Page 89 of Skotos
There was no signature. There were no instructions. There was only a quiet, terrifying promise.
“Cryptic.” Will stared at it for a moment, then, with sarcasm dripping thick as gravy, “I love cryptic. It really helps narrow things down.”
“At least we know one thing now,” I said. “This isn’t a Soviet op. It’s not about state secrets. It’s religious.”
“A religious order with access to weapons, robes, and enough money to fund professional killers.” Will grunted. “You know, I always wanted to be a priest when I was little.”
“You would’ve been a terrible priest.”
“Confession would’ve taken forever.” He chuckled. “But yeah, I think you’re right. This thing’s being run by the Church—or a part of it, at least.”
“A rogue sect? Something buried deep?”
“Or orders from a Pope who fears nothing,” Will countered, his thought chilling. “I know he pleaded for our help, but that could’ve been a ruse. The man’s a brilliant strategist.”
“With sympathies the West hasn’t always loved.” I groaned, thought a moment, then said, “The meeting room under the chapel, the ceremonial robes, the way the shooter reached out with that pistol like he was giving a blessing before he pulled the trigger . . . none of this smells like the KGB.”
Will tapped the note again. “But if they’re planning something in two days, we’re already behind.”
I sat forward, wincing. “So, list out what we know. No guesses. Just facts.”
Will nodded. “All right. Fact one: A Vatican archivist tried to warn us and ended up dead for it. Fact two: Someone—maybe a cardinal—was at that secret meeting, maybe leading it. Fact three: Someone ran us off the road, shot at us, and was wearing ecclesiastical robes while doing it.”
“Jesus would besoproud of his followers.”
“Fact four,” Will said, holding up the note. “Something big is happening in two days, something involving a relic.”
“Not necessarily.” My expression darkened. “The note mentioned a relic, but there wasn’t any legible information about it. That means it’s not the endpoint . . . or . . . the Pope could be the relic.”
“Why can’t all this cryptic bullshit translate into plain English?”
I ignored him. “Or . . . it could be some object the Church plans to reveal or use or promote . . . We should ask Rinaldi to check the Pope’s calendar for the next few days, see if there is something like that coming up. Relics are important, symbolic, and dangerous in the wrong hands. They draw crowds.”
“And crowds mean opportunity forverypublic statements.”
We locked eyes.
“The Pope,” we said in unison.
Silence followed, deeper than before.
“If this is a religious sect with internal access,” I said, “they won’t use a bomb. That’s too indiscriminate. They’ll want to control the message. Use somethingseen, especially if they’re trying to take out the head of their own church.”
“A sniper?” Will offered.
“Or someone close enough to use a blade?”
“A cardinal could get that close,” Will said.
“True.” I let my head fall back on the couch. The motion pulled painfully down my arm. “But these people haven’t seemed suicidal. They hit and run, make their statement or take out their victim, and then vanish back into the shadows. I doubt this cardinal would burn his position so close to power by exposing himself. He wants to be part of somethingafterthese killings are done.”
“Like become the next Pope?” Will asked.
Words lodged in my throat. Either way, if the note was to be believed, we were two days away. Maybe less.
Will stood and began pacing. “We need to get back into the Vatican, dig deeper, shake the tree.”
I looked up at him. “If we shake too hard, we’ll end up like Marini.”
