Burn It Down
Flicka von Hannover
Morning.
Flicka burrowed more deeply into Raphael’s arms, her bare flesh twined around him, wishing the morning would dawn so he could take her to Gibraltar and wishing this night in his arms would never end.
Morning did come, eventually. Sunlight brightened the thick silk curtains draped over the three windows on the wall, and glowingsquares touched the other wall and slid toward the floor.
She didn’t move for a few hours, not wanting to wake him. When she finally needed to shift because her arm was turning into pins and needles, she rose up, trying not to jar the bed.
Raphael’s gray eyes shone in the day’s first sunbeams.
That was odd. He usually slept lightly but quickly, resting whenever he could.
“What is it?” sheasked him.
His words were slow and measured, like he’d been working on exactly what to say the whole time she’d been sleeping. “I was going to take over the bank, essentially stage a bloodless coup, but that’s not going to work anymore.”
“What are you going to do?”
Raphael blinked, but he kept staring straight up at the ceiling. “I’m going to burn it down.”
Flicka lifted herself up on herelbows. “You sound like I used to.”
He glanced at her. “You were right. We have to burn it down.”
Burning it down did sound like she used to, but it also sounded like Dieter Schwarz, who rescued the hostages, tossed a grenade, and walked away by the light of the flames.
