Anger Mode

by Stefan Tegenfalk

  Tor found a rag on the drying rack above the bathtub, which he pushed into Jörgen’s mouth. The screech was muffled to a faint groan. Then he took hold of Jörgen’s wrists and bent his arms behind his back, while pressing his knee into Jörgen’s back. With a nylon band he had in his back pocket, he tied Jörgen’s wrists together.

  “Fucking shit. We’re going to have to take the bastard with us,” Jerry swore and stood up dejectedly.

  “Now listen, you fucking pile of shit,” Tor shouted and glared at Jörgen. “Because you’re finding it so bloody hard to talk, we’re going to have to take you with us. Perhaps your memory will improve when we start softening you up on our home patch.”

  The pain around Jörgen’s eye was fading slightly. It was his nose that was the worst. Since Jörgen could not talk with the gag in his mouth, he nodded his understanding instead. Things were beginning to fall into place. This was no random flat break-in by some drug-crazed heroin junkies. These guys were pros, and they were not looking for valuables like money or jewellery. The police informer must have sent these thugs to repossess the video. What the thugs called “the evidence” was, in actual fact, the video. The informer had obviously been very reticent about any details concerning what he wanted to be taken back, which indicated that, despite everything, he was still very worried about what it contained. Even if his informant had decided to break their contract, he was also not going to leave any loose ends. Jörgen was now forced to think of something fast.

  The first thing he needed to do was to get the gag out of his mouth. If he could get just a few minutes with these guys, he was sure he could bring them round and get out of his current predicament. He could offer them cash for his release. Twice the sum that his informant had paid them for the job. But what guarantees did Jörgen have that they would not kill him even if he gave them the video?

  To even have a productive conversation with these two hooligans, the rag had to be removed from his mouth. Jörgen started to mumble and shake his head, but had to stop as the pain shot through his head like a lightning bolt.

  He took a few deep breaths through his nose, which had started to swell up again, and tried again. He emitted short bursts of sound without moving his head. His head still felt as if it would explode with the pain.

  “What?” Jerry asked, pulling Jörgen to his feet.

  Jörgen had a hard time keeping his balance as the blood rushed to his head. He sat down heavily on the toilet and looked pleadingly at Jerry as he continued to mumble.

  “Do you want to say something?” Jerry asked.

  Jörgen nodded his head cautiously. He was forcing back the tears.

  “If I remove the rag from your cakehole, then you’d better not start bloody yelling,” Jerry ordered.

  “One more scream and I will start pressing that bump again. Understood?” Jerry fixed his eyes on Jörgen and held his index finger in front of the swollen eye. Jörgen carefully nodded.

  Jerry pulled the cloth from Jörgen’s mouth so hard that he thought his teeth would follow.

  “Are you going to talk to us now?” Tor asked, and sat on the edge of the bathtub. Jörgen tasted the bleach-like aftertaste of the cloth that Sebastian normally used to clean the toilet. He wanted to throw up his lunch, but managed to keep his gag reflex in check.

  “Can I have a little water?” Jörgen asked, but was rudely interrupted.

  “Right then, talk, you fucker,” Jerry yelled impatiently. He wanted to hear Jörgen say where he had hidden the evidence. No fucking shit about fucking water.

  Jörgen realized he had to choose each word as if it were a gold nugget. In particular, the muscle mountain shouting with a Finnish accent seemed to have a very short fuse.

  “I was a bit dizzy at the beginning of our meeting,” Jörgen began to talk. “But there were obvious reasons for that, you see,” he said and grinned feebly in an attempt to lighten the mood. It was like telling a joke to a deaf mute.

  The tall one impatiently signalled to Jörgen to continue.

  “It’s the video you’re after. Am I right?” Jörgen said matter-of-factly and watched the two hooligans.

  “Video? I don’t fucking know. It’s some type of multimedia evidence,” the tall one answered, waving his arms in frustration.

  “Yes, but video is a form of multimedia,” Jörgen explained pedantically. “Multi means many; media means different forms of information like photos, video, music, games, data files, etcetera. And multimedia is the combination of those two things. So, that’s what’s meant by the term multimedia evidence.”

