Page 94 of Skotos
“We’ve got two days,” I said. “Let’s get back to the Vatican and make them count.”
43
Will
We rode in silence. The chapel wouldn’t leave me, not the damp chill of the underground chamber, nor the scent of old stones clinging to my clothes, not even the memory of the newspaper clippings tacked to the walls—each one a grim obituary, a victory lap for a faceless killer. I’d seen a lot over the years, but something about that room felt like we’d stepped through a veil and seen the true face of evil.
They weren’t just zealots or assassins. They were also strategists and architects of chaos. And that wall of clippings wasn’t just a gallery of past crimes. It was also a blueprint of future horrors.
I couldn’t shake the image of the Pope standing on his balcony, smiling broadly and waving at his adoring flock, all while being framed like a target with a rifle scope trained on his heart. The whole scene was a knife twisting in my gut.
And the worst part?
If we missed it—if we failed or the killers somehow got to the Pope before we could untangle this knot—it wouldn’t just be the Holy Father that fell; it would be the world’s faith in the Vatican, in peace, in everything we were supposed to be protecting.
And if Thomas got hurt again . . .
No. I couldn’t even think about that.
We had one shot.
One moment.
One window.
Thomas sat beside me in the back seat, while Lucio’s men rode in the front. The one who spoke better English—Luca, I thought his name was—turned back to face us. “We study the photos again, yes?”
I passed the stack forward without a word. He spread the pages across his knees. “This one”—he lifted a grainy shot of the Vatican piazza from a steep angle—“is from Excelsior rooftop, no?”
“I think so.” Thomas nodded. “It’s roughly three hundred yards, probably a little less. That’s a good position for a shot, and totally makeable for a pro.”
Luca shifted to another image. “And this is the Saint Agnes tower. Not as direct, but it gives full view. No crowds up there either.”
Thomas rubbed the side of his neck. “They could’ve placed weapons ahead of time, planning to come back just before the Pope steps out.”
“And how do we know when that willbe?” I muttered.
The car jolted over a bump. Thomas winced and gripped his shoulder.
“We need his schedule,” Thomas said. “Either we find someone who knows it, or we spend the next forty-eight hours watching the piazza and praying.”
“Rinaldi might be able to get us a schedule,” I offered. “We could watch the rooftops at dawn in shifts using binoculars. We hit every vantage point on those clippings. If a rifle’s set up, we’ll spot it.”
“And the shooter?” Thomas asked.
“We’ll catch them in the act. Shoot them if we have to.”
Luca identified the rest of the photos and then handed the clippings back just as the traffic began to thicken. The sun was blotted out by heavy clouds, casting a dull sheen over the cobbles and domes alike. The deeper into the city we got, the more people crowded the sidewalks. Tourists and pilgrims—hundreds of them, possibly thousands—flowed toward the piazza. Some carried rosaries, while others wore wide-brimmed hats and craned their necks to glimpse the magnificent dome of St. Peter’s.
Horns blared.
Scooters darted past, weaving through the chaos like insects.
As we rounded the final corner, I felt my breath catch.
The piazza was already swelling with people.
Vendors unpacked souvenir stands as children dangled bags of candied nuts from their wrists.
