Page 52 of Skotos (Of Shadows & Secrets #6)

Will

T he cell smelled like piss and whatever the hell they’d served for lunch in the station cafeteria. I’d been in worse places—a lot worse—but something about the cramped concrete box made my skin crawl in ways that had nothing to do with the accommodations.

Maybe it was the helplessness.

Maybe it was not knowing if Thomas was bleeding out on some Roman rooftop while I sat here like a caged beast, watching dust motes dance in the thin shaft of light that leaked through the single barred window.

Or maybe it was the way the officers had looked at my credentials like I’d handed them a child’s crayon drawing and claimed it was the Mona Lisa.

I paced the length of the cell for what felt like the thousandth time, my shoes scraping against concrete that was probably poured when Mussolini was still making his trains run on time.

The walls were covered in graffiti: names, dates, crude drawings, messages to God or lovers or lawyers who never came.

Someone had carved “ INNOCENTE ” deep into the stone near the toilet.

Someone else had scratched out the last three letters.

Thomas, what’s taking so long? You’d better be all right.

The thought crashed through my mind like a freight train, carrying with it all the scenarios I’d been trying not to imagine: him lying unconscious in some alley, him captured by whoever had orchestrated this whole mess, him trying to find me and walking straight into another trap.

Him bleeding . . . again.

Stop it , I told myself. Thomas is fine. He’s too stubborn to die on some Italian rooftop.

But the rational part of my brain, the part that had been trained to calculate odds and assess threats, whispered that even Thomas Jacobs had limits. Even he couldn’t dodge bullets forever.

I sank down on the narrow cot and tried to focus on what I knew rather than what I feared.

The Pope had appeared on the balcony.

There had been gunshots.

Someone had been hit .

But who? The Pope himself? One of the cardinals? Some innocent bystander caught in the crossfire?

And what about the shooter? The last thing I’d seen before the Italian police tackled me was Thomas waving frantically from his rooftop, pointing toward something I couldn’t see.

Had he spotted the assassin? Had he tried to stop them? Had he gotten himself killed trying to save the Pope?

The cell door clanged open, and I looked up to see the same police sergeant who’d arrested me, a stocky man with a mustache that looked like it had been borrowed from a 1930s movie villain who still had a hapless woman tied to a train track.

The sergeant held my credentials in one hand and wore the expression of someone who’d just bitten into what he thought was chocolate but turned out to be dog shit.

“These papers,” he said in heavily accented English, waving my FBI identification like it was contaminated. “They are false, yes? You think we are stupid?”

I stood slowly, keeping my hands visible and my voice calm. “They’re genuine. I can give you a number to call—”

“ Basta! ” He slammed my ID card against the wall hard enough to leave a dent. “You think that because you are American, you can come to our country with guns and fake papers? You think we are idiots who will believe your Hollywood stories?”

“Look, I understand your skepticism—”

“You understand nothing!” His face flushed red, spittle flying with each word. “You were found on rooftop with a weapon during an attack on the Holy Father. You are terrorist, yes? Assassin? Who do you work for? Did someone pay you to kill the Pope?”

I bit back my first three responses, all of which would have involved explaining exactly what I thought of his investigative skills and where he could shove his bushy stache, but getting into a pissing match with an angry Italian cop wasn’t going to get me out of here any faster.

“I’m not a terrorist,” I said as calmly as I could manage. “I’m an American intelligence officer investigating threats against European leaders. If you’ll just make a phone call—”

“To whom? Your friends who will lie for you?” He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You Americans think you own the world, but this is Italy. Here, we do not bow to your fake badges and arrogance.”

He turned to leave, then stopped and looked back at me with a sneer.

“Your friend—the one who ran from the other building—when we catch him, he will join you here. You will both die for trying to kill our Holy Father.”

The door slammed shut with a finality that echoed off the concrete walls.

I sank back onto the cot and tried to ignore the icy fear spreading through my chest. They thought Thomas was a fugitive now, which meant every cop in Rome would be looking for him.

If they found him, they might offer him the civility of an arrest as they had me.

Then again, they had me in custody for answers; they didn’t really need him alive.

That thought sent a fresh chill down my spine, but before I could dive into a pit of my own malaise, voices in the corridor outside jolted me upright.

There were multiple speakers, a few of the officers I recognized and another I couldn’t quite place.

There was something different about the way the officers spoke then.

They sounded less aggressive and more . . . deferential?

I moved to the cell door and pressed my ear against the cold metal, trying to make out what was happening.

“. . . Sua Santità è qui . . .”

“. . . non è possibile . . .”

“. . . ordini diretti dal Vaticano . . . dalla sua stessa santità .”

Santità? The Pope? His Holiness was here?

Orders direct from the Vatican. From the Pope himself.

What the hell?

Footsteps approached, not the heavy boots of the police, but softer steps, accompanied by the whisper of fabric and the faint clink of metal. The voices grew clearer as they approached my cell, and I caught fragments of conversation that made my heart race.

