The Lord has spoken to him more in the past few days than ever before, but Stefano is still not accustomed to His voice. When the Almighty first started communing with him, Stefano was confused, even doubtful. He suspected it was just one of the auditory hallucinations that Dr. Lonzo had told him were so common to his illness. He even asked Brother Silvio, the wisest monk he knew, what God sounded like. Brother Silvio replied that if anyone could hear His voice, it would sound as pure as the love of a mother or a father.

But love is not what Stefano has been hearing inside his head. The voice has been more unforgiving than ever. And last night, the Lord could not have been clearer. “Even the Promised Land will not be spared my wrath. You will release one of my creatures to Canaan.”

It wasn’t until morning that Stefano figured out how he would fulfill God’s latest command. As soon as the resupply crew boarded the ship, he would a find a way to hide one of the rats in one of the empty containers that they would take back with them.

As Stefano lies on his upper bunk, his thoughts turn again to the containers. The massive freighter has countless matching modular boxes stacked aboard. They are sealed, but if he can somehow find an opening into one or two of them, he can conceal the rats inside. All the animals will need is a little food. If they have been able to survive for almost seven hundred years in the crypt below San Giovanni, surely they can survive a few days or weeks as stowaways? Then the containers can do the work of spreading God’s wrath.

He is pulled from the thoughts by his roommate, who lies on the bunk below him. “Stefano?”

“Yes, Nino?”

“I am not feeling so good,” his roommate says.

Stefano hears the sheets rustle below him. “What is it, my brother?”

“I was very cold. Now I think I have a fever.”

Stefano sits up in the bed.

“And my underarm hurts. I can feel a lump under there.”

“Oh, it’s probably the flu,” Stefano says, trying to sound calm despite the panic welling inside.

“I will see the doctor in the morning.”

“No, no,” Stefano says, desperate to find some way to talk him out of it. “The old Ukrainian doctor, he’s not very good. I . . . I would not trust him.”

“What shall I do, brother?”

“I have medicine,” Stefano blurts. “Antibiotics. They will take care of your flu. They will make you well again.”

“All right,” Nino says acceptingly. “God bless you, Stefano.”

“I will pray for you, Nino.”

Chapter

Fifty-Eight

The exhaustion begins to catch up with Alana in the backseat of the cab. All the adrenaline-fueled excitement and anticipation from earlier in the morning has given way to the frustration of mounting dead ends. The media has splashed photos of Stefano and Silvio over the screens of TVs, computers, and mobile devices across Italy. But so far, nothing, except a bunch of false alarms.