Page 22 of Skotos (Of Shadows & Secrets #6)

Thomas

O n any other occasion, I would’ve been thrilled to see the ancient architecture that shaped the known world, but given our mission, my stomach thrashed like a feckless swimmer about to drown.

Ours was a direct flight thanks to the Baroness. She insisted on booking the travel herself. Otto waved us off like a proud uncle, promising to till a field in our honor someday. I fully expected a sack of potatoes to show up unannounced on our doorstep in Rome.

As we emerged from the tangle of arrivals at Ciampino Airport, I scanned the crowd for a sign or familiar face. Instead, a short man in a crisp tan suit stood beside a black Fiat holding a placard with block letters: SNEAD.

We crossed over, introduced ourselves, and were quickly ushered into the back seat. The driver, who introduced himself as Carlo, offered a rapid-fire itinerary.

“You will stay at Hotel Eden,” he said, glancing at us through the rearview mirror. “The Agency contacted the ambassador, who personally made arrangements for your meetings. Tomorrow, you meet Monsignor Rinaldi at ten, then a private audience, possibly with the Pope himself, though no guarantees.”

Will and I exchanged a long look.

“Let me guess,” I said. “We’re not allowed to ask questions about the itinerary.”

“Of course you are.” Carlo grinned. “You just won’t get any answers.”

“And why is that?” Will asked, his arms crossing before he finished.

Carlo smiled through the rearview mirror again. “Because I am only a driver. I know nothing of the workings in the Vatican and even less about the goings-on at the embassy.”

I rolled my eyes so hard I worried they might pop out and smack Carlo in the back of his head.

Neither of us believed the man was a simple anything.

More likely, he was one of the resident spies who worked for the Rome station chief and was more informed about what occurred in his city than the local papers or radio stations.

But such was the game we played .

Spies ferried spies to not-so-secret meetings in which they hoped to learn less-secret information. Had everything not been so serious, I would’ve found it all terribly funny.

The car moved through ancient streets that shimmered under the late afternoon sun, bouncing and jarring as it bounded over cobbles and fought through potholes. Domes and crosses crowned the skyline like stone watchmen.

I felt an old unease creeping in—Rome had never been my favorite place. There was too much ceremony, too many secrets dressed up in gold leaf and marble—and habits.

Will leaned in. “You think the Pope will actually meet with us?”

I shook my head. “Doubt it, not unless someone is really spooked.”

“I don’t think the stairs here go any higher than His Holiness, and he should be spooked,” Will said. “Three Western leaders dead? If someone’s trying to frame the Church—or worse, act in its name—he can’t afford silence. Besides, who’s to say he’s not on the target list?”

I shifted my eyes toward Carlo and back to Will.

He nodded, understanding flaring in his eyes. This was not a conversation for prying ears, even ones owned by men who wore the same jersey.

The car wound past the Tiber, slipping through narrow alleys and grand piazzas.

My fingers drummed against my knee. I wanted to be in Bern, chasing flight logs and customs reports, not hurtling through a city where holy men pretended not to play politics.

But orders were orders, and if answers were here, we’d find them—even if we had to shake them loose from behind a silk curtain.

“Still think this is just a coincidence?” Will asked.

I looked out the window at a group of nuns crossing the street, the hems of their habits catching the breeze.

“No,” I said quietly. “I think we’re standing on the edge of something massive, and I don’t think we’re the only players moving about the board.”

Carlo pulled to a smooth stop outside the Hotel Eden, where a bellhop opened the door before we could even reach for the handle.

“You will find the rooms comfortable,” Carlo said with a wink. “But do not eat the chocolate on the nightstand. It is a trap.”

We chuckled and thanked him before making our way into the polished lobby. Check-in was swift—almost too swift—even for a reservation made by our illustrious Baroness. Our keys were already waiting.

“Room 214,” the desk clerk said, sliding over a heavy brass key with a forced smile. “Enjoy your stay.”

The elevator groaned its way upward like an old man protesting the verticality of stairs.

We stepped out onto a richly carpeted hallway.

Cigarette smoke plumed, as though an entire nightclub had walked before us, puffing until their lungs could hold no more.

Room 214 was at the end, just past a carved armoire that looked older than Greek democracy.

I turned the key and stepped inside—then froze.

A silhouette was crouched beside the window, hand deep in a lampshade. The door wailed open, and the figure’s head snapped up like a coiled spring.

There was a flash of metal.

Something hurtled toward me.

Thud!

“Down!” Will barked, but I was already moving, diving sideways just as a dagger stuck into the wall, its handle wobbling wildly but failing to wriggle free. Shards of paint skittered across the floor.

Before I could recover, the figure sprinted toward the open window and launched out with terrifying grace. A split-second later, we heard the thump of boots hitting the canopy below.

Will dashed past me and threw open the window. “Shit!” he hissed. “He’s running across the rooftops!”

I scrambled to his side.

The tiles below stretched like a painted ocean of red slate. The figure—fast, and cloaked—was already darting across the top of a chapel, leaping from eaves like a spider on caffeine .

“Son of a—” Will clenched the windowsill. “We’ve been made.”

“Not just made,” I said, staring at the wreckage by the wall. “They were planting something.”

A closer look confirmed it—a small listening device, singed from impact but intact enough to recognize.

“It doesn’t look military grade, but it’s pretty sophisticated, something a state actor would use,” I said.

“Or Soviets if they didn’t want to give themselves away,” Will added.

“Right.” My heart found its way further up my throat.

“They bugged the damn room,” Will said. “I bet there’s more, too.”

I nodded, then grabbed a spiral notepad from my pocket and scribbled. “We need to go down and get another room, but don’t say that. They’re probably already listening through ten other bugs.”

Will’s eyes widened as his head nodded.

I grabbed the desk lamp and began sweeping the underside of furniture.

As I bent to check the bedframe, my pulse still hammering in my ears, I realized something else chilling: We hadn’t even begun our Vatican investigation, and someone was already trying to listen in.