“. . . rilasciatelo immediatamente . . .”

“. . . ma, Santità, è accusato di . . .”

“. . . le accuse sono ritirate . . .”

Release him immediately.

But Your Holiness, he is accused of—

The charges are dropped.

A key turned in the lock, and the cell door swung open to reveal a sight that would have been surreal even in the strangest fever dream. Pope Pius XII stood in the doorway of my cell, flanked by two Swiss Guards in their traditional uniforms.

The Pope himself.

In a police station.

Coming to collect me like I was some wayward altar boy who’d been caught smoking behind the church.

“Mr. Barker,” the Pope said, his voice carrying the same quiet authority I remembered from our previous meetings. “I apologize for the delay. There were certain . . . diplomatic protocols that needed to be observed.”

Behind them, looking rumpled and worried but very much alive, stood Thomas.

I stared at him, my mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. “Your Holiness, I . . . what are you . . . how did you—”

“All in good time,” he said gently. “For now, let us say that your credentials have been verified to the satisfaction of the Italian authorities. Call it . . . a matter of faith.”

The Pope’s mouth curled into a tight smile.

Behind him, the police sergeant who’d been so eager to insult American arrogance now stood with his cap in his hands looking like he wanted to disappear into the floor. His face had gone from red to white, and he was making small, nervous bowing motions every few seconds.

“ Santità ,” he stammered, “ mi dispiace tanto —I am so sorry—if I had known—”

The Pope raised a hand, silencing him with a gesture that probably dated back to the Apostles. “No harm was done, Sergeant. You were simply doing your duty. Thank you for protecting me with such . . . ferocity.”

The sergeant bowed his head but still tried to defend his actions. “Holy Father, the charges against this man—”

“Have been withdrawn.” The Pope’s voice brooked no argument. “Mr. Barker was acting under Vatican authority in matters of Church security. Any inconvenience caused was entirely unintentional.”

At a gesture from the Pope, I stepped out of the cell, still feeling like I was trapped in some bizarre dream.

Thomas moved to my side. I could see the relief in his eyes even as he struggled to maintain his professional composure.

I knew how he felt. All I wanted—the only thing in the world in that moment—was to fall into his arms and never part again.

“Are you hurt?” he asked quietly.

“Just my pride. You?”

He shook his head. “No, I’m fine.”

“For once,” I said, unable to resist the easy jab.

He snorted, clearly caught off-guard.

The Pope was watching our exchange with what might have been amusement under any other circumstance.

I finally found my voice. “Your Holiness, what happened at the Vatican? The shooting—”

“Will be explained in due course,” he said. “But not here, where there are too many ears.”

He turned to the police sergeant, who was still hovering nearby like a penitent seeking absolution. “Sergeant, I trust this matter will remain confidential, yes? The security of the Holy See depends upon certain . . . discretions.”

“ Sì, Santità! Of course! Absolutely!” The sergeant nodded so vigorously I worried his head might fall off. “No report will be filed. Nothing happened here. I have seen no Americans today, none, not even one, certainly not that one.”

“Excellent. Please add my name to the list of people you did not see in your station today.” The Pope smiled, and for a moment, a weight seemed to lift from his shoulders. “Your cooperation is most appreciated.”

As we strode through the police station, I couldn’t help but notice the effect the Pope’s presence had on everyone we passed. Hardened cops and cynical bureaucrats alike stepped aside with expressions of awe and reverence, crossing themselves as we walked by.

Some kneeled. Others bowed heads. A few reached out to touch his cassock.

All were silent.

It was like watching Moses part the Red Sea, except instead of water, it was Italian law enforcement bending to the will of the man in white.

We emerged into the late afternoon sunlight, where a small convoy of black cars waited at the curb. Swiss Guards in plain clothes stood at discrete intervals, their eyes constantly scanning the street for threats. Each wielded the menace of a snarl and an automatic weapon.

“Your Holiness,” I said as we approached the vehicles, “I have to ask, what you just did in there, the diplomatic intervention, was that legal?”

The Pope paused, one hand on the car door, and turned to me with a slight smile.

“Mr. Barker, I am the sovereign ruler of Vatican City, the spiritual leader of over four hundred million Catholics worldwide, and the direct successor to Saint Peter himself. God speaks to me, through me. I am His anointed on Earth.” His eyes twinkled.

“When I need something to be legal, it generally is.”

Thomas snorted, then quickly covered it with a cough.

As we climbed into the car, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we’d just witnessed something that would have made Machiavelli himself applaud. The Pope had walked into a secular institution and essentially commanded them to release a prisoner—and they’d done it without question.

Well, with only a few questions. The sergeant had tried to object.

The Pope might wear robes and preach about turning the other cheek, but he understood power in ways that would have impressed any intelligence operative.

“Now,” the Pope said as the car pulled away from the station, “let us discuss what really happened today, and what we are going to do about my dear friend Cardinal Severan and his Order.”