The old man might have fooled my sister, but I know who he really is. The Game Master. The brains behind the whole thing.
· · ·
He’s given me a task, Mange.
One last task that will make me famous.
I’m trying to figure out a plan to get out of it.
To free both me and Becca from his grasp.
· · ·
If you get this email, it’ll mean I’ve failed.
That they forced me to carry out the task.
And that I’m very probably dead . . .
It’s quiet at the moment.
· · ·
But I know they’re out there, watching every step I take.
Soon it’s all going to kick off.
The question is: am I prepared to play one last game?
What do you think?
YES or NO?
Your old friend,
HP
This message is set to send at a future date
Like a punch in the chest—that was pretty much what it felt like. In a weird way the blow seemed to slow everything down even more. All of a sudden he could appreciate the tiniest details around him. The gun aimed at his chest, the drawn-out, panic-stricken screams from the surrounding crowd. All around him, bodies crushed together in slow motion. Trying to get as far away from him as possible.
But in spite of the evidence, in spite of the gunpowder stinging his nostrils and the shot still reverberating in his eardrums, his brain refused to accept what was happening. As if it were fending off the impossible, the unthinkable, the incomprehensible . . .
This simply couldn’t be happening.
Not now!
She had shot him . . .
SHE
HAD
SHOT
HIM!!!
The pistol was still pointing straight at his chest. The look on her face behind the barrel was ice-cold, completely emotionless. As if it belonged to someone else. A stranger.
He tried to raise his hand toward her, opened his mouth to say something. But the only sound that passed his lips was a sort of whimper. Suddenly and without any warning time speeded up and returned to normal. The pain spread like a wave from his rib cage, out through his body, making the tarmac beneath him lurch. His knees gave way and he took a couple of stumbling steps backward in an attempt to keep his balance.
His heel hit the edge of the curb.
A second of weightlessness as he fought the law of gravity.
Then a dreamlike sensation of falling freely.
And with that his part in the Game was over.
1
A WHOLE NEW GAME?
THE MOMENT HE woke up HP knew something was wrong. It took him a few seconds to put his finger on what it was.
It was quiet.
Far too quiet . . .
The bedroom faced out onto Guldgränd and he had long since got used to the constant sound of traffic on the Söderleden expressway a few hundred meters away. He hardly ever thought about it anymore.
But instead of the usual low rumble of traffic interspersed with the occasional siren, the summer night outside was completely silent.
He glanced at the clock radio: 03:58.
Roadwork, he thought. Söderleden, Söder Mälarstrand, and the Slussen junction closed off for yet another round of make-do-and-mend . . . But besides the fact that Bob the Builder would have to be working in stealth mode, it was also slowly dawning on him that there were other noises missing. No one rattling doors as they delivered the morning papers, no drunks shouting down on Hornsgatan. In fact hardly any sound at all to indicate that there was actually a vibrant capital city out there. As if his bedroom had been enclosed in a huge bubble, shutting the rest of the world out. Forcing him to live in his own little universe where the usual rules no longer applied.
Which, in some ways, was actually true . . .
He noticed that his heart was starting to beat faster. A quiet rustling sound from somewhere inside the flat made him jump.
A burglar?
No, impossible. He’d locked the high-security door, all three locks, just like he always did. The door had cost a fortune, but it was worth every single damn penny. Steel frame, double cylinder hook-bolt locks, you name it—so, logically, no one could have broken into the flat. But the umbrella of paranoia wasn’t about to let itself be taken down so easily . . .
He crept out of bed, padded across the bedroom floor, and peered cautiously into the living room. It took a few seconds for his eyes to get used to the gloom, but the results were unambiguous. Nothing, no movement at all, either in the living room or the little kitchen beyond. Everything was fine, there was no sign of any danger. Just the unnatural, oppressive silence that still hadn’t broken . . .
He crept carefully over to the window and looked out. Not a soul out on the street, not that that was particularly surprising given the time. Maria Trappgränd was hardly a busy street at any time of day.
Closed off for roadwork, that had to be it. Half of Södermalm already looked like some fucking archaeological dig, so why not go for a complete overnight shutdown? All the little cops were probably just having a coffee break.
Plausible—sure! But the uneasy feeling still wouldn’t let go.
Only the hall left.
He tiptoed across the new floorboards over to the front door, taking care to avoid the third and fifth ones because he knew they creaked.
When he was about a meter away he thought he saw the letter box move. He froze midstep as his pulse switched up a gear.
Two years ago someone had poured lighter fluid through his door and set fire to it. A seriously unpleasant experience, and one that had ended with him lying in Södermalm Hospital with an oxygen mask over his face. It wasn’t until much later that he had realized the whole thing was just a warning shot to remind him about the rules of the Game.
He sniffed carefully at the stagnant air but couldn’t smell paraffin or anything similar. But by now he was quite certain. The sounds had come from the front door.
Maybe someone delivering papers after all?
He crept a couple of steps closer to the door and carefully put his eye to the peephole.
The sudden noise was so violent that he staggered back into the hall.
