by Edale Lane
The burning warehouse lit up the night and men were dashing toward it, some with buckets of water and others with weapons. “Spread out!” shouted Zuane. “Get water in there and put that fire out. And you, hunt down the Night Flyer.”
Florentina wasted no time. As soon as the last of the brigade rushed past her position crouched in the shadows of an alley across the lane from the second warehouse, she sprang and raced toward the deserted building. She could still hear Zuane barking orders when she pulled a small bomb from her pouch. She zipped around the corner and squatted on the cobblestones with her back against the wall to warehouse number two. “Search every backstreet, every rooftop, behind every feckin’ bush!” the security chief bellowed. She lit the fuse.
The Night Flyer trotted back around the corner to the windowed wall of the second warehouse with a lit explosive sphere in her right hand. She had just about reached the middle of the block-sized structure when a voice rang out, “There he is!” She reared her arm back and launched the lead ball through a glass pane, immediately streaking away from her pursuers and toward the third warehouse.
The initial boom was followed by a tremendous explosion that blew the roof from the building and sent glass particles cutting through the wintry mix like tiny razors. Clay tile shingles rained from the sky and the guards who had not been flattened by the power of the blast were forced to take cover. Well, we know where the powder was kept, Florentina surmised as she hastened to the unattended side doorway of the last warehouse.
It was locked, and there wasn’t time for subtlety. The Night Flyer lifted her grappling hook from her belt, held a length of rope in both hands, and swung the hook end through a window. With the cacophony of shattering glass and gunpowder kegs blaring through the night, who would notice anyway? She leapt through the hole and crouched inside beneath the row of windows while she rewound the rope.
They will come here next, she concluded. While some are spreading the first fire in an attempt to put it out, others will be chasing me and they saw the direction I took. I don’t have time to neatly lay out the oil like before, so… There was enough light now to see the interior of the extensive structure. The south end was divided into three floors where the offices and other rooms were situated closest to Casa de Viscardi. She had been up there before. The big room she currently occupied was more crowded with merchandise than the first had been. Here scaffolding had been erected to store boxes and crates high off the floor which was filled with large items such as cast bronze barreled cannons with wide spoked wheels, smaller mortars, and heavy artillery carts designed to transport the cannonballs and powder kegs to the field. She instantly thought of Antonio; he could be using weapons like these purchased from Viscardi before the French cancelled his contracts. Then she recalled Alessandro’s comment, “He was so angry he even considered selling to the Spanish.” Her blood boiled at the notion that Benetto may have plans to sell these weapons to an army that would use them against Madelena’s nephew. Alessandro, this is for you.
There was no time for careful mixing of the formula nor artful arrangement of naphtha. She opened one of the jars and dribbled it behind as she jogged through the warehouse aiming for the opposite doorway. Before the jar was empty, Viscardi’s men were pouring through the front door. “There!” one shouted and pointed.
She ducked behind a munitions wagon, hurled the jar toward them, and pulled up her revolving crossbow. The Night Flyer stood and fired off several bolts in the guards’ direction forcing them to take cover, then she stooped back down to light a sulfur match. When she perceived the stomp of boots, she stood, dropped the match onto the end of the oil stream, and pushed her way through the stockpile of artillery pieces toward the nearest exit, which in this case was the back door leading in the direction of the engulfed second warehouse.
“I’ve got him!” sounded a man’s excited shout just as the whoosh sounded and flames started to race down the black line of oil. She heard the report of his arabesque and the alarmed voices of others as they made exclamations about the fire.
Once she reached the door, Florentina bent down and turned toward them, a lead ball in her hand. “I’m going to give you fellows a fighting chance,” she called out. “This bomb has a ten second fuse. If you run, you’ll make it out.”
She counted maybe six of them, and every one stopped and stared as she lit the cord and tossed the bomb into middle of the building. It hit the floor and started to roll, a hissing fuse burning its way toward the powder inside. The Night Flyer pushed open the door, and the men dashed away, racing each other back to the entrance whence they came.
