Burn this City by Aleksandr Voinov
6
“Look at that.” Enzo handed over the binoculars, a sharp grin forming on his features.
Sal focused on the side of the house where Barsanti stood in the open door, gazing after the girl who’d arrived about an hour earlier and now seemed in a bigger rush to get back to her car than she’d been to meet him.
“That doesn’t look like a booty call,” Sal murmured. And it had started so nice with the wine and a steaming lasagna from the oven. The only thing missing in the picture had been roses or a box with some expensive black lacey nothings that they’d try out in the bedroom together.
“Yeah, I’m disappointed.” Enzo chuckled. “Wouldn’t have minded watching them fuck.”
Sal scoffed. “What did you want to see? Him on top? Her riding him?”
“Not partial. Either way.”
Sal wasn’t surprised. Enzo was a kind of “anything goes” guy, probably the most open mind man Sal had ever encountered, though apparently he preferred couples over one guy relieving some stress. Figured.
Barsanti’s late-night guest had now made it to the gate. The car stopped there.
Sal handed the binoculars back to Enzo, who stashed them. Both of them pushed up from their prone positions and moved sideways to the house through the copse of trees. They’d been about to strike when it had become clear that Barsanti was expecting a guest. His preparations—two wine glasses, two plates—had stayed their hands, though Sal had decided to leave the truck and do some more old-fashioned surveillance up close.
There were a few large trees at the back and to the sides of the house, but much less protection at the front. The lawn was broken only by the path to the house and had a few bushes and rocks, but none large enough to give cover to a tall guy like Enzo.
Or Sal. Those decorative boulders and carefully trimmed boxwood bushes were more traps than cover.
“Look, here he comes.” Enzo nodded toward the gravel path, where Barsanti was now coming down at a half-run, pocketing his phone on the way.
Could he have left the door open? The night visitor had thrown the original plan into disarray, but this would work fine too. Lucky Enzo was handy with electronics. “You get in the house. Door might be open. If I don’t make the grab and bag, get ready to do it when he comes back in.”
“Yep.” Enzo gave him another grin and a nod.
Slowly and carefully, Sal moved toward the gate. He didn’t think Barsanti would pay too much attention to snapping twigs and rustling among the trees, considering he was at a full jog on the gravel, but it always paid to be careful.
The gate came into view, where the young woman stood, phone in hand, arms crossed in front of her chest. The headlights of her crappy little car tore her out of the darkness, and illuminated like that, she had no chance of seeing Sal in the undergrowth.
“I’m sorry,” she called toward Barsanti, “The gate didn’t open, so …”
“Don’t worry about it.” He walked to one of the posts of the gate, pulled out his phone to light the area, almost on top of Sal, but then he stepped backward. “I guess a wire got fried. I’ll get that fixed.” He unlocked the gate manually and pushed the heavy wrought iron wings open with only a little visible effort, then waved her through.
“Thank you! Talk tomorrow!” She hurried to get back in her car and was through the gate five seconds later.
Sal’s pulse beat in his ears. Barsanti wrestled the iron gate closed, as if a busted gate would protect him (not that a working one would have), but maybe he counted on appearances—few people had reason to check whether a closed gate was actually locked.
While his target was still completely focused, Sal emerged from between the trees and crept up behind him. The gravel gave him away, of course, so he struck that instant. He wrapped his arm around Barsanti’s throat, jugular in the crook of his elbow, locked his hands behind the man’s head and applied pressure on both sides of the neck—a quick and easy blood choke.
Surprised, Barsanti stiffened, then his arms began to flail. Smartly, he reached for the hand behind his head and tried to loosen the hold so his brain would get oxygen again. Sal pushed against that, tightened the triangle around Barsanti’s neck.
As Sal knew well from training, unlike in the movies where a man could be choked for what looked like minutes, a blood choke worked within seconds, and the total slackening of the victim’s body was the giveaway. That couldn’t be faked. Somebody trained enough to go slack still felt different from the peaceful quiet and wholly undramatic slump that came when the technique was applied correctly. Barsanti’s movements became weaker, less coordinated.
“Good night,” Sal whispered in the man’s ear, and there it was, that full-body relaxation. He kept the choke for another three seconds. He let Barsanti’s body sink to the ground and pulled out the zip cuffs. The downside of a blood choke was that the man began to come around again the moment it ended, so he hurried to grab his wrists and linked them behind his back, then put a black cloth bag over Barsanti’s head.
He was already stirring. Sal knew what that felt like, emerging rapidly from unconsciousness, adrenaline pumping, the body’s primal terror at the loss of control as big as the mind’s disorientation. He’d been on the receiving end often enough that he didn’t go into full-on panic mode now, but during training he was also prepared that it could happen. Barsanti had good instincts, but he didn’t strike Sal as a trained fighter.
