Swedish Drop

by Michael D. Wright

  Struggling to sit up, Lindqvist reached for his hip pocket. “Let... let me grab my wallet!"

  Good… He doesn’t recognize me…

  Before John could answer, the driver tried to grab his wrist, but John gouged open a small cut over his ear and commanded, "I told you to DRIVE!"

  "Where?"

  "Anywhere, JUST DRIVE!"

  While Lindqvist held his wallet, John explained to the man with gray eyes and a double chin, "I don't want your money. All I want is your computer." He nodded toward Lindqvist's lap. "And I know you have it in your briefcase, don't you."

  The Swede’s mouth fell slack, and the color faded from his face when they rounded the corner and motored down Slottskajen. "Yeah, it's in here," he replied flipping open the brass latches. "What do you want with this?" Swallowing hard, he glanced up at the pistol and whispered, "Are you going to kill us?"

  "Not unless you make me."

  Lindqvist raised his brow. "I don't believe you... You speak impeccable Swedish, but I detect an American accent. So, what does an American want with my computer?"

  "You're storing information that’s a threat to the security of the United States!”

  In the flashes of light from the streetlamps that came and went as they headed south along Slottskajen, John noticed how Lindqvist's eyes darted from the pistol to his face and back to the laptop working to process the gravity of his predicament. Then he cleared his throat and spluttered, “Look... can you remember this?”

  Is he serious?

  Try me..."

  "The list is in my emails—“

  What a liar... this guy is a rookie...

  When John's backhand stung the minister’s face, he whimpered and clutched at his throat as John grabbed his collar and twisted his bow tie. "Don't fuck with me... I'm no fool! Emails are not secure. Anyone can access them if they have a few basic skills. Now tell me... what's the name of the file this list is under?"

  "I can't remember... I can't breathe..."

  John let go of his collar and smacked him again. This time, a wad of spittle and blood splatted against the window, and the Swede's hands fluttered over his hair as he managed to say, "It's in my daily expenses... an Excel file under my wife's name... Hélène. It's password protected."

  Wrapping his fingers around the tie again, John twisted harder. "What's the fucking password?"

  Lindqvist kicked his feet gasping, "Okay... okay... 11.21.1979... Our anniversary."

  John worked his fingers through that wavy hair and yanked back Lindqvist's head. "What's on the list?"

  "Cyber mercenaries," the minister yelped.

  "Cyber mercenaries? What do you mean?"

  "It's... it's a list of their names?"

  John tightened his grip. "A list of proper names... code names, usernames, avatars? What kind of names?

  "No... their real names, contacts... everything," Lindqvist croaked.

  "Do you realize what you have done? What if terrorists get their hands on these names? They could blackmail national leaders, control natural resources… or… instigate a nuclear war for God's sake? Where did you get it?"

  "The Chinese..."

  "A Chinese agent... a diplomat? Who? Or is Beijing directly involved in this? Or perhaps Pyongyang?”

  "I... I don't know! I have no idea exactly who it was." When John let go, Lindqvist wiped his nose on his sleeve.

  "What were you going to do with it?"

  "I was hoping to use it to impress Prime Minister Strom." He turned to look out the window. "He'll give me a bonus…”

  "Or have you arrested for trying to extort money from your government."

  The Swede furrowed his brow, perplexed.

  "How long have you had the list? Is there a chance the Russians or Iranians got their hands on it?” John glanced at the driver’s face in the rear-view mirror.

  "Maybe a few weeks... I've just been waiting for the right time to..." Lindqvist stared at his hands and picked at a hangnail. "I really need the money. I got myself into a tight financial bind. I owe a gambling debt. If I don't pay it off soon..." He shook his head. "My wife will find out and leave me. And… take the house and our vacation home in Paris."

  God... is he really that stupid? What else will he tell me? This guy has no clue what he's done...

  "Do you know an agent with the code name SCRIBE?"

  Lindqvist looked up and nodded. "Yes, and now he's dead."

