Page 95 of Skotos
A group of nuns posed for a photo near the obelisk.
And then I saw it.
From above, high on the central balcony, a giant crimson banner emblazoned with the seal of the Holy See and fringed in gold unfurled like a silent trumpet call.
The papal banner.
I gripped Thomas’s arm. “Thomas—look!”
Thomas followed my gaze, his eyes narrowing.
Luca leaned forward again. “I do not think this was scheduled.”
My heart pounded. “We don’t have two days.”
“No, we don’t.” Thomas cursed softly. “He’ll be exposed today . . . any moment now.”
The car screeched to a halt at the edge of the piazza. I was already pushing the door open before if came to a full stop.
“We split up, start scanning the rooftops, binoculars out. If the shooter’s in place, we’ve got minutes. Maybe less,” Thomas snapped, his voice low and deadly calm. “Let’s move.”
44
Thomas
Itore through the press of bodies like a madman, jostling priests and tourists, muttering apologies I didn’t mean. My legs burned, and my shoulder pulsed with fresh pain, but I couldn’t stop—not now, not with the Pope stepping onto that balcony in minutes, not with the weight of the future pounding in my chest like a second heartbeat.
Two days. Damn it. We were supposed to have two days. This couldn’t be happeningtoday.
I found the alley—a narrow slit between a wine shop and a butcher—and hurtled into it, skidding on spilled olive oil and slamming into the door I’d memorized during our planning with Lucio. He’d proven himself a wizard in navigating the ancient city.
The staircase beyond was tight, the walls closing in as I climbed up one floor, then another, then six or eight more—I lost count.
Breaths came in ragged bursts.
I thought my heart might beat its way out of my chest.
I checked my pistol for the hundredth time, then pressed forward. The rooftop door—an old metal thing—refused to budge. I leaned my weight into it. Still nothing. I stepped back and slammed against the unyielding slab. It finally popped free, its hinges groaning in protest as it swung wide.
I froze.
The roof was empty.
There was no gunman, no rifle, only flat stone tiles, a few scattered cigarette butts, and the quiet flutter of a papal banner fluttering in the breeze on a nearby balcony.
I spun, scanning every corner.
There was nothing.
No one.
I was on the wrong roof.
45
Will
Isprinted down the cobbles, dodging strollers, priests, and a gaggle of German tourists, one of whom swore at me in what I thought was rapid Bavarian.
