Page 13 of Skotos
Everything slowed.
My breath hitched.
A server dropped a tray with a muted clang.
Someone inhaled sharply beside me, but it sounded like it came from miles away.
Madame Petitpierre let out a strangled cry and reached for her husband as he collapsed. One white-gloved hand pressed against his chest in futility, coming away soaked in red.
Time stopped.
And then—
Chaos.
Screams erupted in waves.
Dozens of guests scrambled, diving beneath tables.
Guards poured in from hidden doorways, shouting in staccato French.
Silverware clattered.
A chair toppled beside me.
A woman screamed. Another sobbed.
Someone shouted for a doctor.
Will yanked me down beside him, shielding me with his body, and shouted, “Get down!”
8
Will
Silence loomed as we stood alone in our flat, thicker than the darkness settling beyond the windows. Paris shimmered like a city entirely unaware of the chaos that had detonated at the Palais de l’Élysée.
Thomas poured two fingers of bourbon into tumblers without asking. He handed one to me, his fingers brushing mine as I took the glass.
Neither of us spoke as I dropped onto the couch.
The image of Max Petitpierre’s head snapping back kept replaying in my mind, looped like a cursed reel.
Blood on lace.
The French President’s stunned face.
The shriek.
The shattering of crystal.
I took a sip. The bourbon burned like it should. My hand still shook.
“That wasn’t a lone gunman,” I said finally, voice low.
Thomas sat beside me on the couch, elbows on his knees. “No, it was too clean and too public to have been only one man.”
I nodded. “There was no panic at the perimeter, no screaming from the staff. They weren’t caught off-guard. Either the staff was in on it or whoever did it were ghosts, in and out without raising alarm or suspicion.”
