death than they deserved, but they were soldiers, not animals.

Not like Bishop. Bishop did know what it was like to play with his targets. He was well versed in the art of getting what he needed. He knew the fine line between torture and reward and when to walk it. Yes, he knew how to get what he needed.

The question that was increasingly plaguing him was what did he want?

Lieutenant Wilder walked up, a smile on his face. Wilder was a big man, six foot seven at least. He dwarfed Bishop. He was lean and mean, and Bishop would bet Wilder had nothing on him when it came to brutality. Hey, Mr. Bishop, are we done here? What more do you need from us? Id like to call the extraction team and get my boys home.

Home. For SEAL Team 4, home was Little Creek, Virginia. For Bishop, home was a one-bedroom in DC with nothing in it. He lived out of a suitcase. He roamed from place to place with nothing to call his own. Nothing except the next bloody plan.

Wilders brow furrowed as he looked at Bishop. Come on, man, you gotta be happy about this. We just took down the biggest drug cartel in Colombia. Do you know how much coke were going to keep out of the States?

He didnt have the heart to tell Wilder the truth. Even if he had, he was contractually obligated not to. This operation wouldnt keep an ounce of cocaine off the streets. The CIA and the American government had taken down one cartel to give the business to another. A more US-friendly drug dealer. One that would prop up the US-approved government.

But SEAL Team 4 was just a tool, and they didnt get to make the big decisions.

Fuck, the world would be a better place if they did. Yes, Lieutenant. Were done here. You can call the extraction unit.

The choppers would come for them all, and he would be taken right back to Langley where he would debrief all the right people and say all the right things, and spend a night or two in that bland apartment that held nothing of his soul before being shipped out to the next hellhole.

What was his soul? He was thirty-five years old, and he had no idea who the hell he was. He was who the Black Ops team had made him. He was who the CIA had molded him into.

His parents were gone. His home had never really existed.

He could get on that chopper, but it wouldnt take him anywhere close to home. He didnt have one. Hed given up his search for a home the minute hed decided to join the CIA and forgo the whole have a life thing.

At the time, it had seemed like the right thing to do. Years and experience had proven otherwise. He hadnt made a difference. Hed just made it easier for blood to flow and the power players to get exactly what they wanted.

There was no such thing as good. No such thing as humanity.

He sat down in a chair that had likely been chosen by a dead man. He didnt want to get on that helicopter, but he didnt know where he would go. He had no place. No friends.

Well, he had one. Bill Hartman, his former CO. He hadnt thought about Bill in years. Bill had been the one who told him he shouldnt leave the Army to join the CIA. Bill had offered him a job in his business back in Colorado. Hed been like a father, but Bishop hadnt had a father in so long, hed forgotten to listen.

What if he didnt go back to DC? What if he decided to come in from the cold and find somewhere warm and private? What if he walked away from it all?

His real name was gone. Erased. He had no home. No family. No life.

He was nothing. Nothing at all.

Bishop sat in the dead mans chair, the sun moving over the horizon like a veil closing, beckoning him to choose a side. The comfortable side? The one where he was a ghost and he didnt have to worry about anything but completing his next assignment? Or something new?

Time passed, the sun waning in the background as the blood around him cooled. It was a mess that would be left for someone else to clean up. His brain worked but nothing really congealed. He was stuck. He was lost.

He had no idea how to be found.

Hey, Bishop, the lieutenant began as the thud thud of the chopper blades could be heard in the distance. We need to get to the extraction point. Were green in five minutes. Back home. First beers on me.

It was a false promise the lieutenant made. He knew damn well that once they hit US soil, Bishop would walk away and they would likely never see each other again. CIA operatives didnt go out for a cold one with the team afterward. CIA operatives didnt get close to the soldiers they might have to sacrifice like chess pieces in a nasty game.

How long since hed sat down for a beer with a human being who knew his real name? Sometimes it seemed so fucking far away. He needed a week. Just a week and then hed go back to this life hed chosen. Surely they could wait one week.

He had passports the CIA didnt even know about. He wasnt stupid. He knew he could be burned at any moment. He had money and IDs stashed. He could say hed gotten a lead and had to follow on the down low.

One friend. Maybe it was time to visit him. Just for a week to clear his head.

Go on. Ill make my own way back, he said, rising from the chair, his choice made.

Wilder gave him a thumbs-up. Good luck, Bishop. Fight the good fight.

The SEALs jogged out in their tight formation. The good fight? Hed thought he was, but now he wasnt sure. Maybe there was no good to be fought for.

He turned his mind to his friend. The last hed heard, Bill was in a little town in Colorado. Bliss.

Bliss was a good thing to seek. He hadnt had a whole lot of bliss in his life. And he didnt have a family anymore. He hadnt really had a family in a long time. It had just been him and his mother, and after shed died, hed been through a long stream of foster parents until hed made his way into the Army. Bill had been his family for a while.

He didnt have a home to go to. Maybe a friend was the closest thing. If Bill even recognized him now.

Bishop started the long walk to Cartagena. To the airport.

To Bliss.

Two Days Later

Bliss, Colorado

What should I call you this time? Bill Hartman asked the question with a little uptick of his lips that let Bishop know he was amused. He was also naked.

Bill Hartman, former commando and wildly successful venture capitalist, now ran a nudist colony called the Mountain and Valley Naturist Community. It had been a shock to walk in and realize everyone was naked. Really, really naked.

Henry Flanders. It was his private ID. Hed bought it off a man in Mexico City. It was one of three passports the Agency didnt know about. Bishop was a careful man, and he knew damn straight that even the best agent could be thrown under the proverbial bus if it suited the needs of the CIA. Bishop didnt intend to get ground under those really large wheels. Hed always had an out if the Agency decided to burn him.