Florentina’s boots ran over pieces of burning wood, broken glass, and shattered roof tiles. She dodged a flaming beam and stumbled around piles of bricks in the narrow alley between the destroyed warehouse and the one about to blow, just barely clearing the requisite distance before hearing the loud report. With the explosion of the third warehouse drawing attention, she sprinted across the street and down a neighboring backstreet, then two blocks south to skitter up a drainpipe onto the roof of some anonymous person’s dwelling to survey the situation.
Three warehouses burned, one totally destroyed by a gunpowder explosion, and two more that would be impossible to extinguish. Pausing to catch her breath, she noted that the wind was dying down but the wintry mix of ice, sleet, and snow persisted. The fires had been contained and no other structures were in peril. That triggered a sigh of relief. Now to implement the final strike–Casa de Viscardi and Don Benetto himself.
Benetto covered his face with his forearm and turned away when the bomb blew inside the warehouse across the street from his front door. He watched as six of his guards streaked out the door dispersing into the thoroughfare. “Where is Zuane?” he called.
One of the men paused long enough to answer. “He was back by the first one hit a minute ago.”
“Go get him and bring him here,” Benetto commanded. The hired man nodded and trotted away. Then he turned to his brother, “I want you to stay here and protect the mansion. I must survey the damage myself.”
“Don’t worry, Benetto,” Stefano assured him. “No one is getting in the house.”
Benetto strode away leaving his stalwart brother blocking the doorway with his broad-shoulders, arms crossed over his chest. He shook his head as he raked his stinging eyes over flames and destruction. The fire brigade had finally arrived, but it seemed the more water they threw on the blaze, the more it spread.
The errand guard met him with Zuane in tow. “We can’t seem to get the fires out,” Zuane reported in dismay. “Some of the men claim they gave chase to the Night Flyer, but each time something blew up and they were forced to retreat. I’ve got a dozen more spread out over several blocks searching for him.”
Benetto stared dry eyed as he watched his dream literally turn to ashes. He had no words, no sure course of action. For the first time he could remember, he was truly afraid, convinced some shadowy, underworld order had marked him a dead man. He simply felt numb.
Chapter 24
With her dagger drawn, Florentina crept on velvet feet, as silently as a cat on the prowl, through the servant’s entrance at the back of Casa de Viscardi. Candles and lamps had been lit and a sense of tenuous fear permeated the mansion. She paused to listen and ducked into a closet upon hearing tiny, rapid footsteps approach. Peering through the cracked door, Florentina spied a middle-aged woman in a maid’s attire scurrying past.
The Night Flyer darted out behind her and clamped her left hand over the woman’s mouth while brandishing the knife where it could be seen. “Don’t make a sound if you wish to live,” she whispered in a gravelly voice.
The terrified servant squeaked and quivered, but did not faint. “Nod your head if you understand me. Do not make a sound. I am not here to harm you, but to save you.” Slowly the woman nodded her head.
Florentina turned the woman toward her and leveled a grave gaze into her ashen face. “How many servants are in residence?�
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The maid’s eyes flew wide, and she covered her own mouth in an effort to obey the order to remain silent. A small gasp escaped her lips, nonetheless. She took a steadying breath and held up eight fingers.
“And your mistress and her daughter?”
The maid nodded, but her breathing began to steady and her shaking eased. “You’re a-” she sounded in a whisper.
“Never mind that,” Florentina demanded, holding the servant with intense brown eyes. “I am the Night Flyer, and in five minutes this mansion will be in flames. Do you understand?”
She nodded, a look of curiosity now replacing the previous panic. No one had ever seen the Night Flyer up close; therefore, everyone had assumed the prowler to be a man. Florentina supposed that with scarcely twelve inches between them her gender was more easily detected, but there was no time to speculate about that.
“Go up and collect your mistress and her daughter along with the staff and bring them out through this back door, and this door only. Do you understand? Not the front or a side exit, but this one. It will be the only safe path of retreat. Then head for the nearest chapel.”
