distant sound of gravel crunching in the driveway.
He leapt to attention. His heart began to race. Moving quickly to the front window, he cautiously pulled back the heavy, velvet curtain.
The sight made him curse out loud. 'Fucking silent alarms,' he said through gritted teeth.
The driveway was filling up with the local gendarmerie.
Having planned for most setbacks, he made his way upstairs towards his emergency escape point, taking the steps two at a time.
Admittedly this wasn't the first time he'd tripped a silent alarm, but this was more than just an inconvenience for him. How am I going to explain to the suits that I haven't managed to acquire their piece of wood? What was I doing in the library? That's bound to be their first question. Reviewing excuses in his head, he found the small room in the top corner of the mansion, and went straight to the window.
Downstairs, the front door burst open, and the gendarmes announced their arrival. Although they were yelling in French, he guessed the translation would go something like, 'This is the police!
Give up! You're surrounded!'
Returning his attention to the window, he released the catch and pushed on the frame. It refused to budge. He saw the problem; it was sealed by years of accumulated paint. 'Shitty fucking decorators,' he muttered. He wasn't having a good night.
Rifling rapidly through his tool bag, he found a knife and started to slice around the edges, breaking through the paint. Aware of how long it was taking, but also trying not to make any noise, his pulse raced; he could hear it beating in his ears and they started to itch again.
Having secured the lower level, the police were coming up the stairs; thankfully, the window was starting to give a little. At the sound of bedroom doors down the hall being thrust open, sweat began to form on his forehead; it wouldn't be long before they reached this room.
He lunged towards the window frame with both palms open, forcing the window. As he did, the paint cracked and the window flew open; unfortunately, his momentum carried him out with it.
With his weapon drawn, an officer opened the door of the small room just in time to catch a glimpse of the feet of the intruder leaving the room via the window. He was watching as the man hit the ground headfirst, shattering his skull, breaking his neck, and killing him instantly.
8
R OME
The brochure read: 'The Vatican City State, Holy See, is situated on the Vatican hill, on the right bank of the Tiber River, within the city of
Rome. After establishing its local independence from Italy in 1929, and at 0.44 square kilometres, it is the smallest country in the world.'
Beneath the dome of the Sistine Chapel, on a balcony high above
St Peter's Square, the Pope, having addressed the crowd below, turns and makes his way back inside St Peter's Basilica. As the crowd starts to disperse, two men head towards the main building. One stands tall and one is vertically challenged, both are dressed in shorts and T-shirts, with their mandatory tourist cameras slung around their necks.
'Inside Vatican City, the population is 911. All the dignitaries, priests, nuns, guards and 3,000 lay workers live outside. The Swiss guards are the military force, and the security for the City and the
Pope is provided by the Papal Swiss Guard.'
The shorter of the two men reads out the facts with authority, trying to pick relevant points, but he senses his colleague isn't listening.
'They've got their own currency, "Peter's Pence," they've even got their own radio and TV stations!' The last points were to test his theory.
'Okay, you can stop with the facts now; we'll get enough of that from the tour guide.' The taller man hadn't taken his eyes off the guards, but made it clear he'd been listening and had heard enough.
They'd planned to take the general tour and made their way to the starting point to meet with their guide. The guide was mesmerizing; her olive skin and long, flowing hair — matched by her
He leapt to attention. His heart began to race. Moving quickly to the front window, he cautiously pulled back the heavy, velvet curtain.
The sight made him curse out loud. 'Fucking silent alarms,' he said through gritted teeth.
The driveway was filling up with the local gendarmerie.
Having planned for most setbacks, he made his way upstairs towards his emergency escape point, taking the steps two at a time.
Admittedly this wasn't the first time he'd tripped a silent alarm, but this was more than just an inconvenience for him. How am I going to explain to the suits that I haven't managed to acquire their piece of wood? What was I doing in the library? That's bound to be their first question. Reviewing excuses in his head, he found the small room in the top corner of the mansion, and went straight to the window.
Downstairs, the front door burst open, and the gendarmes announced their arrival. Although they were yelling in French, he guessed the translation would go something like, 'This is the police!
Give up! You're surrounded!'
Returning his attention to the window, he released the catch and pushed on the frame. It refused to budge. He saw the problem; it was sealed by years of accumulated paint. 'Shitty fucking decorators,' he muttered. He wasn't having a good night.
Rifling rapidly through his tool bag, he found a knife and started to slice around the edges, breaking through the paint. Aware of how long it was taking, but also trying not to make any noise, his pulse raced; he could hear it beating in his ears and they started to itch again.
Having secured the lower level, the police were coming up the stairs; thankfully, the window was starting to give a little. At the sound of bedroom doors down the hall being thrust open, sweat began to form on his forehead; it wouldn't be long before they reached this room.
He lunged towards the window frame with both palms open, forcing the window. As he did, the paint cracked and the window flew open; unfortunately, his momentum carried him out with it.
With his weapon drawn, an officer opened the door of the small room just in time to catch a glimpse of the feet of the intruder leaving the room via the window. He was watching as the man hit the ground headfirst, shattering his skull, breaking his neck, and killing him instantly.
8
R OME
The brochure read: 'The Vatican City State, Holy See, is situated on the Vatican hill, on the right bank of the Tiber River, within the city of
Rome. After establishing its local independence from Italy in 1929, and at 0.44 square kilometres, it is the smallest country in the world.'
Beneath the dome of the Sistine Chapel, on a balcony high above
St Peter's Square, the Pope, having addressed the crowd below, turns and makes his way back inside St Peter's Basilica. As the crowd starts to disperse, two men head towards the main building. One stands tall and one is vertically challenged, both are dressed in shorts and T-shirts, with their mandatory tourist cameras slung around their necks.
'Inside Vatican City, the population is 911. All the dignitaries, priests, nuns, guards and 3,000 lay workers live outside. The Swiss guards are the military force, and the security for the City and the
Pope is provided by the Papal Swiss Guard.'
The shorter of the two men reads out the facts with authority, trying to pick relevant points, but he senses his colleague isn't listening.
'They've got their own currency, "Peter's Pence," they've even got their own radio and TV stations!' The last points were to test his theory.
'Okay, you can stop with the facts now; we'll get enough of that from the tour guide.' The taller man hadn't taken his eyes off the guards, but made it clear he'd been listening and had heard enough.
They'd planned to take the general tour and made their way to the starting point to meet with their guide. The guide was mesmerizing; her olive skin and long, flowing hair — matched by her
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