Midnight Angels

Also by

      LORENZO CARCATERRA

                …

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Gangster

Street Boys

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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
HE ROOM HAD ABOUT IT THE MUSTY ODOR OF OLD CLOTHES.
The air was thick with dust, 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 and swung it out and open, feeling the cool evening breeze of the Florence night rush in.

“I figured this to be the easy part,” Andrea said.

Frank looked out the window, focusing on the red-tile roof less than a dozen feet to their left. “Not a simple jump,” he said, “but not impossible. You’ll make it. You’re too good not to.”

“So says you,” she said, grunting as she began to move.

Frank sprayed the area around them with one final volley as Andrea climbed up on the ledge and timed her jump. “I’ll see you on the other side,” he told her.

“You better,” she said.

He turned his head and watched as his wife made the leap, landing with a hard thud on the rooftop across from the open window, several red stone tiles falling harmlessly to the ground below and shattering. He reached for an edge of the open window and began to lift himself up onto the ledge, looking across at his wife, blood flowing freely out of a flesh wound in his right leg and several large gashes across his arms and neck. He was standing on the ledge, prepared to make his jump, when the bullet landed in the center of his back.

Andrea saw him jolt straight up and hid a scream with the fingers of both hands cupped hard against her mouth. Frank let the gun slip from his right hand, his knees losing feeling, his upper body now trembling and coated with sweat. He gazed across at his wife, gave her one final smile and lifted a hand up to caress his heart. He then fell backward into the room, landing with a dusty thud on the hardwood floor, his head ripping through a canvas resting on its side.

Andrea stepped back from the ledge, her hands still masking her mouth, and walked right into the arms of a muscular man in a thin leather jacket.

“He won’t die alone, if that’s your worry,” said the familiar voice.

She lowered her hands from her mouth, her breath relaxed and her body calm and free of all pain and tension. She knew that given the countless risks she and her husband had taken through the years, a brutal ending should come with little in the way of surprise. It was, as Frank often told her, part of their job description.
As professors we lead tenured lives
, he once said to her.
As treasure hunters, we lead tenuous ones
.