I wrapped my leg around his, using capoeira's ground game to trip him backward. We went down hard. I tried to follow up, but he rolled away and kicked up at my knee.
The impact sent me stumbling into the desk. Azevedo's blood had made the surface slippery, and my hand skidded through it. I used the slide to my advantage, spinning around the desk's edge as the priest pursued.
He grabbed my jacket and yanked me back. We grappled close, his boxing training making him dangerous at this range. A short uppercut to my ribs drove the air from my lungs in an embarrassing wheeze. I responded by slamming my forehead toward his nose. He jerked back just in time, instinct saving him from a broken nose.
For a moment we were face to face, breathing hard, his hands gripping my jacket, mine clutching his cassock. Close enough to see the gold flecks in those whiskey eyes. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin despite the violence, despite everything.
He was magnificent. Absolutely fucking magnificent, and I was definitely going to hell for noticing.
Swiss Guard radios crackled in the hallway, breaking the moment.
I drove my knee up toward his solar plexus. The priest twisted, taking the blow on his hip instead, but his grip loosened just enough. I spun away from him and vaulted over the desk in one smooth motion, scattering papers and sending Azevedo's fountain pen skittering across marble.
"Stop!" The priest's voice followed me as I hit the service door running. Behind me, he cursed as he struggled to his feet, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel a little proud that I'd left him winded.
What a shame. I could have fought him all day. But the Swiss Guards didn't care about my newfound appreciation for violent priests, so I ran.
The Vatican's service corridors were a maze, but I'd memorized the route. Left at the first junction, straight through the maintenance area, right toward the exit that would put me near the tourist parking. Easy. I'd done this a hundred times in a hundred different buildings.
Shouts in Italian echoed behind me.
I took a sharp left down a narrower passage, one that would bypass their checkpoint if I timed it right. A flashlight beam swept the corridor ahead, searching. I pressed myself against the wall, controlling my breathing. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three.
The beam swung away, and I sprinted past, silent as I could manage.
The exit appeared ahead: a service door that led to the public areas. Tourist chatter filtered through, the perfect crowd to disappear into. I hit the door at full speed and emerged into late afternoon chaos. St. Peter's Square spread out before me, and I slipped into the crowd, shedding my jacket and turning it inside out. I dusted off the ball cap I’d hidden in my pocket and slipped it onto my head. The disposable camera in my other pocket completed the look. I was just another tourist snapping pictures.
The Swiss Guard and the hot priest stumbled out of the Vatican together, drawing the attention of the crowd, but I was already power walking in the other direction toward the exit.
I reached where I’d parked my bike and fired it up, pulling into Rome's evening traffic.
Twenty minutes later, I pulled into a quiet side street near Campo de' Fiori and killed the engine. Sudden silence crashed over me after the chase, after the violence, after everything. My hands shook slightly as I pulled off my helmet, adrenaline finally bleeding out and leaving behind the cold reality of what had just happened.
My mouth tasted like blood, and I'd kill for something sweet. Sugar always helped after the bad jobs, and this one qualified as catastrophically bad on multiple levels. But I had more important things to worry about now.
I reached into my jacket and withdrew the Judas Coin. The ancient silver caught the last rays of the afternoon sun. I didn’t know much about the rules of the Judas Coin, but I knew the most important one. Now that I’d accepted it, there was no backing out, not until I killed whoever had initiated Azevedo’s contract.
Information about the contract holder was need to know, and I generally didn’t need to know. I just took the jobs assigned to me, carried them out, and got on with my life. The only way to find out who I’d have to hunt to get rid of the damn thing would be to talk to Luka. He’d know who initiated the Azevedo contract.
I pulled out my phone and dialed his number.
"Lorenzo." Luka's voice crackled through the speaker, sharp and alert despite the late hour. "Please tell me you're calling to confirm the cardinal is very dead and very gone."
"Dead as disco. The murder was the easy part. It’s what came after that’s the problem.”
There was a long pause before Luka asked, “What kind of problem? How big?”
"Biblical proportions," I said, because apparently I was committing to the theme.
"Shit. Lorenzo, listen to me. Rome's Acropolis has a bar called Ossario on the third floor. Can you make it there?"
"I'm twenty minutes away."
"I can meet you there in four hours. Don't do anything stupid before I get there."
"Define stupid."
"Lo."
