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It was past midnight. Rome. The City of Seven Hills that rests on the banks of the Tiber was deathly quiet. At one time, the center of Christendom. Peter lay again on the floor of the Sistine Chapel. He knew the world was experiencing something akin to the end times described in Scripture in the book of Revelation. The wind was howling and blowing through this once-famous chapel in his namesake's Basilica. Thunder and lightning rolled over his outstretched arms—blood and water gushed from his side. Through the blood blinding his vision, he could make out the chapel ceiling, where Michelangelo, centuries ago, created the image of God seemingly reaching out, attempting to touch Adam, His creation. God appears concerned and adamant. Adam, not so, his hand somewhat limp and his facial expression nonchalant.

The scene changed. Peter was hanging upside down, nailed to a tree, no longer in the chapel. Blood coagulated around his forehead and eyes. The flesh on his back was torn. He could feel the lashes from the whip that possessed metal balls, pieces of bone, and metal spikes—thirty-nine brutal, monstrous lashes. His vision was hazy. Then—a voice. Not his but someone else's—he'd heard it before but can't place it—sounding as if in immense, unending pain, tortured, like a wounded animal, piercing the heavens screaming, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"

While upside down, he had a vision of the entire planet. Mountains, gardens, rivers, and streams he saw clearly, while others, more desolate, were shrouded in mist. In this vision, he saw what appeared to be a fortress flying the Norwegian flag from its turrets along a coastline, and a woman standing on a rooftop. Her back was to him; he could not see her face, but he knew who she was. Two black ravens circled overhead where she stood.

Next to her was a beautiful woman, taller and more elegantly dressed in black, with a diamond necklace draped around her neck. She looked directly at him, smirked, and laughed out loud. He blinked his eyes, and there she stood naked in front of him. "You want me," she said. "You need me. Worship me, and the world is yours for the taking!" She disappeared, and a group of men in military fatigues stood by the first woman with automatic weapons as if awaiting orders.

The vision changed, and a woman and a man stood on the bridge of an American aircraft carrier. They were facing forward. He could not see their faces. There were two flags flying from the bow of the carrier. Through a misty fog, one appeared to be the U.S. flag. As for the one below it, he was unsure. He could only make out a date on it: 1836. The woman was fairly tall, athletically built, and had stars on her collared shirt. She was peering through binoculars. The man who was with her had Captain's bars on his shoulders. She suddenly turned and yelled something at the man, and he immediately left the bridge. When alone, he saw tears falling from the woman's eyes, and then she blessed herself and fell to her knees.

The world spun on its axis; a new vision: in it, he recognized the Walls of Jericho in Israel. A different woman with dark hair and General's stars on her shirt's shoulders appeared. She stood on the precipice of one of the walls. Small in stature, yet her demeanor was not one of panic but of concern. She was speaking loudly into a walkie-talkie to others he could not see. He tried to listen but only heard the words, "Mercs are here." He then saw an explosion, and the woman's body disappeared from the wall as it splintered into millions of concrete pieces.

He next saw The Abbot. He knew this man. A friend, for sure. Speaking to him were Judah, Gianna, and Pedro, his friends from Rome. They were standing on a beach in his beloved France. The Abbot was facing the English Channel and shouting to his companions. He could see no one's face except Pedro, who turned and looked directly at him. "My God, André, what happened to you?" And the vision went blank.

Next, shaking his head, he could not believe what he was seeing. These were people he knew, some for many years, others he had met recently. One man in the vision was huge, standing next to a woman in United States Army Ranger fatigues. The imposing man with her wore a British naval uniform. He was calling her Mags, a name he recognized, but couldn't place her face in his memory.

Then a tall, lanky, string-bean of a man whose name he knew—Harry, was sitting in front of a fire and crying. A woman spoke to him with an Irish brogue while holding a shotgun. A coffin draped with the British Union Jack Flag silently stood guard near them both. As his vision pulled away from this scene, more people appeared before the coffin, first a few, then hundreds, then thousands. All were no longer in front of the fireplace but standing on huge Cliffs facing the Atlantic Ocean in Ireland. He recognized the Cliffs of Moher.

Harry appeared in front of them all, shouting into the wind, "We must find André. He holds the key. He is the 'Rock.' But we need the Americans." Harry pointed west at the Ocean, and in the distance was that same aircraft carrier, with words painted on its side, "Remember the Alamo!" That made no sense at all. And who the hell is André?

Finally, the epiphany came to him. In one final vision, three brothers walked toward him. He was no longer hanging upside down on a cross. He sat in front of a fire, cooking fish on a beach near the Sea of Galilee. He could tell these three were brothers by their looks. Two he had already met, Mikhael and Rafe. He gestured with his arm for them to sit while saying to the third, "You must be Gabe. Please, my friends, join me." No one spoke through the meal. André then broke the bread and blessed it, and poured wine from a bottle into four cups, blessing them.

With the meal complete, André was about to speak to the brothers when they suddenly disappeared. The fire and its light were extinguished. André stood up, and in the darkness, a man approached him. He wore sandals, an open-collar shirt, and jeans. He had a close-cropped beard. He smiled gently. He appeared young, about 30 years of age.

André was about to ask something, but the man spoke first: "Peter, do you love me?"

And André Jean Lacroix, the former pope, Peter II, Fisherman from Rome, collapsed, and all went dark.