The Goodbye Kiss by Massimo Carlotto

security
guards spent two minutes checking the surrounding area. Then the driver and
another guard climbed out, opened the steel door and removed the money bags. At
that moment, they were cut down by a number of shots. Gianni Casiraghi, the
driver, 41, separated with two daughters, was hit square in the face and in the
throat. Walter Salemme, 29, married with a four-month-old baby, was hit in the
temple. He died before he reached the ground. A Renault 21 pulled out from a
row in the parking lot, speeding towards the spot where the bags had been left.
Eyewitnesses were certain a woman was behind the wheel. In the meantime the
shooters continued to fire at the rear door of the truck to prevent the other
guard from returning the shots. But their effort was pointless. Antonio Donati,
33, married with no children, seeing his co-workers shot with lethal precision,
lay flat on the floor of the truck, praying and sobbing. Terror had simply
stopped him from seizing the radio microphone and sounding an alarm at the
central office of the security firm. Two men got out of the Renault. One
gathered the four bags; the other covered him, holding two guns. The newspapers
had a field day, offering their readers computer-drawn diagrams and implausible
hypotheses. The only accurate conjecture said it was likely the gang included
an inside man. Ciccio and Ausonio had already been discovered, but car and
bodies had been burnt so badly it would take time to determine their
identities. The robbery made front-page news for several days, not only because
of the two deaths, the funerals attended by high-ranking prelates, and the city
in mourning, but also because of the size of the haul: eight hundred and
seventy-five thousand euros. Unlike the usual drill, the authorities released
only vague statements of little interest. The dynamic of the robbery and the
discovery of some twenty Russian-made shells on the roof immediately put them
on the trail of a dangerous foreign gang. A difficult investigation, where
every detail could prove useful only if it wasn't made public.
        
        
        Saturday
21:15
        The
gas station closed at 19:30. I parked the Panda behind the self-service car
wash so I wasn't seen by the local cops. My presence could've aroused the
curiosity of some passing patrol. The Croats' Escort arrived, followed closely
by the Spaniards' Renault. I turned the key in the ignition and led them to the
house. I was happy. Happy and excited by the idea of becoming rich. The last
task would be dropping the bodies of my accomplices down the old cistern.
        
        
        Saturday
22:40
        To
avoid roadblocks we were forced to travel back roads, often dirt tracks. I
parked the car, turned on a powerful flashlight and signaled the others to
follow me. The abandoned house was immersed in darkness. For a moment no one
moved. The place seemed designed for a trap. Then everybody slipped their hands
into their pockets, and the feel of their guns convinced them to go inside the
house. In the kitchen I switched on the camping light. As I told the Spaniards
to put the money on the table, I began moving towards my stash in the corner of
the fireplace.
        Anedda
started shooting too soon and screwed everything up. He hit Pepe in the chest,
killing him instantly; another round ripped Javier's side. But Francisca and
the Croats still hadn't entered the room. They pulled back along the hallway,
moving out of range. I grabbed the shotgun and slowly inched through the
doorway, ready to shoot. But I was greeted by crossfire and had to take cover.
Javier began to moan faintly. I took a gun and finished him off.
        "You've
really made a mess," I growled at Anedda, who'd entered through the
window.
        "We've
got the money," he snapped, pointing at the bags on the table. "Let's
go out and finish the job," he added, switching off the light.
        But
we were trapped in the room. The Croats had gone to the car to