Page 96 of Skotos
I barely registered them. My focus was fixed on the stone façade ahead, the one we’d picked as the most likely roost for our shooter.
The square was swelling with people—pilgrims, sightseers, families—all streaming toward the Vatican balcony where the Pope would appear any moment now.
There are too many faces, too many windows, too many damn places to hide a rifle.
I veered off the path and reached the building entrance, my shoulder slamming into the heavy wooden door. It didn’t budge. Locked.
Shit.
I hammered on it with my fist, and it opened with a groan. I surged inside, only to be stopped cold.An Italian police officer startled, one hand still on the doorknob. He froze, eyes wide, his other hand reaching for his holster.
“Fermo lì!” he barked, his gunsnappingfree.
“I don’t speak Italian!” I shouted, raising my hands as I made to push past him.
“Polizia!”
He lunged.
I ducked.
My shoulder knocked him off-balance long enough for me to bolt past, my shoes skidding on the polished floor. I turned down a hallway—a wrong one.
Another turn. Another hallway.
Then—stairs. I took them two at a time, my heart hammering, lungs burning, pulse pounding in my ears like a warning bell.
Behind me it was chaos.
The clatter of debris being hurled aside.
Shouts of alarm.
Fuck me, the cop is giving chase.
I didn’t care. Let him shoot me if he had to. I’d take a bullet if it meant keeping His Holiness alive.
I reached the top floor, found the door to the roof, and burst through—
The roof stood empty.
It was wide and flat—and was utterly desolate—the sun burning down on ancientstone tiles. A few weather-worn chairs and a rusted chimney kept each other company.
There was nothing else.
No shooter.
No Thomas.
I froze.
This was wrong.Allof it was wrong.
My gut twisted.
What have we missed? Was this whole thing a setup? Is Thomas—
No.
