Page 35 of Burn this City

Rausa grabbed him by the arms and pushed him forward and down. The water was lukewarm and quickly overcame shoes, socks and climbed up his legs. Rausa stepped into the Jacuzzi with him, also almost fully dressed except for his shirt. “I said, kneel.” He pushed Jack forward and kicked him in the backs of his knees so Jack went down with a splash, knocking his shoulder against the rim of the tub. He watched the water rise further in dread. Right now, it only reached halfway up his thighs, but thanks to the very nicely specced Jacuzzi, it was climbing rapidly.

Rausa grabbed him by the neck and leaned closer. “You know what’s going to happen, so why don’t you just talk?”

“Fuck you.”

“Not an answer, but we’ll get to that,” Rausa said in a low tone. He grabbed Jack’s neck harder, and then pushed his head down. There wasn’t enough water to completely cover his head, but plenty enough to push his face under, and now Jack fought, thrashed in a helpless panic, aware that he was burning precious oxygen and lost breath, screaming into the water that was reddening with his blood. He lost control of his bladder; he simply couldn’t help it. More hands were held him down now, but the white-hot panic seared all other thoughts away. He desperately kicked and squirmed, trying to free himself.

He was just getting dizzy when Rausa grabbed him hard around the arms and pulled him up. Jack straightened, gasping and gulping air so fast that he breathed in some water and broke into a nasty coughing fit. He caught a glimpse of the doc checking his wristwatch. When he nodded, Rausa grabbed him and shoved him under again.

Jack had had no time to recover or even take a deep breath, choked off by coughing. Panic swallowed him in an instant, his body out of control and fighting like an animal.

He tried to push back against Rausa, tried to move forward or to the side, wildly seeking any open space, but Rausa held him and further hands pushed down on him, folding him effectively in two, which put pressure on his lungs and kept them from fully expanding. Again, the water and bubbles and cream-colored ceramics blurred with spots dancing before his eyes, and his vision rapidly darkened and narrowed. If he’d been panicked when Rausa had choked him out near the gate, this was a thousand, ten thousand times worse, lungs burning, while he was swallowing water, and they kept him like that for an eternity of horror and fear.

And then Rausa pulled him up again, one hand gripping his arm, another against his throat. “You already pissed yourself. Let me know when you’re fucking done, because I have plenty more of this for you.”

At least this time he had a chance to gasp in air before Rausa pushed him down again. The Jacuzzi was a lot fuller now, pale yellow water well past his belt, and it kept climbing until Jack was submerged to his chest, but Rausa kept pushing him all the way down. Maybe they hadn’t put that hood back on him as a small kindness, because being blinded and drowning was maybe worse, but considering everybody around him simply rolled with it, from the long-haired guy checking his watch and timing it all, to Enzo standing there, half kneeling on the rim, just as drenched as Jack or Rausa, categories such as good or bad simply ceased to exist. All that counted was getting that next breath, or recovering some of the oxygen he’d been robbed of.

And that was the mistake. He couldn’t—wouldn’t live at any cost, and even then just a little longer. Borrowed time. All of it, everything, had always been on borrowed time. One way to go out on his own terms. He felt nothing but the thrashing fear of his body, but inside it and beyond it, he recognized something hard and cold, like a decision. He’d carried it since forever, but he’d first become aware of it that night on the bridge.

Yes, I’m done.

As if he’d managed to step outside of himself, he regarded his body, that bruised, thrashing, scared flesh with an odd mix of compassion and acceptance.

Just a little pain, and everything’s going to be okay.

When he went into the water this time, he forced himself to breathe in. He swallowed water first, and fought the cough that gnawed on his lungs, but finally managed to inhale. And despite the pain, it wasn’t unlike that attack down at the gate. He was aware of uncoordinated movements, and then his vision greyed, dimmed and narrowed, his lungs stung, but a calm settled in his mind. Choosing his path more than twenty years ago had led to this end, and it was all right.

20

Something was wrong. It wasn’t one specific thing, perhaps just Sal’s instinct that picked up on it. Sal had been wrestling for years and honed his instincts for shifting tensions or a redistribution of weight to anticipate the opponent’s next move. Maybe that awareness made the difference. He knew something was wrong with Barsanti even before his frantic resistance suddenly shifted into something else. Something about his breathing pattern.

The doc took a rapid step toward the Jacuzzi, and then Barsanti stopped fighting. Surprise, disbelief and then alarm crossed over the doc’s features, and in an impulse, he reached out, which was when Sal let go of Barsanti.

“He’s drowning!” The doc grabbed Barsanti from almost under Sal. His quick and precise movements would have been surprising if Sal hadn’t seen the man work before. He helped the doc get Barsanti out of the Jacuzzi by grabbing his legs, and laying him flat on the tiles. The doc was already reaching for his bag, and Sal noticed Barsanti’s skin had a decidedly blueish tinge.

Shit. What had the whole timing thing been good for, then? Above all, Sal couldn’t wrap his head around the fact he’d pushed it way too far. If it had been just about killing Barsanti, that could have been done much easier and much faster. This had never happened before, not to Sal, not to anybody he knew. What exactly had he done wrong? Had Barsanti suffered a stroke? A heart attack maybe?

He balled his fists and became aware of how his clothes stuck to his skin. He was drenched; water dripped from his hair, but he only tore his gaze away from Barsanti’s lifeless body on the ground and the doc administering CPR when Enzo stepped in front of him with a towel. Sal nodded and forced himself to turn away. Surprise seeped out of him, and a mix of guilt and resentment flooded in. They’d been so fucking close, and he’d ruined it.

Fuck.

He was no use in the bathroom now, and found it impossible to look at Barsanti and the struggle for his life. He didn’t want to witness it, feeling deep down that it would fail. It was over, all the work was lost and now they had a high-profile dead body on their hands and nothing to show for it. He’d fucked up.

Towel in one hand, he left the bathroom to dry off and get rid of his wet clothes. But the moment he was upstairs in the guest bedroom, he heard coughing, retching and then the unmistakable sounds of somebody vomiting.

He changed in record time and hurried back down, taking two steps at a time.

While Barsanti was white as a sheet beneath his tan, he was no longer blue, and he was breathing again. Well, “breathing”. It sounded raspy even to Sal’s ears, and even though his breath was fast and shallow, that was still enough to make him cough, and those came from deep inside his lungs. He’d rolled onto his side, knees drawn up, arms hugging his heaving chest.

The doc crouched next to him and had a hand placed on Barsanti’s shoulder. “Try to relax.”

Barsanti didn’t respond, not with a quip or even by trying to pull away. He was wholly preoccupied with just taking in oxygen and suffering through wracking coughs.

The doc brushed his hair back behind his ears and straightened, then made eye contact with Sal.

“What happened?” Sal asked.

“I think he did it on purpose. He tried to drown himself.” The doc’s face betrayed his surprise, so Sal wasn’t alone there. He couldn’t even feel relief that it hadn’t been his mistake and that Barsanti was alive.

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