Never Fuck Up: A Novel
Page 53
Thomas whispered into the receiver, “What the fuck is happening?”
“I don’t know, but I’ve called for backup. There was insane shooting going on somewhere inside the building where you are. And an explosion that sounded like they were blowing something up.”
“When is backup getting here?”
“You know, it’s New Year’s Eve, on Smådalarö, out in the archipelago. They won’t be here for another twenty minutes, at best.”
“Fuck. But what should I do? Something’s definitely going on in here.”
“Just wait for the squad cars. I can’t get past the gate by myself.”
“No, Hägerström, that won’t cut it. This is our chance to get some hard evidence. I’ve got to see what’s happening. It might be connected to our case.”
Hägerström was silent. Thomas felt a drop of sweat on his forehead. He waited for Hägerström’s response. Would he support him in this or not?
Hägerström cleared his throat. “Okay, take a quick look. But for fuck’s sake, don’t do anything stupid. You said it yourself—this could be the solution to our case. So don’t blow it.”
Thomas put his cell phone back in his inner pocket. Groped for his gun. Looked at it for a second. Fully loaded. Recently cleaned. Safety on. Felt good.
Thomas went back into the salon where all the paintings were hung. Then into the entrance hall.
His first discovery surprised him: the huge Yugo—the bouncer—in a heap on the floor. Around his feet, his forearms, and his mouth: looked like miles’ worth of duct tape. A puddle of blood on the floor—the guy’s knee: ground meat mixed with pants fabric. The guard was staring sluggishly into space. Thomas bent down. Ripped the tape from his mouth in one tear.
“What happened?” he whispered.
The guard seemed groggy. Maybe the loss of blood, maybe the shock, maybe he was on his way out. Thomas loosened the tape on his forearms. The guard: completely silent. Thomas listened to his breathing. It was there. Thin but still clear. He used the tape he’d torn off to wrap the wound on his knee. Tightened—tried to stop the flow of blood. Better than nothing. Checked the guy’s back, stomach, head—he didn’t seem to be injured anywhere else. Thomas placed him in the recovery position. The guard would survive.
Thomas texted Hägerström: Call amb. Pers shot in knee.
Moved on. Silence in the house. The beat, the music, the laughter couldn’t be heard anymore. The house felt like a grave, like the basement where he’d found Claes Rantzell. Thomas thought about the guard’s breathing: so thin. Like the air in this house. Like this entire investigation. It might all go to hell now—Bolinder’s bizarre party, the Yugos’ involvement, the payments to Rantzell, the key witness in Sweden’s most important trial.
Everything was thin.
Thomas stopped.
Took a deep breath. Was there something wrong with the air in here?
Felt like he was getting less oxygen. As if he was forced to breathe deeper. As if his lungs needed more.
He raised his gun. Closed his eyes. Saw an image in front of him. A boy. A face.
Sander.
Then he opened his eyes.
It was time to keep going.
Made his way through a couple of rooms. Empty of people. Colorful wallpaper, paintings, a sculpture or two, the right lighting, the right color choices, the right designer furniture. Couches, armchairs, Persian carpets, harmonious feel. Thomas thought, These types of men hide their real selves behind fancy art that no ordinary people understand. Criminal classic—the bigger the crook, the bigger the artists on the walls. It felt good to relax into a normal, bitter line of thought.
He walked through a hallway. The lighting was built into the floorboards.
He grabbed hold of the door handle. Carefully. Slowly. Pushed down. The door opened outward. A crack. He raised his gun. Sank down to his knees to be safe. Looked in.
A large room. The crystal chandeliers in the ceiling were the first things he saw. The room felt too bright. It sparkled. Immediately thereafter he saw the people. At least fifty of them. Men and women. On their stomachs, hands over their heads. Facedown on the floor. Thomas couldn’t see who they were. Could only guess.
He looked closer. Three people were lying in front of them. Taped up, folded up. One of them looked like he was unconscious. The second one was just staring, wide-eyed. The third: wrapped in something. A heavy-looking plastic bag on his stomach. A wire led from the plastic bag to a small gray box.
