Page 11 of Skotos (Of Shadows & Secrets #6)

Will

T he embassy’s wrought-iron gates loomed ahead, their black bars like the ribs of some iron beast guarding a deeper, colder heart.

Marines stationed out front wore crisp uniforms and sharp eyes.

As our Citroen rolled to a halt, one stepped forward, his left hand on his holstered sidearm, while his right raised in a flat command.

“Identification,” he barked.

Thomas leaned out, flashing our credentials with the ease of a man who’d done it a thousand times.

The Marine gave a brisk nod, his eyes flicking over us again. “Welcome to home soil, gentlemen.”

The gates creaked open with glacial reluctance, and our car nosed forward onto the embassy grounds where the buzz of diplomatic normalcy hummed just below the surface.

Another Marine waved us toward a rear lot, a discreet corner near the service entrance—standard for intelligence personnel who didn’t want to be seen.

As we stepped out and our shoes crunched on gravel, I adjusted my jacket, still feeling the residual unease from the night before, as if it had sewn itself into my collar.

A junior officer met us at the entrance and led us quickly through back corridors, past polished brass railings and floor-to-ceiling French tapestries. We moved without speaking, every clack of our shoes echoing off the marble like a countdown.

When we reached the corridor that housed the intelligence section, the air cooled. Security thickened noticeably with reinforced doors, massive locks, and the hum of modernity. A Marine stood posted outside the final door.

“Two for the chief,” our escort said.

The Marine guarding the door gave our guide a curt nod and buzzed us through with barely a glance. I supposed they were trained not to notice operatives, taught to think of us as invisible ghosts rather than real people.

The door opened onto dimly lit stairs.

The guard finally spoke. “Two floors down. The door marked with one dot.”

A dot? I wondered.

I’d been in the embassy many times but never into the bowels where secure communications took place.

Langley had largely left us to execute our mission in Paris without much guidance or interference.

We filed regular reports through the station chief but had little need for more direct communication with Washington.

The French were our primary hosts in matters regarding their homeland.

We made our way down the stairs, pausing briefly at the first landing we reached to examine a door with a gilded star the size of my thumb painted at its center. A dozen more stairs brought us before the promised portal, complete with its own thumb-sized circle of gold.

A dot indeed.

Out of some ingrained sense of propriety, I knocked twice.

I could’ve sworn someone yelled in response, though little more than a whisper of inaudible sound escaped the chamber. With a butterfly tickling my ribs, I turned the knob and led us through.

Inside, the room was austere.

A lone telephone sat on the desk like a relic of something sacred.

Two uncomfortable-looking metal chairs sat before the desk, while heavy curtains lined walls I knew held no windows.

There was little need for soundproofing this far below ground, so I figured the curtains were the intelligence agency’s version of office décor.

The CIA Paris station chief—Leonard “Red” Brody—stood behind the desk, his arms folded, sleeves rolled up enough to show scars crisscrossing brawny, hair-covered forearms.

The phone was already off the cradle .

“Close the door,” Red said, his voice gravel and bourbon.

I pulled the door shut behind us, sealing away the world.

Red looked at us, then at the phone. “Washington’s waiting. You boys ready?”

I glanced around. “No ambassador?”

“Washington thinks we spooks fuck up their diplomacy.” Red shook his head, then shrugged. “And they’re probably right. Either way, the big guy only gets involved if we do the aforementioned fuckery.”

I nodded as though I followed. I wasn’t sure I did.

Thomas glanced at me, then back to Red. “Let’s hear what they’ve got.”

Red handed me the receiver. The moment I pressed it to my ear, the secure line crackled and a familiar voice came through, clear and commanding.

“This is Manakin. You’re likely still standing because you’re fucking stubborn. Emu, sit your ass down. With what I am about to tell you, you’ll need your ass in a chair.”

Thomas cocked his head.

“He says we need to sit,” I said, motioning to the chairs. Once seated, I said into the phone, “All right. Good to hear your voice, too. We’re sitting.”

I could practically feel Manakin’s wry smile, though he said nothing to acknowledge my quip.

He spoke for a long moment, barely breathing between statements.

When he paused, I said, “Hold on,” then turned to Thomas.

“Washington thinks the deaths of the Greek King and Swiss President might be linked. They don’t know how and don’t have any leads, but their nerds have a ‘gut feeling,’ for what that’s worth. ”

Manakin’s voice barked through the receiver.

“He says their gut is right more often than not,” I relayed, rolling my eyes in the process.

Another three minutes passed with Manakin speaking with barely a pause. Thomas’s face, already lined with concern, grew positively grave watching me as I listened to what our handler had to say.

“Holy shit,” I whispered.

“What?” Thomas asked.

“He says they’ve intercepted chatter—or the French have; I’m not sure of the source—that indicate whoever is behind all of this isn’t finished. Heads of state across Europe are canceling plans and hardening their security.”

“The Swiss President was killed only hours ago. They’re already—?”

Manakin’s voice snapped as the phone line crackled.

“The Brits are buzzing. Even the Italians are losing their minds, and they’re sympathetic to Moscow. This is so fucking bad, Thomas.”

Manakin spoke again, his voice taking on a commanding edge.

“Sorry, sir,” I said. “Keep going. I’ll fill him in after you’re done.”

Another few minutes passed with me listening. I motioned for Thomas to scoot closer and held the earpiece up so each of us could get an ear close enough to hear.

“Condor is here, sir,” I said.

Manakin didn’t hesitate, his tone shifting into the clipped formality of a military leader.

“By order of the President, you are now authorized for active pursuit under Operation Skotos. I repeat, this is a Tier One directive. Your priority is identification, interdiction, and neutralization of individuals or groups responsible for the assassinations of King Paul and President Petitpierre. You will operate under deep cover. Chief Brody has your briefing packets. Full discretion is granted within operational bounds.”

The phone crackled as Manakin paused. Silence lingered long enough that Thomas cocked a brow as if to ask, “Is that it?”

Then Manakin spoke again, “If these attacks continue, gentlemen, we’re looking at something bigger than Soviet games.

This could destabilize half the continent.

Hell, it’s already shaking the world’s foundations.

Keep your heads down, your wits sharp, and if you find the bastards responsible—you end it.

Quietly, efficiently, and without a damn trace. ”