Page 86 of Skotos
He was slipping. I needed to move, but even as I started to help him up, he grabbed my arm, weak but insistent.
“Will . . . they could come back.”
I blinked. “What?”
“We don’t know who’s in this warehouse. The shooter—he might not have been alone. Or they may circle around to try to finish us off.”
That thought hadn’t even registered through all the panic. I looked around and was suddenly hyperaware of every shadow, every open door, every tiny movement. The sounds of distant machinery echoed off the walls, though I couldn’t tell which direction it came from. Thomas was right—we might’ve driven straight into a trap. Worse, we might already be stuck in its jaws and only need to wait for the killing blow.
“Okay,” I said, forcing calm command into my voice. “We’re leaving. Now.”
I helped him to his feet, slinging his good arm over my shoulder. He swayed, nearly toppling us both, and hissed but didn’t complain.
Typical Thomas.
He was bleeding like a gutted pig but still too proud to say a word.
We half stumbled, half hustled toward the edge of the warehouse district. The forklift operator, more curious than angry now, pointed toward a yellow-roofed Fiat idling near a loading dock. I flashed a wad of lire at him and nodded. “Taxi.Ospedale.Subito.”
I wasn’t entirely sure I’d used the correct words—or if I’d just ordered a side dish with a butter sauce—but the man got the message. Wereached the cab and tumbled into the back seat, Thomas collapsing beside me.
“I hate this,” I muttered.
“What, being shot at?” Thomas rasped.
“No, watching you bleed, asshole.”
He glanced at me, surprise flickering in his expression. Then he nodded once, and leaned back against the seat. If he wasn’t fighting back or making some snarky comment, his wound had to be bad. My mind raced almost as rapidly as my heart.
I couldn’t lose him. I just couldn’t.
Damn it, I wouldn’t.
I looked out the rear window, my heart still hammering. The sedan had vanished—but one image refused to leave my mind. The shooter’s arm, extended through the open window.
The sleeve had been long, black, and flowing. It was a cassock—a priest’s cassock.
Unless it was still a disguise.
God, why couldn’t anything be simple?
I turned back to Thomas. “I saw the shooter.”
“What?” he asked, his eyes struggling to focus.
“I saw his arm, his sleeve. It looked like priest robes, but not just any robes—something more. Maybe someone high-ranking or ecclesiastical.”
“You got all that from a sleeve?” Thomas’s face darkened. “We’re not just chasing killers.”
“No,” I said. “We’re chasing clergy.”
We sat in silence for a moment, the hum of the engine the only sound between us.
“We need to decide our next move,” I said quietly. “No more wasting time.”
“Hotel’s compromised. So is the Vatican. Wherever we go, we have to assume someone’s watching.”
“We need a fallback, a place off the grid.” I nodded. “Somewhere we can plan and turn defense into offense. I’m tired of chasing shadows. I want to shoot them.”