There were two more people in the room. Two men with concealed faces. Ski masks rolled down, dark clothes; they looked like they were wearing bulletproof vests underneath. Maybe they were pros. One was thinner, with a Beretta in one hand and maybe something else in the other. Standing a little way off from the people. Steady, calm, focused on safety. The other was incredibly beefy. He approached the group on the floor. Said, in crap English, “Everyone hands over their watches and wallets. Now.” Thomas could distinguish a thick Swedish immigrant accent in the English. Clear: this was a Swedish blatte.
He looked again. These weren’t real pros—the beefy guy was wearing light-colored sneakers.
Thomas read the situation. Weighed possibilities. Judged alternative courses of action. What he should really do is get out. Report to Hägerström where the hostage holders and the people were. Wait for backup. Let things take their course.
Or else he could wait and see what happened. He had a personal interest in this investigation. It was completely outside the rule book, after all. If it came to light, he’d be screwed as a cop forever. Hägerström too. He was also lured by the thought of solving the situation going on in the room by himself. Become a hero—make a triumphant return to the Southern District. The lone cop who went in on his own instead of waiting for backup. Dumb as hell. Stubborn as a four-year-old. Idiot risk taker—but still a hero.
That’s exactly how he felt. But he didn’t do it. He remained where he was. Backup was on its way, after all.
The guys in there pocketed the stuff that the men’d laid out on the floor in front of them.
The guy with the Beretta was clearly taking it easier than the one with the gym shoes. Moved with ease above the men’s heads. Held the gun in a relaxed grip, but still with full control. Looked like he’d done this before.
He opened his mouth. His English was significantly better than the beefcake’s. “I want all the whores to stand up.”
No one seemed to understand. He repeated, “I want all the girls to stand up.”
He pointed the gun at one of the men. Then he screamed, “Now!”
67
Mahmud didn’t understand what Niklas was doing. The commando guy’d suddenly started asked the hookers to stand up.
In his smooth English: “Everyone point to the man who last bought you.”
They didn’t seem to understand what he meant. Mahmud didn’t either.
This wasn’t part of the plan.
His bag was full of wallets and watches. Nice stuff—he immediately saw a solid gold Rolex Submariner. Mahmud calculated. The gold watch alone: probably 200,000. The total value: at least 500,000 in just Rolex, Cartier, IWC, Baume & Mercier, and the rest of the watches. Plus: the plastic. Even if they would cancel a bunch, Tom Lehtimäki would be able to trick enough systems to get another 500,000 or 600,000 kronor. What’s more: Jorge’s promised payment—he’d popped Ratko, one of Radovan’s men. Avenged his humiliation. Completed the Latino’s mission: hurt the Yugo mafia. It tasted so good.
Time to retreat.
Then again, he hadn’t taken pictures of the men with the hookers yet. That’d been Jorge’s idea. When he’d explained, the Latino’s grin’d been wider than a fucking smiley face. “Bring a good camera, man. You’re gonna be able to use the photos for years. They’ll pay. I promise. I know.” Mahmud got the point. Blackmail was a wonderful thing.
He turned to Niklas—screw the whole speak Yankee thing.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“All the whores stand up. Or else I’ll blow this old fuck into so many pieces you’ll have to wipe up brain matter all night.”
A few of the girls started to get up. One by one. Most of them looked Eastern, around ten mulattos or Asians, a few Swedes. Dressed like the sluts they were, but more deluxe. Short skirts, tight jeans, fishnets, boots, stilettos, low-cut tops in thin materials. Mahmud recognized Natascha and Juliana and several others from the trailers. They’d clearly been dolled up tonight. Girls he’d driven around over the entire city.
Niklas yelled at them. The soldier boy seemed to’ve lost his grip. The girls didn’t want to follow his orders. But he kept on making commands.
“I don’t care if you don’t recognize these men. Just stand next to one who’s ever humiliated you. Stand there, goddammit!”
