Page 20 of Skotos (Of Shadows & Secrets #6)

Thomas

T he next morning, Will and I dressed in silence, our movements slow, precise, and weighed with the heaviness of too many questions.

We spoke in low tones as we knotted ties and buttoned collars, going over what we knew, which was very little when spoken aloud, and what we suspected, which was far too much.

The king inside his own home in Athens.

Petitpierre at a state dinner in Paris.

Now De Gasperi at his home—in his own car outside his home—in Rome.

Each was Western-leaning.

Each was dead.

The ancient spear etched on the bullet casing in France was our only lead, and none of the world’s collective intelligence services had a clue what it meant.

Those were sum total of our assembled facts .

Oh, and the fact that Will’s stomach was grumbling over the lavish breakfast we both knew would be missed by our immediate departure. Will’s perpetual hunger almost made me smile.

Almost.

We headed downstairs prepared to have the driver take us to the US Embassy straightaway, but the Baroness intercepted us in the foyer with a commanding raise of her chin.

“You will sit. You will eat. You will pretend for five minutes that the world can wait—because it can. The PM will be no less dead if you have eggs,” she said.

She’d done far more than summon a simple morning meal.

The spread hauled out was lavish: silver trays of warm pastries, platters of cheese and cured meats, soft-boiled eggs in porcelain cups, steaming pots of coffee and tea, and an entire sideboard on the opposite end of the dining room filled with fruits, sauteed vegetables, and pastries representing the dessert end of the breakfast sword.

Three servants hovered nearby, pouring and plating with the silent choreography of a ballet troupe.

I almost said something about the whole episode feeling like home but thought better of it.

The Baroness, with her seemingly limitless access to information, no doubt knew my true family heritage, but I would never confirm nor deny the veracity of such.

Plus, broaching the topic of my privileged DuPont upbringing would only encourage another round of teasing and taunting from Will. Those usually lasted days, not hours.

So, instead of making any comment, I simply snatched a croissant and shoved it into my mouth.

Halfway through our meal, the Baroness’s head of household, a short man with a pronounced limp causing him to list to his left, appeared in the doorway, hobbled across the length of the room, and leaned in to whisper something in his mistress’s ear.

Her expression didn’t flicker, but she wiped her mouth delicately, stood, and said, “Pardon me a moment, my dears. An unexpected guest has appeared at my door.”

She returned less than two minutes later with a tall, scrawny man whose bones looked like they wanted to escape his skin trailing behind her. The man’s uniform was rumpled, his eyes bloodshot, and his expression lay somewhere between worry and barely contained urgency.

“May we have the room, please,” the Baroness said to the men and women in livery lining the walls. Our breakfast saviors left, the door clicking shut behind the last of them.

“ Messieurs ,” the Baroness said with cool formality, “this gentleman is from Swiss customs. He has something you will want to see. I do apologize for intruding on our meal.”

The man bowed slightly and withdrew a small, cloth-wrapped bundle from inside his coat. “I do not wish to alarm you,” he said in halting English, “but I believe I have stumbled upon something significant.”

The customs officer hesitated, his fingers fidgeting with the bundle tucked beneath his arm, until the Baroness waved an impatient hand. “Come now, no need to look like you walked in on a funeral. Show them what you found.”

The man gave a shallow bow and stepped forward.

“I am Inspector Vogel of Swiss border enforcement. Early this morning, a routine sweep near an airfield outside Lugano uncovered something strange.” He unfolded the cloth and revealed a sealed evidence pouch.

Inside it, glinting dully beneath the lamplight, was a spent bullet casing.

The metal was badly scorched and dented.

Vogel continued, his English halting but serviceable. “This was found in a drainage trench, well away from the tarmac. The markings—” He pulled a photo from his coat pocket and placed it beside the casing.

Will and I leaned in.

The etching was faint, almost hidden beneath burn marks; but it was unmistakable: a long, stylized spear.

My blood went cold .

Vogel went on. “At first, I thought it was ceremonial, but the casing matches the same caliber used in precision long-range rifles. It is military grade.” He hesitated.

“The report we submitted was meant for internal review only, but my supervisor flagged it to intelligence an hour ago. He insisted we keep this very quiet. I have never known him to insist on such discretion.”

“Where did this photo come from?” I asked.

“My camera.” He pointed to his own chest. “I snapped this image just after the casing was found. There has been no official report yet, only the internal one my superior flagged.”

“Has anyone been shot in the area?” Will asked. “Surely, if there’s a casing, a bullet was fired.”

Vogel shrugged in a most European way. “I know of no gunshot victims at the airport—or anywhere nearby. We would have heard of such had it occurred so close to a port of entry.”

Silence stretched across the table, a tangible thing, like an unseen hand grasping at each breath.

“Who else has seen this?” Will asked sharply.

“Only my commanding officer, myself, and now you.” Vogel shook his head. “Unless—”

“Unless what?” the Baroness snapped, her eyes narrowing like a leopard homing in on its prey.

“Unless the security services chose to share it with others.”

I exhaled slowly .

Had our mysterious enemy made a mistake? It might be small, but it was definitely enough to set off alarms, enough to tell us we were getting closer.

Or they were getting closer to finding us, given the casing was found in the country in which we now sat. The thought of a group capable of such precise violence knowing our location, understanding our mission, and showing up within miles of our location sent a wave of nausea through me.

