Viper - Michael Morley [149]
A white forensic tent jutted out from the frontage of Valsi’s place. Carabinieri officers chatted and smoked in front of it. One peered skyward and hoped it wouldn’t rain again. The scene confused Sal. He’d expected to see Camorristi outside, not carabinieri. There’d clearly been other casualties that he didn’t yet know about.
The Fiat was three cars back as Sal rolled on past and, fifty metres later, took a right. Around the corner he floored the Merc and pulled a quick left. Tyres squealed. A glance in the mirror just before he finished the turn told him the Fiat was overtaking the second car back. Someone was definitely tailing him, and he had a feeling it wasn’t the cops. The Merc straightened up and the smell of rubber wafted through the air con. Sal ripped through the gears along Via Terracina, his speed jumping from 60 to 80 to 120kph. In the rear-view mirror, the Fiat was struggling but still within sight. Ospedale San Paolo flashed past on his left. He was topping 160kph as he approached the sharp left-hander into Via Cupa Vicinale Terracina. Sal swung hard right and then cut left, hoping his racing line wasn’t too tight. The Merc redlined and screamed as he changed down gears. The back end kicked out – but, despite what it looked like, Sal still had full control. He sighted the traffic parked up ahead, then deliberately slammed the brakes on and prepared for the Merc to plough into a parked car.
Sal flipped the driver’s door open just before the impact. Air bags ballooned. He found just enough room to slip on to the sidewalk. He kicked the door shut and rolled up tight against the parked car. Seconds later the blue Fiat slid past and slammed on its brakes.
Lying on the hard stone, Sal slipped off the safeties on both Glocks. A clunk and grind of gears announced that the Fiat was reversing back up to the Merc. Sal had never seen the occupants, but he was sure he knew who they were and what they wanted. Engine still running, they got out.
Sal lay flat and watched them from beneath the Merc.
They were both square to the passenger door. The air bags meant they couldn’t see anything inside the vehicle.
Someone tugged at the passenger-door handle to open up for a better view. Within half a second he was vertical, firing through the driver’s window with both Glocks.
Within two beats of their hearts he’d emptied ten rounds from his fists. He stepped quickly on to the crunched nose of the Merc.
The men were already down. Wounded and bleeding. One was dead, face down, crimson jelly in the grime and grit. The other was on his back, twitching and gargling blood. The Glock in Sal’s left hand jerked again, five more rounds. The gargling stopped.
He dropped over the other side of the Merc and chugged more shots into the bodies and heads of the men on the floor.
Take no chances. Doubly sure equals doubly dead.
The bodies didn’t move.
He didn’t recognize the guy on his back. He rolled the other stiff to look at him. Romano Ivetta. Dead as a fucking dodo. Hoo-fucking-ray!
Sal didn’t waste any more time. He holstered the Glocks. Walked over Ivetta’s body to the still-running Fiat, slipped inside and drove off.
103
Stazione dei carabinieri, Castello di Cisterna
The closest thing to sympathy that Gina Valsi got was a cup of tea. Even then it was cold. She’d been taken to the carabinieri headquarters on the east of the city where the Murder Squad was based.
Claudio Mancini spent an hour with her in the Interview Room, tape rolling, questions flying. He kicked off by asking about her father. Where had he been going that morning? Who’d known of his movements? The usual stuff. Then they moved on to the more exotic. His line of work, his enemies, who might have wanted him dead. Every ten minutes Gina demanded to see her son and each outburst got the same deadpan answer: she’d have to wait.
The door swung open and for the sake of the tape Mancini announced