Mahmud tried again.
“Cut this shit, man. I’m done collecting. We did what we came here to do.”
Niklas turned to him. Continued in English, “I told you, no Swedish! What are you? Fucking retarded?”
68
Niklas was close to the finish line. The women would point out the guilty parties. He would serve the justice that society was waiting for. That his mom’d waited for all her life. He was a one-man judge and jury.
He was holding the remote detonator in one hand. The Beretta in the other. The attack was in its final stage. Judgment within reach. In a few minutes, it would be time to pull back the forces.
But first he had to make the Arab, who’d started interfering, shut his trap. Didn’t Mahmud understand that WILCO—will comply—was in force? Shut up and follow orders.
Niklas never dropped his eyes from the whore hounds.
The Arab kept pestering him: “Let’s split. Now. We’re done here.”
He tried to calm Mahmud down. Might need him to finish things here.
This couldn’t become a SNAFU—situation normal, all fucked up. He tried a WO—warning order: “Shut up. Now. Just follow orders or you’ll wish you had.”
Mahmud, in a raised register: “Fuck man, chill out, Niklas. We’re splitting. Or else Babak and me’ll split without you.”
Niklas couldn’t wait. He raised the Beretta toward one of the men. One by one, the order determined by the gravity of their crime. The man looked up. Three prostitutes were standing over him.
69
Did he hear that right? The situation in the room’d definitely started to derail. This would end badly. Very badly.
The men in the ski masks were arguing with each other. The immigrant guy’d started speaking Swedish. Apparently wanted to leave. The pro wanted to stay. Finish something that had to do with lining the whores up. Thomas could only imagine.
But did he hear that right? The immigrant guy’d said the name of the dude who wanted to stay—Niklas. He’d called him Niklas.
It was scary. A man named Niklas was attacking Bolinder.
Only one Niklas came to mind. The guy who’d escaped from the hearing in the District Court yesterday. The guy he and Hägerström’d discussed so many times. Maybe they were on the wrong track. Thomas’d dismissed all that—too much pointed to Adamsson, Bolinder, and the others. But now: what did the altercation and the hostage taking he’d just witnessed mean?
It couldn’t be a coincidence. It must be Niklas Brogren who was standing in the room right now. Prepared to kill all the johns. Above all: prepared to blow Bolinder into a million pieces.
There was a connection between Bolinder and the man who was suspected of murdering Rantzell. Again: it couldn’t be a coincidence. Niklas Brogren wanted something from Bolinder.
It meant two things. One: Thomas and Hägerström’d been right—the guy wasn’t innocent, he was involved in the murder somehow. Two: Bolinder wasn’t innocent either. Why else was someone who was involved in the murder here at his house, of all places?
There wasn’t time to think. The immigrant guy remained where he was reluctantly. Brogren’d forced all the girls to stand over different men. Unclear if they’d actually had sex with them or if they just went somewhere out of fear and confusion over Brogren’s order.
What should he do? Backup obviously wasn’t here yet. Not his fault—what was happening in the room would’ve happened even if he hadn’t come up from the basement. Now he was the only policeman on the scene. His duty: to stop what was happening in there. Or? No one knew that he and Hägerström were here. Maybe he should just sneak out of this cursed house. Let the hostage taker deal with the hostages. Let a murderer murder an instigator. Let Bolinder meet the fate he deserved.
But no. He’d promised himself to get to the bottom of this. Despite his thoughts in the car coming out here—that some of the people he’d gotten to know were his friends—he was a police officer. A regular cop—as he’d thought so many times before: far from the most honest one in the world. But, despite that, about as honest as you can expect a cop like him to be. It still boiled down to the same principle: he liked to see the law win. He didn’t care when it was a matter of petty shit, an ounce here and an ounce there. But he wanted the law to pluck the real rabble. And deep inside he thought he knew who they were. Suit-clad, wealthy, extremist men like Sven Bolinder should rot in the same cells as the drunk drivers, the dealers, and the wife beaters. That’s what he wanted. Even if it rarely, or never, turned out that way. Actually, he didn’t know of a single instance when it’d happened. But he didn’t give a shit, that was still his goal. This was his opportunity to change things—to see the law win. They’d taken Palme. The workingman’s hero. This was his way out. To change Sweden. At least just this once.