Vogel looked between us, uncertain. “Do you know what it means?”

Will and I exchanged a glance. He shook his head, ever so slightly.

“We might,” I said. “But for now, it’s best if you tell no one else about it.”

Will leaned forward, elbows pressed into the table. “Why did you bring this here?”

The man blanched, then blinked, then let his eyes dart to the Baroness, then to Will.

Will pressed, “This could hold great international importance. Why bring it here, to the Baroness, rather than maintain the secrecy your superiors demanded?”

Vogel reached up and tugged at his collar as though the fabric was trying to strangle him, then ran a hand over his now-sweaty head.

Then he glanced at the Baroness, a look of pleading filling his features .

“Inspector Vogel, you may leave us now,” the Baroness said, her tone not unkind but a clear command.

Once Vogel vanished and the door was again closed behind him, the Baroness turned to us, lifted her delicate coffee cup, and took a sip—all while peering between us over the rim.

“I play a certain role in service to my country, much like the two of you, only . . . a bit more, how should I say . . . strategic? Yes, that is a good word for it. Shall we leave that question there?”

Will gave me a sideways glance, his brow furrowed, then slowly turned back to our hostess and inclined his head, “Of course, Baroness.”

He then turned his empty teacup in his hands. “This doesn’t make any sense. Why would a casing like that be found here? There haven’t been any attacks on Swiss soil.”

“Maybe it was left during a failed attempt,” I said, rising to pace again. “Someone fled before they could take the shot. Maybe it was a surveillance op gone wrong? Or perhaps they shot and missed so badly no one knew a shot was ever fired?”

“Or training,” Will added. “Lugano is a fairly small, secluded airfield, a place they could run weapons drills or recon for a future strike.”

“And it is near the Italian border,” the Baroness said. “Perhaps this was training for that operation. ”

“Maybe.” I frowned. “The Italian hit was an explosion, not a rifle shot. Why would they practice long-range weaponry when they were planning to use an explosive ordnance for the job?”

“Backup plan, in case the bomb didn’t go off or take out the target?” Will suggested.

“Another thing . . . this doesn’t feel Soviet,” I said without thinking. “They aren’t this sloppy, and that spear isn’t anything I’ve seen in Russian history.”

The Baroness lowered her cup. “Russian history is fraught with one invader, conflict, or revolution after another. The spear could be a nod to the Mongol or Chinese or even Tibet, for all we know.”

Will snorted. “Tibetan monks assassinating world leaders. There’s a twist no one would see coming.”

The Baroness offered a wry smile, her eyes sparkling, as she lifted her cup to her lips once more.

Nothing made sense.

It wasn’t as though our enemy was declaring themselves or begging to be discovered. If that was their goal, they would send a much clearer message or publicly claim responsibility. That casing was left behind incidentally, by accident, not for us to find. I was sure of that. So what did it mean?

“We need flight records from the past week. Private aircraft, government transports—anything that came through unlisted or left at odd hours. Who flew into or out of that airport, especially those of prominence or with global status? Elected leaders, royalty, hell, I wouldn’t rule out business leaders at this point.

None have been killed, but it feels as though we’re in the early innings of this game.

” I sat back in my chair rubbed the side of my face.

“And we’ll need to know who is planning to come to Bern in the next few weeks.

If Will’s practice theory holds up, they could be planning a future hit on someone who isn’t here yet. ”

“Travel itineraries of world leaders are . . . challenging to acquire,” the Baroness said, her fingernail tapping against porcelain. “I will see what can be done.”

“And,” I continued as though she hadn’t just spoken, “if someone came in through Lugano or Geneva and slipped away without customs flagging them, that could be our thread. We need to know everything . . . yesterday.”

I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to remember the days when we simply enjoyed our life in Paris.

Without thinking, I reached across and took Will’s hand, needing his comfort, his touch, more than anything else in that moment.

He squeezed back, and the angst roiling in my chest settled, if only a little.

The Baroness pressed her fingertips together. Her face had grown tight, less amused, her usual ease replaced with a flicker of disquiet .

“You think Bern might be next?” she asked, voice lower.

“It’s not out of the question,” I said as gently as the implication allowed.

“Three leaders. Three different nations. All West-leaning. All gone. We need to consider who else is vulnerable. The next target could be another Swiss leader, another member of your ruling council, or it could be some other leader visiting the world’s diplomatic capital. ”

“We need a secure line to the States. There’s no time for diplomatic pouches and long flights,” Will said. “Manakin needs to know what we’ve found. He might have guidance from overnight intel gathered in Rome.”

I nodded. “Baroness, is the line in the tower secure?”

She snorted, her first hint at humor since breakfast was served. “Oh, my boy, it is more secure than those in your White House. You may take me at my word on that.”

God, I loved that woman.

“With your leave, we need to make a call. We should then start with the flight records,” I said. “Movements in and out. Anyone who doesn’t belong—or who might’ve been a target.”

“Let my people handle the records. You speak with your bird man and focus on other tasks. I suspect research is not your favorite activity, in any case. ”

“That’s an understatement,” Will muttered a bit too loudly.

“Then you had best get started. I will make some calls myself and let the staff know to leave the upstairs undisturbed for the day.” The Baroness smirked and sipped her coffee. “Gentlemen, I do believe our quiet morning just came to a tragic end.”