The maid nodded her head. “Gather everyone and bring them out here,” she repeated in a discreet echo.
“I will see you and I will count. Do not alarm Don Benetto nor any enforcers,” she warned. “If you do, then none will leave this house alive. Is that clear?” Florentina had no intention of harming anyone save her father’s murderer, but she hoped the warning would convince the maid to comply. Once she saw the nod of agreement, she announced, “Four minutes now. Make haste.”
The woman’s eyes widened once more, and she turned to dash up the servant’s stairway. The Night Flyer shrank into the obscure closet to wait once more.
She had almost counted four minutes in her head when she heard footsteps and whispers on the narrow stairs. Through the cracked door she observed those exiting the abode. A nervous plump woman with blond hair donning an expensive silk-lined wool cloak over her nightgown clutching a carved box, presumably filled with jewelry, skittered out first, followed by a youthful girl just old enough to be considered a woman wearing similar attire carrying a small painting, a pillow in an embroidered satin slip, and a book. There’s the mistress and her daughter. Is that one of Antonio’s paintings? she wondered, straining for a better view, but for naught. Next came a parade of two men and five women in various stages of undress and bringing up the rear was the maid with whom Florentina had spoken.
The Night Flyer materialized into the room, gave a nod of approval to the startled maid, and closed and locked the door behind them. She took a deep breath and proceeded to work her way into the main part of the structure. The layout was similar but not exactly like Casa de Torelli. Still, it was not difficult to locate key rooms. She needed to set her Greek Fire in a central location filled with combustibles to fuel her inferno. The dining room would be fitting, she mused, since that is where he poisoned Papa.
Soundlessly she placed soft-soled boots one in front of the other as she explored the first floor of the now empty house. Perhaps through this sitting area, she thought, those double doors.
Florentina slid aside one of the heavy doors that glided eloquently into its wall pocket. She smiled as she surveyed the rich furnishings of the dining room, then hastened to the heavy walnut table. She withdrew the last of the clay jars of crude and began mixing in the sulfur, saltpeter, charcoal powder, and quicklime in the prescribed amounts. Next she dribbled out a circle of the tincture on the table top followed by another around it crossing each chair. With the jar tilted enough to pour a thin line, she retraced her steps through the sitting room and hallway. She continued the trail down an exquisite Persian carpet into the entry hall and to the base of the grand staircase.
The Night Flyer spun about abruptly when behind her the front door flung open and the brawny Stefano strode through it. “What’s that smell?” he said wrinkling his nose.
“I don’t care about smells,” the man-at-arms dismissed in a gruff tone. “Don Benetto wants his coat and sent me to bring it–hey!” Wide-eyed and slack-jawed he pointed at the masked intruder.
Florentina had back-stepped halfway up the stairs before she was spotted. Her rotating crossbow was in her hands and it still held two bolts. Why hadn’t she thought to reload it? How stupid! Stefano was standing directly below a large silver candelabra that must have weighed at least twenty pounds. She made a split second decision and fired the two shots at the canopy where the chain holding it was connected to the ceiling. It crashed down on the unsuspecting man and he fell unconscious beneath it.
But the larger, younger Zuane was already surging toward her. Florentina turned and ran. She must reason her next move, but he was gaining on her. She reached for a door handle only to find it locked. That’s when she felt the blow. It rendered her head spinning and her ears ringing. The floor was rushing up toward her; then it smacked her in the face. She tried to crawl but a boot under her stomach sent her airborne and careening into a wall. Now she had no breath in her and couldn’t focus her vision for all the scattering of tiny white lights in her eyes. This was not good.
“I’ve got you now, you little bastard,” he spat out in a kind of hateful glee. “Don Benetto wants to kill you with his own hands, but I can have a bit of fun first.”
While she was still trying to pull her senses together a huge rough hand picked her up by her throat. She reacted the only way she knew how in that situation, with a quick, hard kick to his groin. When the hand released her, and she heard his agonizing moan, she offered a prayer of thanks for having hit her mark.
