Free Pirate by Ted Bell Page B

of his noble ancestor’s final resting place.
    The tomb of his beloved emperor.
    Luca took a deep breath. Napoleon Bonaparte’s real bones were inside this beautiful monument. His heart was pounding against his ribs as he took it all in, almost forgetting about his father for the moment.
    Arising from the lower depths of the church, the emperor’s great stone sarcophagus, the captured wave, rested atop a high marble plinth. Above the tomb, the circular cupola rose some two hundred feet. Although the space was chill and airless, Luca could sense a thrilling presence here. Almost a living presence. Menacing. It was as if Napoleon was not resting here, but lurking.
    Luca saw that a thick rope descended out of the gloom of the top of the dome. It hung directly above the crypt and now one of the goons had a long shepherd’s crook and was reaching out over the balcony, slowly pulling the rope toward his father. He sucked down a lungful of cool damp air. They were going to hang him? His heart rate zoomed even higher and his mouth went dry, but still he showed nothing.
    “Luca!” he heard his father cry now. “Run! Run!”
    “Don’t worry, Father, I’m coming,” Luca said. As he slowly circled the curved balustrade, a passing cloud covered the moon, filling the dome with purple darkness.
    Luca, his eyes shining, strode round the balcony to where Benny and his men stood in a small circle around his father. The son walked up to the father, stared deeply into his haunted eyes, and turned to the man in the black raincoat.
    “Monsieur Benny,” Luca said in a voice so low it was barely audible, “if you would be so kind as to ask Monsieur Bones to give me his gun.”
    His father stared at him, his face a mask of confusion.
    Luca leaned forward and kissed his father on the left cheek.
    “What? What is—” His father’s eyes went wide and he strained violently against the two men who held him in their grip. He struggled for breath. His lips formed words that would not come.
    “Luca?” Emile cried out as the skeleton handed Luca the pistol. “Luca! What are you—what is happening—I am a loyal soldier of the Corse! I—”
    “You are loyal to the Corse, Papa,” he said, his voice barely over a whisper, “but you killed a brother of the Brigade Rouge.”
    He raised the automatic until it was aimed between his father’s eyes.
    “Luca, no. Listen to me. You don’t know what you’re doing.”
    Luca increased the pressure on the trigger.
    “Put the gun down, son. Listen to your father. Whatever your crazy Brigade Rouge people are saying, it isn’t true. I made some mistakes, yes. But, not—this. Don’t do this, Luca. I love you.”
    The boy couldn’t do it. He lowered the muzzle slowly, never taking his eyes off his father’s own pleading eyes.
    “My son! What—”
    “The Brigade Rouge has no forgiveness for traitors,” Luca said, his voice flat.
    “The party! Wait! You don’t—let me—”
    The gun came up.
    “Luca! For God’s sake! You can’t—”
    Luca pulled the trigger.
    The muzzle flash was brilliant and the crack of the explosion reverberated throughout the great domed chapel. His father was blown back against the balustrade, a bubble of blood forming on his lips as he sank to his knees. Luca looked down, letting the gun slip from his hand and clatter to the marble floor. His father lay gasping on the cold stone. In the dim light, the spreading stain on his chest was thick and black. He was vomiting blood. Luca stepped back and the two goons bent to their work. They looped the thick rope over Emile’s head, forming a heavy noose around his neck.
    “You got balls, kid,” Joe Bones said, looking down at the dying man. “I gotta give you that.”
    Emile Bonaparte’s right leg was still jerking spasmodically and he was taking shallow ragged breaths. Luca knelt beside him, taking his father’s still-warm hand and holding it to his cheek. Luca made every effort to force his eyes to fill with