Fuck!
For a few seconds he saw stars, and his heart seemed to have stopped.
Then another violent crash jolted him out of the shock.
Someone was smashing his door in!
The steel frame was already starting to bow, so whoever it was basically had to be stronger than the Hulk. A third crash, metal against metal, no bastard Bruce Banner but probably a serious sledgehammer—if not more than one.
The frame moved another few centimeters and he could suddenly see the bolts of the locks in the gap. A couple of more blows was all it would take.
He spun around, stumbling over his own feet, and fell flat on the floor. Another crash from the door sent a rattling shower of plaster over his bare legs.
His feet slid on the floor as his hands tried to get a grip.
He was up.
Quickly into the living room, then the bedroom.
Another crash on the door!
He could taste blood in his mouth, and his heart was pounding hard enough to burst.
His hands were shaking so much he had trouble turning the key in the lock.
Whatinthenameofholyfucksgoingon . . . ?
Another blow from the hall, this time followed by a splintering sound that almost certainly meant that the door frame had given way.
He grabbed the chest of drawers and almost fell over when it glided easily in front of the bedroom door.
Fucking chipboard crap!
If the steel door out there hadn’t been able to stop his attackers, then a bit of self-assembly furniture from the other side of the Baltic wasn’t going to win him more than a couple of seconds at most. He leaped at the bed and fumbled about on the bedside table, which was covered with magazines a
nd paperbacks.
The phone, where the hell was the phone?
There! No, shit, that was the remote for the television . . .
He heard rapid steps in the living room, gruff voices shouting to each other, but he was concentrating too hard on his search to hear what they were saying.
Suddenly his fingers hit the phone, so hard that it fell to the floor.
Fucking hell!
The door handle rattled, then a rough voice shouting:
“In here!”
HP threw himself on the floor, fumbling wildly with his arms.
There it was, right next to his left hand.
He grabbed the phone, scrabbled at the buttons. His fingers were twitching as if he had Parkinson’s.
One, one, two is easy to do . . . like hell it was!
A crash from the door and the Ikea chest of drawers almost fell over.
“Hello, emergency services, how can I help you?” a dry, professional voice said.
“Police!” HP yelled. “Help m—”
A sudden flash of light blinded him, burning onto his retina.
Then a blow that was so strong he was left gasping for air.
And then they had him.
Photo by Jorgen Ringstrand
ANDERS DE LA MOTTE is a former police officer and was until recently director of security at one of the world’s largest IT companies. He now works as an international security consultant in addition to being Sweden’s most exciting and innovative new thriller writer.
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Facebook.com/EmilyBestler @EmilyBestler
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 by Anders de la Motte
Translation copyright © 2014 by Neil Smith
Originally published in 2011 in Sweden by Alfabeta Bokförlag AB. Published by agreement with Salomonsson Agency.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Atria Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
First Emily Bestler Books/Atria Paperback edition January 2014
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Designed by Dana Sloan
Cover illustration and design by Patrick Kang
Cover photographs © Shutterstock
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
ISBN 978-1-4767-1291-8
ISBN 978-1-4767-1293-2 (ebook)
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Definition
E-mail
Preface
Chapter 1: Neverlands
Chapter 2: Flashback
Chapter 3: Foreplay
Chapter 4: Bad Luck Charm
Chapter 5: Bad Things
Chapter 6: Double Dealing
Chapter 7: Board Games
Chapter 8: Redrum?
Chapter 9: Fata Morgana
Chapter 10: Hide and Seek
Chapter 11: Homecoming
Chapter 12: Role Play
Chapter 13: Raising the Stakes
Chapter 14: Death by Powerpoint
Chapter 15: Bee Handlers
Chapter 16: Whispers, Rumors, and Reports
Chapter 17: The Hive
Chapter 18: Oh, What a Tangled Web We Weave . . .
Chapter 19: Buzzy Bees
Chapter 20: I Now Inform You That You Are Too Far From Reality
Chapter 21: The PR of E
Chapter 22: In for a Penny
Chapter 23: Trust Is Good
Chapter 24: Mud
Chapter 25: Rat
Chapter 26: Ashes to Ashes . . .
Chapter 27: Three Can Play That Game
Chapter 28: Joe Blown
Chapter 29: I’m Out!
Chapter 30: Homecoming
Chapter 31: . . . Control Is Better
Chapter 32: Do Not Feed the Troll!
Chapter 33: Mirage
Chapter 34: Cut, Clip, and Remove
Chapter 35: The Rabbit Hole
Chapter 36: Out of the Hole and Down the Slope
Chapter 37: Blame Games
Chapter 38: Online Games
Chapter 39: Battle for Control
Chapter 40: Let the Games Begin
Chapter 41: Capture the Flag
Chapter 42: Head to Head
Chapter 43: All Your Base Are Belong To Us
Chapter 44: The Game Is Up
Chapter 45: Call!
Chapter 46: Orly?
Chapter 47: Aftermath
Bubble Excerpt
About Anders de la Motte
Buzz: A Thriller Page 35