Florentina sat sprawled on the floor trying to catch her breath knowing her reprieve would be short-lived. He is so strong. I can’t fight him, and I can’t run away. There was only one alternative, one she had hoped to avoid.
“Now you’ve done it, you miserable scrap of shit.” The words spewed from his lips as he braced himself against the wall only a few feet across from her.
Her heart pounded in her chest, her head was spinning, and her gut throbbed with pain, but she managed to suck in a bit of air and focus her eyes on his hulking form. Florentina heard more than saw him pull a sword from its sheath. She bent over so he wouldn’t see her draw her own weapon. Catching the movement in her peripheral vision as he made the preparatory move before the strike, she rolled.
The Night Flyer sprung up on Zuane’s left side, and with both hands clamped on the hilt, plunged a double-edged carbon steel dagger into the big man-at-arms’ chest. His eyes widened as he gasped to breathe and turned his dying face toward hers. Their eyes met as his sword clamored to the floor. He clutched at his wound but his hands ended up tightening around hers as she still gripped her weapon. Then he fell limp and his body dropped away from the knife with a disturbing sucking sound.
Blood covered Florentina’s hands along with her blade. She stood there staring at his body for a moment. I didn’t have a choice. He was going to kill me. This was self-defense. Snapping back to the reality of the moment, she reached down and wiped off her dagger and her hands on the edge of Zuane’s coat. Florentina set her jaw and pushed herself to an upright position. She tried twisting her torso and decided that nothing was broken. Then she purposefully stepped over the lifeless frame at her feet and marched downstairs.
Stefano was unconscious, lying directly inside the front door. That would not do; this is where Benetto will enter and his brother can’t be here. So Florentina grabbed him by his feet and started to drag him toward the back door. He was heavy, and she was hurting, but she managed to get him all the way to the closet near the back door. Looking down at him she noticed the black smudges on his coat. Sure, he was the murderer’s brother and had most likely carried out murders on Benetto’s bequest, but in the end it was Benetto himself who was responsible. I’ve already killed his man-at-arms; I don’t intend to kill his brother, too.
It was an awkward struggle, but she managed to pull Stefano’s oil smeared
coat off of him. Satisfied that the rest of his clothing had no flammable liquid soaked into it, she tossed the garment into another room. He won’t be out for long. If I have to, I’ll come back for him, she reasoned.
Resolutely, Florentina strode to the front door, closed it, and flattened herself against the wall just inside the doorframe with a large knife clasped in her right hand. She forced every thought save completing her vendetta and avenging her father’s death from her mind, and like a lioness on the Serengeti, she awaited the arrival of her prey.
Chapter 25
“What is taking Zuane so long,” Benetto muttered while sleet bounced at his feet and fat, sloppy snowflakes melted into his tunic. He shivered, then turned away from the gloomy scene of destruction, holding his arms around himself. Men battled to put out the fires to no avail, and no one had brought him news of the Night Flyer’s capture. Benetto was totally despondent, but he did not care to freeze to death. I’ll rebuild, he said to himself as he trudged back toward his home. I did it once; I can do it again. But he didn’t actually believe it. He understood that he had inherited the bulk of the business and clients from his father, not to mention the mansion and vineyard. But he had been a shrewd businessman in his own right. He had increased the fortune, not squandered it as so many did.
I’ll put a bounty on the Night Flyer’s head, he considered. Hire assassins and spies to hunt him down. Mayhap I’ll sell the vineyard and use the proceeds to rebuild the warehouses. But he knew no one would buy the property now that it could not produce usable grapes. I’ll take out a loan. I could use Casa de Viscardi as collateral. The bank would not deny me. That idea made him feel a little better.
But when Benetto reached the front door of his mansion, Stefano was nowhere to be seen. Zuane didn’t need him to go find a coat; my brother should be at his post doing his job. He scowled at the unguarded entry to his personal castle before being struck by a wary suspicion which hurriedly regressed into panic. Why isn’t Stefano standing watch?
