The Storm Approaches
The howl of the wind and the rattle of loose shutters were the only sounds in the French Quarter as New Orleans braced for Hurricane Esmarelda. The sky was a bruised, violent purple, and the air felt heavy, thick with the promise of destruction.
Arthur stood in the doorway of his antique shop, a small, unassuming storefront wedged between a boarded-up jazz club and a darkened bakery. He offered a warm, practiced smile as Officer Miller's cruiser crawled past, its tires hissing against the wet pavement.
"Last chance, Artie! This storm's going to tear this place apart!" Miller shouted over the rising gale.
"Just straightening up a little, Frank. You know me. Can't leave the inventory in disarray."
Miller looked up at the darkening sky and exhaled a long, tired breath. "Really? Convoy leaves in forty-three minutes. Just lock up and let's go. Don't make me come back to get your stubborn ass."
"Right behind you." Arthur leaned casually on the cruiser door. "Besides, it's so quiet. Peaceful, almost."
"Quiet?" Miller laughed bitterly. "You haven't heard the radio chatter. Someone broke into the Federal Building last night. Feds won't tell us what was taken, but they're tearing the city apart trying to find who did it. They've got roadblocks on the interstates, checking every vehicle that isn't part of the evacuation convoy."
Arthur waved as the cruiser disappeared around the corner. The moment it was out of sight, the genial smile vanished from his face, replaced by a cold, calculating stillness. He locked the heavy oak door and pulled down the reinforced storm shutters.
The city was his now. Empty, unguarded, and the New Orleans Museum of Art was sitting across town like a gift-wrapped present, just waiting to be opened.