Page 55 of Skotos (Of Shadows & Secrets #6)
“He was notably reclusive for a cardinal, kept to himself, avoided social gatherings, rarely participated in informal discussions that didn’t involve his buddy, the Pope. ”
“Which should have been a red flag,” Manakin muttered. “What about the Order’s operational capacity?”
“Unknown,” I said. “We’ve found no evidence of other cells or ongoing operations, but that doesn’t mean they’re not out there. They’ve gone completely quiet since Severan disappeared.”
Silence crackled through the speaker for what felt like an eternity. When Manakin spoke again, his voice was flat with disappointment.
“So you’re telling me that after a direct attack on the Pope witnessed by thousands of people involving a cardinal of the Catholic Church, you have no leads, no suspects, and no idea what they’re planning next.”
I felt heat rising in my cheeks. “Sir, we’ve been working with every available resource—”
“I’m sure you have; and I’m sure you’ve been very thorough.” Manakin’s tone could have frozen the Mediterranean. “But thoroughness doesn’t help when the President wants to know why American intelligence failed to prevent an assassination attempt on one of our most important allies.”
“We did prevent it,” Thomas snapped. “The Pope is alive.”
“One cardinal is dead, another is missing and presumed to be an assassin, and the Vatican’s security has been compromised at the highest levels. From where I sit, that doesn’t look like prevention. It looks like damage control.”
“What about the intelligence value?” I pressed. “We’ve confirmed the existence of an international conspiracy with religious motivations. That has to be worth something.”
“Worth what, exactly? You can’t prosecute or quash a conspiracy without conspirators. You can’t dismantle a network you can’t locate.” Manakin’s voice was getting sharper. “All you’ve given me is confirmation that there are bad actors out there planning bad things, which we already knew.”
The words hung in the air like an accusation, which, I supposed, they were.
I exchanged a glance with Thomas, seeing my own frustration reflected in his eyes.
“What are our orders?” Thomas asked.
“This case is being transferred to Interpol and European intelligence services. This is their backyard and their problem now. We have teams standing by to assist, but they will take the lead from here. You two are going back to Paris to resume your work there.”
Thomas straightened in his chair, and I could see him gearing up to argue. “Sir, with respect, we know this case better than anyone. The Pope trusts us—personally. We’ve built relationships with Vatican security. We understand the Order’s methods— ”
I reached under the table and grabbed Thomas’s leg, squeezing hard enough to make him wince.
When he looked at me, I gave him the most withering scowl I could manage, the kind that said, “Shut up, you idiot, before you talk us into another assignment that gets you shot and keeps us from going home!”
Thomas blinked, then seemed to understand what I was trying to communicate.
“Actually,” he said, his tone shifting, “a return to Paris sounds reasonable. We’ve done what we can here.”
“Good.” Manakin’s voice carried a note of surprise, as if he’d been expecting more resistance. “Get back to Paris. Resume your work with the French resistance networks. Help them track down remaining Nazi collaborators. At least that’s a mission with achievable objectives.”
“When do we leave?” I asked, still maintaining my grip on Thomas’s leg.
“Tomorrow. There’s a diplomatic pouch flight departing at 0800. Your tickets are waiting at the embassy front desk.”
“Understood,” Thomas said.
“And, boys?” Manakin’s tone shifted again.
Oh, shit, here it comes.
“You did good work here. The Pope is alive because of you, even if we can’t prove it. Sometimes that has to be enough. ”
The line went dead, leaving us staring at the silent speaker.
Thomas turned to me, his eyebrow raised. “Care to explain why you just talked me out of staying on the most important case we’ve ever worked?”
I released his leg and leaned back in my chair. “Because I’m tired of watching you get stabbed, shot, and generally used as target practice by religious fanatics.”
“Will—”
“No. Don’t you dare Will me.” I held up a hand. “Paris means quiet surveillance, filing reports, and maybe the occasional jog to our favorite café. Rome means ancient conspiracies, armed cardinals, a language neither of us speaks, and you bleeding all over historical landmarks.”
Thomas was quiet for a moment, rolling his shoulder in that unconscious way that proved he was still hurting more than he let on. Stubborn bastard.
“You think we can’t handle it?” he muttered.
“I think you’re too stubborn to admit when we’re in over our heads.” I stood and began gathering our papers. “Besides, something tells me the Order isn’t done with us. If they’re smart, they’ll let things cool down for a while before making their next move.”
“And if they’re not?”
“Then Interpol can deal with them.” I stuffed the last of the reports into our briefcase. “Either way, we’ll be in Paris drinking good wine and chasing cowards instead of fanatics.”
Thomas stood slowly, testing his shoulder with a careful rotation. “Maybe you’re right.”
“I’m always right. You just don’t listen often enough to notice.”
He shoved my shoulder hard enough to make me stumble into the wall, but when I turned back to bark at him, a wide grin brightened his face—the same grin that had me tripping over my own feet all those years ago at Harvard when we first met, when I first fell for him.
I could never be angry with that smirk . . . and he knew it.
Fucking Thomas Jacobs.
As we headed for the embassy exit, despite my lightened mood at returning to Paris, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were walking away from something unfinished. The Order of Saint Longinus was still out there, still planning, still dangerous. But for once, they’d be someone else’s problem.
And Thomas would be safe.
At least, that’s what I told myself as we stepped into the Roman sunshine and began planning our return to the City of Light.