Page 98 of Skotos
Icaught a flash of movement—arms flailing in wild arcs like semaphore flags in a hurricane.
Thomas.
His silhouette was unmistakable, framed against the cloudy sky like a figure from a stained-glass window come alive. He was waving both arms, frantic and urgent, shouting something I couldn’t hear, couldn’t even begin to guess.
I squinted, trying to read his body language. He jabbed a finger toward the square, then back at me. There was desperation in every twitch of his frame.
“Thomas!” I shouted, uselessly, then raised both arms in the universal “What—what is it?” signal.
He froze. Then his expression shifted.
I couldn’t see him clearly, but I was fairly certain his eyes were wide and mouth open. He was looking past me.
At that moment, the rooftop door burst open and boots slammed against the concrete. Guns weredrawn and pointed at my chest, as voices barked in staccato Italian, one after another—commands I didn’t understand but felt down to my bones.
I raised my hands. “American! Police!” I shouted, too fast, too loud. “CIA!”
The policemen didn’t hesitate. One aimed center mass, while the other advanced with steel in his eyes and cuffs already out. I lowered to my knees, slow and careful, lacing my fingers behind my head. Broken tiles bit into my skin through my trousers. My heart pounded like a jackhammer.
I saw Thomas again.
He had stopped waving. He stood frozen at the edge of his rooftop, fists clenched at his sides, eyes wide with panic. His mouth shaped a single word I couldn’t hear—but I knew it:
No!
For one brief second—amid the guns, the shouting, and the pressure of the officer’s boot on my back—I felt a strange relief. He was safe. He might be bruised, bloody, and half broken—but he was alive. Even if the Pope might not be soon, Thomas was. And for the briefest, strangest moment, as if the world had stilled and only my worry for him existed, his life mattered more than any mission or president . . . or Pope.
That moment shattered with a single sound.
A rifle shot.
Crisp. Clean. Frighteningly loud.
The world paused.
The roar of the crowd stilled.
Somewhere between breaths, everything halted.
Except the shot.
It sliced through the air, a knife, cutting deep into the silence before the crowd below fractured into chaos.
Screams rose like sirens.
Dozens at first.
Then hundreds.
Then thousands.
They sprinted in every direction, shoving, tripping, scrambling over each other to get clear. Vendor carts toppled. Mothers scooped up children. Uniformed guards shouted into the madness, their voices drowned in an instant.
The shooter fired again.
48
Thomas
