Page 83 of Skotos
“He is not alone . . . The blade bears two edges. The Swiss . . . Cardinal has eyes . . . relic is . . . two days.”
“Well, that’s fucking ominous,” Will said.
“And not terribly helpful,” I added.
“Why does it just end? It’s like they were about to get to the punch line and—”
“Someone cut them off,” I finishedfor him.
He let his head fall back onto the padded rest and stared at the cab’s ceiling. We needed to sort through whatever this was but couldn’t speak freely with our unknown driver in the car. Will chose his next words carefully. “We already knew the last bit. The Swiss is a logical fear. We don’t know who the ‘he’ is in the first line or why a blade might have two edges.”
I scanned the note again, searching for tiny marks or hidden messages. There were none.
“A blade with two edges could mean betrayal.”
Will huffed. “We’ve got plenty of that, with a side of murder.”
“Still, whoever gave you this—”
A loudscreechcut me off, followed by the sound of the world splintering.
A black sedan had roared through a red light and rammed directly into the passenger side of our taxi. The cab spun as our driver screamed and yanked the wheel. The tires shrieked against cobblestones until we slammed into a lamppost with a crunch of metal and shattering glass. The impact knocked the pole into a nearby bakery.
The sedan sped off, disappearing into the midday traffic.
Will groaned.
Our driver slumped forward, unconscious, blood trickling down his face.
“Will!”
“I’m okay,” he hissed, wincing. “You?”
“Good enough.”
I pushed open my door and scrambled out. Across the street, a man was about to mount his motorbike.
“Sorry,amico!” I shouted, grabbing the handlebars.
“Hey!” the man cried, but Will was already swinging onto the seat behind me, his arms wrapping around my waist like we did this all the time.
“Attività di polizia,” Will added with a flash of his wallet—the one that most definitely didnotcontain a badge of any sort. I couldn’t shake my surprise that he’d remembered a few useful words of Italian.
I kicked the engine to life and shot into traffic, swerving around stunned pedestrians and honking cars. The black sedan’s taillights flickered far ahead as it turned onto a side street.
39
Will
Thomas gunned the motorbike, and I clung to him with both arms, my thighs tightening around the seat as we picked up speed. The stolen Vespa—God bless Italian efficiency—leaped forward like a hound loosed from its leash. The black sedan was already half a block ahead, weaving through light traffic like a shark through shallows.
“Don’t lose them!” I shouted.
Thomas didn’t answer.
He leaned into the first sharp turn, taking it so tight my boot scraped against the stone curb. We skidded around the corner, bouncing over the uneven cobblestones.
The sedan cut down a narrow side street, forcing an old delivery truck to slam on its brakes. The squeal of tires and the screech of horns rang out.
