Midnight Angels

336 Pages·2010·1.5 MB·English

by  Carcaterra Lorenzo

Also by
LORENZO CARCATERRA
…
A Safe Place: The True Story of a Father, a Son, a Murder
Sleepers
Apaches
Gangster
Street Boys
Paradise City
Chasers

This one is for my son, Nick.
Contents
Other Books by this Author
Title Page
Dedication
Preface
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Part Two
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
About the Author
Copyright
PREFACE
Summer 1989
FLORENCE, ITALY
T
The air was thick with dust,
HE ROOM HAD ABOUT IT THE MUSTY ODOR OF OLD CLOTHES.
and dingy white drop cloths bunched along the walls. Each of the
interlopers held a small penlight as they made their way toward a far
corner, careful not to brush against the paintings stacked on the
hardwood floor and the sculptures spread about the room. Rain
nipped at the roof above as they ran their lights across the works of
art around them. “Getting them out of here won’t be easy,” the woman
said. “And that’s assuming they’re in here.”
The man turned and looked at the woman. She was slim, with
shoulder-length brown hair and chestnut eyes. “You’re the confident
member of this team,” he said. “Don’t panic on me now. Besides,
they’re in here and we both know it.”
“Well, then I hope you packed a plan with these flashlights,” she
said, glancing around the shadowed room.
“Andrea, I always have a plan,” he said.
“Of course you do,” she said, not bothering to hide a smile. “I just
hope it’s an improvement over your last one. I don’t think I’m up for
another late night glider ride across open water.”
“You have to admit it was romantic,” he said. “No woman has seen
Paris the way you have.”
“Maybe so, Frank,” Andrea said. “I would have much preferred a
walk along the Seine and a quiet dinner at L’Ami Louis, but I suppose
getting so close to the Michelangelo sketches was worth the risk.”
“Next trip over,” Frank said, touching a gloved hand to her face.
“But now, let’s see if what the old man told us is true. The
Michelangelo designs should be somewhere near that wall, close to the
fireplace.”
“The old man spoke the truth.” The voice was harsh and hidden,
coming at them from the front of the room. “The sketches are here,
and I can’t begin to thank you enough for leading me to them.”
Frank turned to Andrea and gestured for her to move toward a
cluster of paintings to her left. They both had turned off their
penlights and gripped .9 millimeter revolvers. They moved quiet as
cats, their breathing slow and steady, marking the distance between
themselves and the unseen voice.
“We’ve had a few good adventures these last years, haven’t we?” the
other person in the room said. “Together, I’d say we found at least ten
percent of Michelangelo’s lost treasures. But that masterpiece—the
Midnight Angels—is still out there waiting to be grabbed. And that
one I think I’ll find on my own.”
Frank turned and pointed his gun at the intruder. “You never found
anything,” he said. “You couldn’t have. You didn’t know where to
look. What you did was follow. Without us to lead the way, you’d be
lucky to find the airport.”
“Maybe so, Professor,” the man said, “but I’m the one who’s come
out of all this a rich man. You and your bride couldn’t wait to deliver
your discoveries to the first local museum to open its doors to you,
ignoring the dozens of buyers waiting to pay millions for what you
held in your hands.”
“Only a thief would sell what isn’t his,” Andrea said, crouched down
behind a row of paintings, her grip on the gun still tight. “Those works
never belonged to us.”
The unseen man laughed. “If we had searched for lost gold instead
of art, wouldn’t we have kept it or sold it?” he asked, his voice full of
disdain. “Sunken treasure as opposed to a buried bust? It’s all of one
piece and there for one purpose. To bring profit to whoever is so
fortunate as to find it.”
“Which leaves us where?” Frank asked, sensing now that they were
not alone, that the man in the corner had others hidden about the
room, all most likely armed. He knew from studying the floor plans
there were only two escape routes. The closest was the large floor-to-
ceiling window to his left, and that offered only an improbable three-
story drop to gravel or a more manageable ten-foot leap to an
adjoining rooftop. The front entry was the second and potentially
more accessible option, but that came with its own difficulties, among
them the numerous paintings and sculptures blocking the path. Not to
mention the potential threat of unseen guns aimed their way.
“I’m sorry to say,” the man said, “that our time together has come to
an end.”
Frank turned from the voice, looked at Andrea and pointed to the
window behind them. “I’ll cover and you go,” he whispered.
She shook her head and clicked her weapon. “We head there
together,” she whispered back. “Spray the room as we run. Whoever
gets to the window first cracks it.”
Frank stayed silent for a moment and then gave his wife a knowing
smile. “I don’t even know why I bother,” he said. “My ideas always get
shot down.”
“One of these days,” Andrea said, returning the smile.
Standing back-to-back, they moved as one, firing rounds into all
four corners of the room. Frank had read the situation correctly, and
they were greeted by heavy return fire from all sides. Bullets chipped
ancient sculpted busts and ripped through works of art that had
survived for generations. Within seconds a room that for decades had
been devoted to the cherished works of the masters became a fire
zone.
Andrea was hit first, a bullet to the right shoulder that sent her
spinning closer to her husband and dropped her to one knee. Frank
pulled her up and wrapped his left arm around her waist. He put a
fresh clip in the .9 millimeter and moved within inches of the window.
“Hang on,” he told her. “We’re just about there.”
A volley of bullets rained down on them, hitting stone, canvas,
glass, and flesh, circling them in a cloud bank of gun smoke. “You
know what bothers me the most about all this?” she shouted above the
din, emptying the last of her rounds in the direction of the shooters.
“What?” Frank asked as he lifted the handle on the large window