Sal kept his knee in the middle of Barsanti’s back and enough of his weight on him that he felt the vertebrae of his spine move slightly with the pressure. He pulled his gun and dug the muzzle into the soft hollow where Barsanti’s skull met his neck, and waited, counting. On a very slow five, Barsanti began scrabbling against the ground.
“Don’t make a sound,” Sal ordered. “That’s a gun, and I don’t mind blowing your head off right here.”
The scrabbling stopped. A few deep, labored breaths. A nod.
“Good. I’ll help you get up and then we’ll walk back to the house.”
Another nod.
Sal took his weight off Barsanti’s back and shifted to the side. He grabbed Barsanti under one arm and all but hoisted him to his feet. The man broadened his stance as if he were on an oceangoing vessel that was lurching left and right. Sal grabbed his elbow, and dug the gun into the man’s spine, but lower down. “Walk.”
Even though they were still on the gravel path, and Barsanti had to know there were no obstacles, he lifted his feet higher than necessary, and moved with hesitation as if he expected Sal had conjured up a wall from somewhere to steer him right into for laughs. It was enough to be annoying, but not enough to shove a blinded, bound man who was likely still getting his bearings after having lost consciousness for a few seconds.
It wasn’t so much compassion as the thought that making him fall, picking him up again, and repeating that a few times would only slow them down, and while witnesses were unlikely to show up at this time of night, Sal was keen to get Barsanti back into the house and secure him there. That environment would be easier to control.
When they reached the stone path, Sal grabbed Barsanti’s elbow tighter and dug the gun in under his short ribs, now walking side by side. Say whatever you wanted about Barsanti, his body took its cues from Sal’s, falling into step when they changed direction, and neither of them ended up in the flower beds, which was quite a success. Barsanti almost stumbled when his foot hit the step leading into the house, but he caught himself without Sal’s help.
Enzo stood near the door in the corridor, waiting for them to enter before he closed and then locked the door.
Sal noticed the blinds in the living room were drawn, affording them more privacy than Barsanti and the young woman had had. Sal pushed Barsanti toward the couch. “Fuck those designer chairs. Is there a normal one anywhere in the house?”
Enzo shrugged. “I’ll have a look.”
“You. Sit.” Sal pushed the back of Barsanti’s knees against the couch near the fireplace. A harder push served as emphasis, and Barsanti sat down carefully, again as if he expected Sal would trick him into crashing into obstacles, maybe glass shards or rusty iron spikes. Sal shook his head. A dose of healthy paranoia was part of the job. He wouldn’t act any differently.
Instead of leaning back, Barsanti sat ramrod straight on the edge of the couch, shoulders drawn up as if subconsciously trying to protect his head. Truth was, though, Sal could have cut his throat then and there and Barsanti would only realize that way too late.
Sal watched the hooded, bound man in front of him, watched every rise and fall of his chest. If Barsanti was scared, he wasn’t showing much of it. The only indications were that none of his breaths reached his belly, and his breathing was too shallow and faster than normal.
Enzo came back from upstairs, carrying a much more suitable chair with an actual wooden back and much longer legs than those low designer chairs. “Found one.”
“Put it over there.” Sal indicated a gap between the couches.
Enzo set it down with a slight clatter which made Barsanti jerk.
“You. Get up.”
The man stood, and Sal grabbed him by the elbow again and moved him the two steps to the chair. “Sit.”
He did. Sal guided his arms so the back of the chair ended up between tied arms and back, and then he took two zip ties and tied his legs to the chair. Interestingly, Barsanti’s breath now sped up noticeably.
“Can I speak or are you going to shoot me?” Barsanti’s voice was flat, but he wasn’t pleading.
“You got something interesting to say, then? Let’s hear it.”
Hah. No immediate response, instead a further straightening of the spine. Not happy. Sal grinned to himself.
“I have money. There’s a safe. You take it, cut me free, and leave. This never happened.”
“How much are we talking?” Sal asked.
“About twenty-five large.”
Sal met Enzo’s gaze, who’d tilted his head, clearly curious how he was going to play this. “If we take the money, you’ll have us hunted down and killed.”
“I don’t know who you are. I haven’t seen your faces. That’s why I said, cut me free and leave and I’ll chalk this up as a lesson. No harm, no foul.”
Sounding perfectly reasonable, voice regaining some resonance, probably as he warmed to the idea himself. Already trying to cut a deal—tied up, powerless, potentially with a gun pointed at his head, still believing he was in control, or a step away from seizing it back. That was some faith in the world.
Maybe the offer was genuine too. Maybe Barsanti had already worked through the implications. If anybody heard of this, it would play out in one of two ways—he either was a made man who’d gotten jumped by some burglars and allowed them to escape and remain breathing. Or he’d turn every stone in this city, slit every mattress, toss every piece of furniture to find and kill them. And if Barsanti didn’t do it, Andrea Lo Cascio surely would. Neither of them could afford not to.
“I’ll think about it,” Sal answered.