He speed-analyzed different alternatives. Rush in, try to arrest the intruders. Wait for the blatte to possibly leave and overtake him on the way out. Shoot the guys from a distance.
To rush in was dangerous. At least seven to nine yards. Niklas would have time to detonate the bomb and shoot a fuckload of people before he reached them. To wait for the blatte to leave—might never happen. That wouldn’t work.
Try to play sniper? Yes, maybe—that was Thomas’s thing. He was one of the best shots in the police force, after all.
If he’d had his Strayer Voigt Infinity, it would’ve been easy. But now—the police gun wasn’t exactly suited for sniper duty. At the same time: he should be able to handle nine yards. First Brogren, then the blatte.
He positioned himself with one knee on the floor. Straightened his back. Stretched his arms out. As long as they didn’t see him through the crack in the door. Remembered his bull’s-eye at the Järfälla club’s shooting range on the same night that Ljunggren’d told him that they’d found Rantzell’s apartment. He held the gun as still as he could. Sought out the sight. It was slow on the SIG Sauer. Fixed the notch. Subtle tremble. Relaxed. Didn’t bother with the poor lighting. Focused on one of Niklas’s legs. No point in aiming at his chest—the guy was wearing a bulletproof vest. Thomas squeezed the trigger, slowly. The founding principle was clear: squeeze, massage, stroke it. He squinted. Lost consciousness of everything else. Even slower. One single movement. The only thing he saw was Niklas’s thigh. It was the only thing in the world right now.
The shot rang out. Reality came crashing in. The sound hurt his ears.
Niklas stumbled. But didn’t fall.
The opposite. He roared. Took a step forward toward the man he was about to pop.
This wouldn’t do. He had to do something else.
Thomas regained his position.
Aimed for Niklas again.
The right side of his chest this time. Wouldn’t injure the lunatic too much. The guy was wearing a bulletproof vest, after all.
70
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Some fucker was still around. Some cunt that Babak hadn’t spotted.
Niklas stumbled. But didn’t fall.
“I’ve been hit!”
Mahmud didn’t know what he should do. This was not part of the plan. What a fucking idiot he’d
been. It could be the 5-0. A blue storm rolling in.
FUCK.
Babak yelled from the room next door, “Habibi, what’s happening?”
Mahmud responded, “We gotta go.”
Babak ran in to Mahmud and the others.
Niklas roared, “Wait, I want to complete the mission.”
Babak approached him. Mahmud wondered why he’d come in. They were gonna split now.
Babak grabbed hold of Niklas. Tried to drag him away.
Tugged at his arm. Tore. Screamed, “Fuck, man, we gotta go.”
Another shot rang out in the room.
Mahmud saw Niklas. Like in slow motion. He collapsed like a rag.
On the left side of his head: the skull was busted.
Someone’d shot him again.
Khara. KHARA.
Niklas on the floor. They had to get out.
“Come on, man. Can you get up?”
Niklas tried to say something.
Gurgled.
Babak howled in the background.
Mahmud ran.
71
The second shot was bad.
Niklas dropped the Beretta.
But he was still holding the detonator in his hand.
Tight grip.
He felt the blood over his cheek and chin. Didn’t feel the blood. Didn’t feel anything.
He saw images. So many people, stories, faces.
Mom on the couch at home. The men in the mosque they’d torched down there. Collin.
The faces drifted past as if he were seeing them in a mirror.
Jamila. Benjamin. The cop who’d interrogated him.
He didn’t see anything anymore.
No johns, no old guys.
He saw a crystal chandelier swing above him.
Swing.
All the men who’d beaten and abused.
Mats Strömberg, Roger Jonsson, Patric Ngono.
Claes. Remembered him. All the punches.