  “Is he the one who took it from the Chinese? Was it the only copy?”

  “As far as I know it was the only one… At least that’s what he told me.” The Swede scowled, thinking.

  Is SCRIBE’s contact still alive?”

  “I… I don’t know.” Lindqvist rubbed his hand over his face.

  "How did you know SCRIBE was killed?”

  John leaned closer, and Lindqvist repositioned the briefcase on his lap peering out the window. "It was in the newspaper. And I heard about it from the grapevine. You know... shop talk." One side of his mouth curled into a quick smile. "I have connections. But SCRIBE double-crossed me. I was going to pay him by making him my head of security. At first, that was all he wanted. He hated the cloak-and-dagger business… Or so he said. Then, that wasn't enough of course... and he wanted more. He had no conscience."

  "Did you kill him!"

  Lindqvist faced John with wide eyes. "No. Please believe me. I never wanted anyone to get killed. I just wanted to impress my boss and make some extra cash to pay off my debt."

  When they slowed for another traffic light, John raised his pistol and mashed it to the back of the driver’s head again. "Damnit I told you to drive!"

  It was starting to snow when the SUV sped through the intersection. The tires spun when they slid around a corner and headed north on Blasieholmsgatan passing tall brick buildings motoring deeper into Stockholm's business district.

  "Be careful Erik. The slush is turning to black ice," Lindqvist bellowed.

  Make your move Seal... You need to end this...

  John reached for the briefcase, and said, "Look, that list is nothing to bargain with — nothing you can trade on a whim. I understand you need money, but the information you were brokering is top secret! If it makes its way into the hands of bad actors... and eventually it will if it hasn't already… you’ll be responsible for the deadly result worldwide." John gripped his collar again. "Do I need to remind you; that includes your countryman here in Sweden, too!"

  Lindqvist batted his eyelids and lifted his hands. "I should have known I was in over my head."

  "Look, just give me the laptop... Let me take care of this!"

  "Are you going to pay me?"

  "Look out!" John yelled as a snowplow rumbled from the alley ahead gaining speed.

  The driver raised his arm to shield his face.

  Brakes locked —

  Tires squealed —

  Glass shattered —

  In the explosion of vehicles, there were groans of metal grinding against metal as the snowplow's blade t-boned them ripping through the center of the driver's door. The right side of the SUV tipped up.

  Something hissed…

  The radiator has ruptured, and coolant is spilling out over the engine…

  The SUV rested only a moment on its left side before the snowplow crashed into it again. The men tumbled as if they were in a clothes dryer.

  The laptop struck John in the head.

  The Sig Sauer grazed his face.

  The roof buckled and collapsed. Then the Swede's full weight pinned John against something.

  Lindqvist groaned.

  Bodily fluids oozed from the driver, crushed against the steering wheel.

  The digital clock on the dashboard flashed red and went dark.

  Time Check: 1616

  Chapter Seven

  STOCKHOLM SWEDEN

  JANUARY 18

  TIME CHECK: 1619hrs

  When the bright light from the snowplow's LEDs fell across John’s face, his eyes fluttered. Gr
itty dust mixed with snowflakes swirled around him, and the bittersweet odor of gasoline cut through his senses. Jolted awake, he was struck with only one thought.

  One spark and I'll go up in flames ...

  While struggling to catch his breath his eyes darted around the shadowy space. Patching together bits of sensory information, John remembered he was sandwiched between the backseat and the roof of the SUV.

  Above him, the top half of Lindqvist’s body poked through a window and his leg was at an odd angle. The Swede’s breath was coming in hitches and by the sounds of his grunts and moans John gathered he was only half conscious.

  Am I hurt? There's no pain... At least not yet...

  Hanging upside-down, John batted his eyelids adjusting to the glare and quickly realized he could move his fingers and toes without pain. That moment of relief was brief when a jolt of panic tore through him — a seat belt was wrapped around his ankle.