  It fell silent in the bathroom. Jörgen looked first at the hulk and then at the tall one, who was apparently showing a “Service not available” sign – he looked as if someone had pulled out the plug during a live programme.

  “Jee-sus Christ!” Jerry swore loudly in Finnish after he had thought for a moment. “You know what we want, so all you need to do is to get it for us. No more fucking bullshit. You talk like you swallowed a bloody dictionary. And we also want any copies, if you have made any. Understood?”

  Jörgen nodded. “I understand,” he said. “The problem is that I don’t actually have the physical video with me. And it’s quite a complicated procedure to get hold of it.”

  “Why’s that?” Jerry asked impatiently.

  “The banks have to be open for me to get to it.”

  “You have it in a safety deposit box?” Tor asked.

  Jörgen nodded.

  Jerry’s face darkened. His jaw muscles danced as he snarled through his teeth. “If you’re lying, I’ll put this mop handle through your skull.” He glanced at a floor mop that was standing by the side of the washbasin.

  “I have no doubt about that,” Jörgen answered. “But it’s the honest truth.”

  Jerry kicked the bathroom wall and said something x-rated in Finnish. A bit of grout from between the tiles fell on the floor. If it was correct that the video, or whatever the hell it was, lay stored in a deposit box, this meant trouble. Neither Tor nor Jerry could get to the deposit box without being forced to identify themselves. Neither of them had fake IDs in the name of Jörgen Blad. Letting the bastard walk into the bank himself – even if accompanied by Tor and Jerry – was like walking into the lion’s den and hoping that nobody was home.

  The banks were bristling with CCTV and had one in every bloody corner. Neither Tor nor Jerry wanted to be caught on film with a soon-to-be John Doe or on a missing persons bulletin on the Channel 3 crimewatch series “Most Wanted”. Then they might just as well walk into the nearest police station and turn themselves in. So that tactic had a load of unnecessary risks. Therefore, there were two options left. One was to take a chance, let Jörgen fetch the video himself and risk him alerting the police via the bank staff. Alternatively, they could arrange a false ID, which would cost about twenty thousand and take about a week to fix. There was still a risk that Jörgen Blad would be known by someone at the bank, which would lead to the whistle being blown if one of them tried to impersonate Jörgen. Even if nobody knew Jörgen, they would be captured on CCTV and the police would trace back the slob’s last days if he disappeared or ended up as a stiff on a rubbish tip somewhere. They could disguise themselves with wigs and fake beards. But some of those bank staff had eagle eyes, or even a sixth sense, for disguises and unusual behaviour.

  Jerry scratched his head thoughtfully. This was beginning to get too complicated, even for him. Personally, he wanted to put a bullet in the forehead of the sucker and then go home and train. But he couldn’t. They had promised to retrieve the evidence – at least the fucking lanky git had promised – and a reputation for breaking contracts would mean a bad start for their future business. It would in fact kill their newly launched enterprise. Tor and Jerry would be shunned like the plague and branded as unreliable. Nobody would want to have any contact with them, not even with a barge pole and protective gloves, except for Haxhi Osmanaj who was dying to get his hands on them. Preferably around their necks.
Why the fuck had they taken this job?

  “There is another alternative,” Jörgen suggested and stood up from the toilet on shaking legs.

  “Yes, that we liquidate you,” Jerry answered and glared at Jörgen with coal-black eyes.

  “That’s also an option,” Jörgen agreed. “However, it doesn’t sound so appealing to me.”

  Both criminals stared blankly at Jörgen.

  “What I wanted to say was this,” Jörgen continued and contrived a weak smile. “I will double whatever you’re being paid for this job.”

  A brief silence in the bathroom.

  “Do you think we’re completely daft in the head?” Jerry exclaimed, while glancing instinctively at Tor.

