Page 25 of Burn this City

“I’ll ask again,” Rausa finally said softly, no more than a quiet rumble. “Why are you supporting a man like Andrea? Do you think he’s worth it?”

“You mean worth dying for?” Jack swallowed. “It’ll have to happen at some point, right? Might as well be today.” The truth was, he’d been on borrowed time, ever since that night on the bridge. By some miracle, he’d seen a sunrise again, and then another, and many more after that, but maybe death was like an illness that could go into remission and then return. As the saying went, nobody got out alive.

“Yes, I mean worth dying for.” Rausa stretched out a hand and Jack forced himself to keep his eyes on him. When the cold metal of the claw hammer’s head was pushed under his chin, he shuddered. “Especially dying like this.”

“Nothing is worth dying for,” Jack said. “But people die all the time.”

Rausa dropped the claw hammer into Jack’s lap, and, faster than Jack had expected, pulled the gun from the holster on his hip and pushed the muzzle hard against Jack’s forehead, finger on or right next to the trigger. Jack’s vision blurred and he blinked a few times, but then managed to meet Rausa’s gaze again, even though his blood had gone cold. He clung to the thought that it would be a mercy if Rausa put a bullet in his brain, but it took every ounce of willpower he had.

His mind emptied of all thoughts except one:A mercy.

14

Barsanti was pale and tense, but not cringing in horror, as most people would have in this situation. Did he have that much loyalty? Or was he calling Sal’s bluff?

Sal kept the gun pressed to Barsanti’s forehead, and while Barsanti pulled back slightly, he didn’t try to evade the pressure from the muzzle. Against his will, Sal was impressed. That took fortitude and conviction. He couldn’t just blow Barsanti away, of course. But so far, no new cracks showed.

That was when a phone rang. The buzzing came from Sal’s trouser pocket, and he quickly holstered the gun again and pulled out both phones—Barsanti’s and his own. It was Barsanti’s screen that was lit up with an unknown number. He tilted the phone so the man could see the screen while it was still ringing.

“Who’s calling you?”

Barsanti’s eyes flicked to the screen and there was some recognition in them, then he shrugged and looked back at Sal. “It’s not important.”

“Not in your contacts?”

“No.” Barsanti was terse enough that Sal called bullshit. The phone kept ringing. “Who knows.”

“Want to take it?”

Barsanti lifted his shoulders demonstratively to indicate that he was still tied up.

The ringing stopped. Sal kept an eye on the phone, and it didn’t take long for ping that there was (1) new voicemail. “Maybe it’s your boss.”

Barsanti shook his head. “No, I know his number.”

“Who else?”

“Doesn’t matter anymore.” Barsanti’s words seemed too carefully calibrated for indifference. He didn’t even glance at the phone, as if by ignoring it, it could become invisible or inconsequential. Now, chances were, the call was from Andrea, or a capo or soldier who needed five minutes to agree to a meeting or confirm a job was done or request instructions. Nothing of any importance was ever entrusted to a phone, and nothing was ever clearly stated—with the recent infiltration of Encrochat, even encrypted networks were considered high risk in their circles. Considering Barsanti had already done time because the authorities had managed to piece together a case against him, he’d be doubly wary.

“Then maybe share your PIN with me?” Sal mock-offered Barsanti his phone. More ignoring. “Or the password to your laptop?”

Enzo moved into the background and after an exchanged glance, left the bathroom. Sal returned his attention to Barsanti, but felt that the man had already reinforced his mental and emotional firewalls against that particular angle of attack. And, if he stayed with that picture, short of a brute force attack to blast through, Sal was out of options. If he’d had a few more days, he could ramp up the discomfort to the point where Barsanti would trip up, and with a couple of weeks, he’d break the man without so much as leaving a mark. He studied the swelling on Barsanti’s temple. Too late for that, but the principle still held.

“It’s funny, you seemed to believe me when I told you what will happen if you don’t cooperate.”

“I believe you. I do.” Barsanti drew a deep breath. “But there’s nothing I can do except this.”

“Resist?”

“Wait.” Barsanti’s lips curved into a sad little smile and Sal was surprised how much that expression touched him. He walked around, tucking the phones into his pocket before curling his hands over Barsanti’s shoulders. Sal tightened his hands around those tense muscles, then ran his right hand up Barsanti’s neck, tips of his fingers brushing his Adam’s apple. He felt him swallow again.

“Out of curiosity, any reason why you say you can’t?”

“I still think the war can be avoided.”

“It’s not your choice.” Sal kept his hands where they were, increased the pressure slightly, but then relaxed them. “The deaths won’t be on you. And you’d be the first man I’ve ever met who wouldn’t sacrifice the world to save his own life.”

“It’s not that easy.” Barsanti cleared his throat. “You’re still going to start a war and if I give you what you want, you’re at an advantage. And I’ll be the traitor who’s responsible.”

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