  Control your breathing… in… out…

  After a few beats, he worked his hand toward his foot brushing against the edge of the belt. “Dammit!” Instead of grabbing hold he had accidentally pushed it further away.

  Fuck... I'm trapped...

  Beads of sweat popped out on John’s upper lip as he squeezed in his gut to shorten his body, but the seatbelt was still out of reach. When twisting his foot one way then the other, the noose only tightened. His mind raced. He struggled to catch a breath.

  Find your knife...

  Fumbling for his pocket he found it and managed to cut the strap in two. Then John rested his head against the seat for a moment before wiping his face on his sleeve and considering his next move.

  Escape through the back window…

  When John inched to his left moving closer to the cargo area that had sustained less damage, his backpack caught on something threatening to send him into panic mode again. Instead of losing control, this time he worked his blade under the shoulder straps and cut himself free.

  My Sig Sauer... The laptop...

  Feeling along the space between the front seat and the smashed driver's door, John's fingers brushed against the cold steel. His pistol was resting under the edge of the upside-down driver's seat and a cushion. Gently, he slid his hand closer and a chill ran through him when he heard a 'clunk.’ The weapon had slipped further away and fallen against something.

  God...

  With his legs still partially trapped above his body, John pressed his face against the pillar separating the front door from the back and discovered his weapon was almost within reach. Carefully, he worked his right hand forward until he could loop his forefinger around the trigger.

  At least it's pointing away. But if it fires my worries will be over and PANDORA Mission Swedish Drop will go up in flames… There has to be another way...

  John braced himself when he heard a grinding sound as the SUV shifted and the Sig came loose, falling out beside him. Then as the sirens drew closer, he offered a silent prayer of thanks and wedged the weapon under his belt — but the laptop was still out of sight.

  Stay focused Seal...

  Working his legs free, John moved enough to determine the SUV had rolled over into the gutter. Then there was a drip — drip — drip from above and a dark pool was forming on a piece of the torn upholstery. When John ran his fingers through the thick liquid and touched it to his lips the coppery taste confirmed his suspicions.

  Blood... The driver... He didn't know what had hit him...

  Compartmentalizing what he had seen, John stretched his shoulders further to the left and observed the silver MacBook Air was within reach. Carefully, he maneuvered around a piece of jagged metal and grabbed it, allowing him a better view of his surroundings.

  Not twenty meters away, a tall building jutted into the snowy night, and further down he noticed how the neon signs appeared as nests of colored halos above the sidewalk.

  If I can just make it down there... I’ll disappear into the crowd...

  Then there were crunching squeaks of footfalls in fresh snow and they were coming closer. John strained to see through the debris and caught a glimpse of a man’s silhouetted in the snowplow's headlights. The guy was dressed in a long dark coat wearing a fur trapper hat and large framed glasses. When the footfalls stopped, Lindqvist's croaked, "MALLARD... What are you doing and why are you here? Get help!"

  What the fuck... Did Matt get out of that snowplow?

  "You lied to me,” MALLARD said.

  "Help, help me out of here!"

  "Where's the computer file you promised to give me?”

  "What? Please get me out of here. I think my legs are broken," Lindqvist pleaded.

  "It's too late..." MALLARD leveled a pistol at the Swede. "You’re trying to sell that top secret file instead of turning it over to me like we planned. Now you can't be trusted."

  "No! Don't shoot. Give me another chance."

  Fuck this dumb ass is going to shoot and kill us both…

  ‘Pop’ — ‘Pop’ —

  When Lindqvist's brains splattered around him, John let out a breath working to gather himself.

  We didn’t explode… He’s using a silencer and mine is stuck in my backpack. Fuck… my passport is in there too…

  Slowly, John worked his right hand up enough to unzip the side pouch, removed his ID and slid it inside his vest pocket. Inching toward the cargo area he drew himself into a ball and pressed the laptop to his chest. With his pistol in his right hand he paused a beat to listen. Only the approaching sirens pierced the snowy silence.

  No footsteps? MALLARD is still there...