  “Absolutely not,” Jörgen insisted in a hesitant voice. “But what alternative do you have?” He made a silent prayer to avoid getting the mop handle speared through his head. Jerry’s brow wrinkled in thought. He needed to think, but his brain seized up. It was impossible to concentrate in this company. No matter how much he tried to analyse the situation, his train of thought ended up somewhere else. Right now, he was thinking of his and Tor’s previous employer, Haxhi Osmanaj. To have the Albanian mafia after your head was not exactly without its difficulties. They were between a rock and a hard place. Whatever they did, they would get really burned if they could not successfully deliver that video to the buyer, according to their deal. They could hardly return their advance and say that they had failed, or screw the original client by letting themselves be bought by the mark. Their newly formed crew, called the Original Fuckers, currently with only themselves as members, would be as popular as an electric eel in your swimming trunks. Jerry needed to sleep on the problem and clear his head of the day’s confusion. But before that, he would do a late leg-development routine at the gym. He had neglected his thighs lately.

  “OK, this is what we do,” Jerry suggested when he had finished thinking. “I need to get some shuteye. We’ll tidy up the bastard and take him to the garage. Then we’ll figure out what to do with him tomorrow.”

  Jerry grabbed Jörgen and shoved him towards the washbasin. “Wash the blood off your face,” he ordered and cut the restraining bands with pliers. Jörgen rinsed the blood from his face and dried himself on Sebastian’s hand towel. He needed to feel the scent of Sebastian. Right now, he missed him immeasurably. He pulled the comb through his curly hair a few times and felt that he was beginning to get control of the situation. These two were not the sharpest criminal minds he had encountered and that could be his salvation.

  Tor had become surly. Jerry had not consulted him about how they were going to handle the situation at all, but had instead taken the decision himself, just like that, out of thin air. It was high time to show Jerry what he thought about it.

  “Stop,” Tor said in a cold voice.

  Jerry, who was on his way out of the bathroom, stopped short and turned around, surprised.

  “To get into the safety deposit box, we need a key. Or what?” Tor began.

  Jerry looked impatiently at Tor, who had sat back down on the edge of the bathtub.

  “Of course,” Jerry answered irritatedly, although he had actually forgotten about the key.

  “But where’s the key?” Tor asked, looking from Jerry to Jörgen.

  “How the fuck should I know?” Jerry answered, glaring at Jörgen.

  “Give us the key to the deposit box, you fucking pile of shit,” Tor said and moved towards Jörgen.

  “I have it on me, actually,” Jörgen answered politely.

  “You have it?” Tor repeated, surprised.

  “Here it is,” Jörgen said and held up a small, heart-shaped locket that hung around his neck. “The key is inside.”

  Tor examined the locket that Jörgen was holding.

  “There is just a small problem,” Jörgen informed him.

  “What’s that?” Tor grunted.

  “The key is for a safety deposit box, where I keep the key to another deposit box where the video is stashed. And that deposit box is in another bank.”

  At first, Tor looked as if Jörgen was speaking another language. Then, he exploded. “You’re making everything so fucking messed up. I’m going to fucking beat you to death!” he screamed and made as if to punch Jörgen, who crouched down.

  “We’re going to do as I said,” Jerry intervened. Tor’s lower lip was trembling with rage.

  Jerry pushed Jörgen out of the bathroom while also keeping an eye on Tor’s fist. He could not be fully trusted.

  “If you try anything, I will cut your throat. Understand?” Jerry glared long and hard at Jörgen.

  Jörgen nodded to indicate that the message was understood.

  They left the demolished flat and took the lift down to the foyer. As they emerged onto Odengatan, they saw that darkness had fallen and there were few people out in the chilly autumn evening. The street was almost deserted.

  They started to walk towards the car that Jerry had illegally parked on the corner of Birger Jarlsgatan and Odengatan. A parked car suddenly switched on its headlights and drove slowly behind them. Tor saw that it was a newly registered, dark blue BMW 5 Series, but because of the dark he could not see the driver in the blacked-out interior. From force of habit, he kept watching the car from the corner of his eye. Not because he was suspicious about anything; it was just a paranoid habit that he could not control. Nobody knew his and Jerry’s whereabouts, except for the go-between who had given them Jörgen’s address.

