Bishop laughs. “And here I thought you were a genius,” he remarks, giving another glance off towards the two men standing a safe distance away. “Don’t think a model will thrill anyone much, but if you need something to do I say go for it.” He’s already moving forward a bit, away from Erik and the two Hellhounds. “I do my best damn work under pressure,” there’s a cocky grin turning up the corners of his mouth, though not a soul can see it behind the mask he’s still wearing.
Don’t fuck this up. It’s the mantra playing in the back of Bishop’s mind as he get’s ready to do what might very well be the most dangerous thing he’s done in a long ass time - which is saying a lot, what with the life he’s living now.
“Won’t need your forgiveness, ‘cause I don’t plan on fucking this up,” he calls back to Erik, the words muffled by the mask and the fact he didn’t bother turning around to speak to his friend. Bishop takes one deep breath, then another, psyching himself up for this before lighting the fuse on the dynamite and propelling it out and away from them with the sling shot.
Once the dynamite left his possession, Bishop ran like hell back towards the relative safety of the vehicles, skidding around the end of the truck and ducking down near the back tire.
The booming noise the explosives makes is nearly deafening, and it’s followed up by a ‘whoop’ of victory from Bishop. Possibly because they didn’t die, but probably because the man really just loved a damn good explosion.
“Well, now that we survived I think it’s ‘bout time we had a drink and went on our way.”