  Then the face of his old friend appeared in the window above Lindqvist's body and he gazed inside for a moment before disappearing out of sight. John held stone-still as MALLARD began treading toward the front of the vehicle.

  Matt knows someone's inside, but he doesn't know it's ME... And he's angling for a clear shot... I have no choice but to take him out first.

  Before John could take aim, another muffled 'pop' punctured the air, and a bullet ripped through his backpack not an inch from his head. Hastily, he scooted toward the back window and squeezed off a few rounds of his own.

  John knew his aim was off when MALLARD spoke with that signature Texas drawl, “Boy, you’re like a tick I can’t shake off. Who you workin for?” MALLARD waited for an answer, but John kept quiet. “What’s wrong? You shy?” MALLARD stepped closer. “You aren't dealing with NOBLE. Just hand it over and I’ll move on… no questions asked."

  What does MALLARD know about NOBLE? Were they teaming up to secure the computer file… or planning to sell it for a tidy sum and split the profit?

  John's mind raced while assessing the situation. One thing was sure, he had the computer and MALLARD didn't.

  What time is it? I have to find the train station…

  MALLARD's boots crunched in the snow —

  I can't see him yet… But in a second I'll be a sitting duck...

  After working himself through the narrow opening John escaped out the back window and crouched low.

  'Pop’—

  MALLARD missed again.

  John saw the top of the agent's trapper cap move before he squatted down beside the crushed front fender. Then MALLARD spoke up as if they were in a casual conversation sitting side-by-side in a bar. “Sorry about that SCRIBE business at the museum. Boy, do I hate crowds. Just messy.”

  Keep quiet... He might recognize my voice...

  MALLARD whispered. “You seem like a smart guy. Why didn’t you grab that thumb drive? It was laying right there in the snow. All you had to do was pick it up.”

  More crunching footfalls —

  He's moving around the front trying to flush me out...

  "You are a master of disguise... You did look a lot like me… I’ll give you that.”

  A woman's scream came from behind MALLARD, and a couple ran hand in hand away from the wreck before ducking inside a building. By the sounds of the sirens, John estimated the patrol cars we
re only moments away. His eyes darted up and down the street weighing his options. Then John tucked the computer under his arm and held the Sig out in front of him with the other.

  Make up your mind... My only chance is to hide behind the snowplow, kill MALLARD and escape before either the police close in, or a bystander fingers me. It's only five paces to the snowplow… Run!!

  'Ping' — 'ping’— two more shots ricocheted off the steel bed.

  John's heart throbbed in his throat when he slipped around the vehicle and stood against the driver's door peering over the hood. MALLARD's body cast a soft shadow across the pavement as the snow sifted down between them. Now, he had a straight shot at his old friend. Holding his weapon in one hand, John aimed at the trapper hat.

  Blue and red lights of a patrol car careened around the corner.

  John stepped back.

  The police were headed straight up the street behind the SUV toward MALLARD.

  Run... run... run toward the neon lights…The train station is down that way somewhere…

  Avoiding patches of ice John sprinted along the sidewalk. As he rounded the corner heading east on deserted Arsenalsgatan, a voice over a megaphone commanded him to, "Stop... raise your hands or we will shoot."

  Swallowing hard, John ignored them and zigzagged between cars pausing to hide a time or two before moving on. A shot pinged off a street sign, and another grazed the sidewalk sending pieces of concrete in the air. The sirens sounded again. The winds whipped up sending an icy blast against his face as John sprinted the last fifteen meters to the next corner.

  Shit...

  Another patrol car was speeding up the street in his direction. Slowing his pace, he holstered his weapon, slipped the computer inside his parka and pressed it against his chest.

  Up ahead, he noticed several people were milling around outside the shops and John hoped he wasn't covered with blood as he worked to blend in. As the patrol car pulled closer, he stepped inside Väsktorget's and made his way to a display against a wall and pretended to admire the various computer bags. There were voices outside, more sirens, and the lights of at least three patrol cars reflected in the windows.