A surprised gasp was all he could manage as the strong arm closed off his throat like a vice grip. Instinctively reaching up and digging his fingernails into the thick muscles to fight for some much-needed air, Steve was powerless as the attacker dragged him into a dark corner of the barn, before a trained hand ran across his upper body looking for weapons.
"Who are you, hm? More…debt collectors?", a voice near his ear hissed and Steve felt cold fingers tracing his belt line before stopping at the .38 Special.
Hoping that Mike would have noticed his absence by now, Steve continued to struggle against the tight grip pulling him backwards, even when the other man retrieved the revolver out of his holster and held it up against the sunlight coming in through the back door of the barn.
"You're too scrawny to be somebody's muscle and this is a no Saturday night special. What are you? Mobsters?"
Had he had any air left in his lungs by now, Steve would have identified himself as a police officer, but as his vision turned uncomfortably gray and blurry, he was left at the mercy of the man holding him captive.
"Drop the weapon and let go of my partner…now."
The deep growl coming from a few feet away sounded divine and dangerous at the same time. Feeling the arm around his throat tighten mercilessly, Steve tried to draw in an overdue breath, but found that he no longer could.
"Not until I know who you are."
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Mike approach, the .38 aimed just past his left shoulder at the unidentified attacker's head, his stern gaze impossible to read.
"Lieutenant Michael Stone, San Francisco PD, Homicide."
"Police? Well, why didn't you say so?!"
Immediately letting go of his throat, the man took a step back, his manic chuckle filling the back of the barn. There was no doubt that Steve would have ended up sprawled out on the hard concrete floor, had it not been for Mike's strong hand on his elbow to steady him.
"San Francisco PD, eh? You're a long ways from home, fellas.", the man continued undisturbed and returned Steve's revolver with a cordial smile, seemingly oblivious to Mike's gun still trained at his head.
Throwing his partner a worried glance, the Lieutenant didn't let go until Steve nodded faintly, pretending to feel a lot better than he actually did, as he took several symbolic breaths.
"Is this how you greet people who want to come visit your farm?", Mike growled in obvious discontent, hesitant to lower his gun until the strange man sat down on the nearby tractor hitch.
"Lieutenant, Lieutenant. There's no need to be so rude. Just understand that I live alone out here, and two suits showing up in a fancy car usually means that trouble is brewing."
"You're saying that you have some concerns about debt collectors or gorillas with brass knuckles showing up unexpectedly?", Steve asked and ran a hand across his sore throat, "Been indulging into gambling a bit too much and stirred up the wrong crowd?"
"Say, you've got quite the imagination there, Kid.", the man countered smoothly and wiped his hands on his dirty overalls, "I was more or less thinking IRS. Now there's a bunch of folks I'd love to choke the life out of. Good thing you're not an accountant, eh? I'd have to dig a hole big enough for both of you and that car."
Next to them, Mike cleared his throat, his serious expression unchanged as he took in the bizarre scene.
"So, you are the owner of this place? What's your name, Sir?"
"Thought you'd never ask, Lieutenant.", flashing a board smile that made his white teeth stand out against his suntanned skin, the man stretched out his calloused hand, "Name's Al Marietti. But you can call me Alfonso the Great."