  They had only a few metres left before they reached the stolen Volvo V70, which was today’s means of transport, when the BMW quickly began to accelerate. The dark-tinted rear window slid down and, at the same instant, Tor saw a weapon inside the gloom of the interior. “Get down!” Tor roared and threw himself at Jerry and Jörgen, who were a step ahead of him. All three of them fell in a heap on the pavement behind a parked Opel. A muffled automatic thudding could be heard from inside the BMW as someone emptied a magazine from an Uzi with a silencer. The bullets smashed through the car windows and hit the house wall behind them, ricocheting loudly.

  The sound of the Uzi stopped abruptly and a car door opened. Footsteps sounded on the street.

  Jerry was the first to recover from the shock. “Chri-ist! Son of a bitch!” he roared and rolled over onto his back. From the trouser lining of his light-grey jogging pants, he tore out a Kel-Tec P-3AT pistol. It was small enough to fit into the palm of a normal-sized hand. He stretched out his arm and shot blindly five times in rapid succession through the Opel’s shattered side windows, in what he thought was the direction of the BMW. They sounded more like small firecrackers than pistol shots.

  Jörgen covered his ears and pressed himself against the ground as hard as he could. He was not sure if what he was experiencing was real or if he was still unconscious and in the middle of a bad dream. In all probability, he was awake, because his trousers were now wet and warm. He had wet himself.

  Suddenly, he heard a rapid stream of loud explosions. It was Tor, who was kneeling on one knee and emptying his automatic Desert Eagle Mark XIX at the BMW. The lack of strength in Tor’s arms made him unable to control the weapon, which was soon pointing straight up in the air. But it was more than enough. The BMW made its getaway, its tyres screeching.

  Tor shook from the strain of the Desert Eagle’s powerful recoil. Basically, he had only sinews to rely on and had the stamina of an eighty year old. He stared at the house wall, where the bullets had hit, and decided that he had missed the BMW with every shot. The car had stopped about six metres away from them and he had still missed it by a large margin. Actually, it looked as if he had been aiming at something else.

  Jerry at least seemed to have been successful in hitting the BMW.

  Tor scratched his chin, thinking. His newly acquired automatic pistol was a difficult piece to master, especially in automatic mode. He would have to practise more.

  “Hell, we have to get out of here before the cops show up,” Jerry yelled. He was
pale and his voice was shaking.

  Tor stumbled over to the stolen car. It seemed to have survived the rain of bullets. He tore open the driver’s door and sat behind the wheel, racing the engine.

  Jerry cast a quick glance at Jörgen, who was laying face down on the pavement, trembling in a pool of his own urine. He heard the fat bastard let out a whimpering sound. After giving it some quick thought, he decided not to try to drag Jörgen with him into the car. The way it looked now, he would be more of a liability than anything else. Everything had changed with this shootout. Something was just not right.

  “We’ll be back!” Jerry hissed as he ran to the getaway car.

  CHAPTER 14

  THERE ARE OCCASIONS in life when one wishes one was never born. This was exactly how Jörgen felt as he stood up on trembling legs after the gunfight. The saying “from the frying pan into the fire” could not more aptly describe what he thought of recent events. His head was exploding and his body shook from the shock of the gunfight. It actually lasted only a few seconds, but had seemed to last an eternity. What had just happened? An internal dispute in the crime world? Had the madmen in the car been after him or was it the two thugs that they wanted to kill?

  Right now, Jörgen wished that he had never tried to blackmail the police mole. He gazed around, aimlessly. Strangely, there were no people on the street except for an old lady who, completely oblivious to the gang shootout, was walking her dachshund farther down the street. Surely, somebody must have heard the shots echo between the walls. He looked up at the windows facing the street. Some were lit, but most were dark. A middle-aged man in a white Saab 9-5 passed by Jörgen as if nothing had happened. Then a young couple emerged from a doorway. The man held his arm around the woman as they walked towards Sveavägen. She was laughing and seemed happy. Jörgen felt the tears well up inside him. He limped back to the entrance to his block of flats while fighting back the tears. He had injured his knee when the skinny one had roughly wrestled him to the pavement. He had probably saved the lives of both Jörgen and his Finnish partner with that tackle. A strange thought, but that was exactly what had happened. His life had been saved by his own assassin.