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            Thorne lay sprawled and motionless beside the bed. 

            The revolver held loosely in his hand, Bishop Prince emerged from the doorway of the safe room.  

            “I ought to thank you, Thorne,” he said.  “You’ve succeeded where all of my other servants have failed.”

            Thorne did not respond.  His eyes were shut, but it was difficult to tell if he were still breathing. 

            After the chest shot, he had should have expired and gone to hell where he belonged.

            Beside Bishop Prince, the girl was crying again.  She gripped his free hand so tightly that the blood had drained from his fingers.  The violence had frightened her.  Such an innocent one, she was. 

            He spoke a command to activate the room’s recessed lights.  Pulling the girl along, he advanced toward Thorne’s prone body. 

            In the light, he saw, quite clearly, that the man wasn’t breathing.          

            “You died as I hear your father died,” Bishop Prince said.  “One bullet to the chest, and his fate in hell was sealed.”

            Bending, Bishop Prince reached for the nylon pouch around the dead man’s waist, where the sinner had pocketed the flash drive. 

            Like Lazarus, Thorne snapped awake.