Buzz: A Thriller (3 page)

The car began to pick up speed. She stumbled but eventually managed to grab hold of the swinging door. Her fingers were still clutching her trigger, the barrel pointing up at the sky.

The man came straight out of the cloud of dust. Right in front of the hood, maybe six, eight meters away. He leaped nimbly over the prostrate bodies and zigzagged through the fleeing crowd, heading straight for the car. He had one hand halfway out of the plastic bag. The object was clearly visible now.

Rebecca lowered the arm holding her pistol, trying to aim at his legs, but it was impossible to hold the gun still. The car was speeding up, throwing up yet more red dust, then hit the front of the vehicle reversing behind them. The sudden stop sent the car door swinging back to hit Rebecca on the chin, and once again she almost fell. For a few seconds all she could see were stars and red fog.

When her vision cleared the revolver was pointing straight at her.

♦  ♦  ♦

She was riding him like a bucking bronco.

Her perfect silicone breasts were bouncing in sync as she ground her hairless crotch against his pelvic bone. She had one hand on the frame of the bed and the other wound in a tight grip of his long hair, so hard that he could hear the roots groan as she pulled him to her. The heels of her shoes were digging painful grooves in the outside of his thighs.

But he really didn’t give a shit, because the businesswoman was giving him the ride of his life.

He certainly wasn’t an inexperienced pilot in the bedroom—quite the contrary! In fact he had always regarded himself as something of a Top Gun in that area.

But by God, could she fuck!

This year’s Gonzo at the Adult Awards, with a double nomination for
female performer of the year
. The experience was so intense that he had to keep reminding himself to breathe.

His groin began to twitch—the tension transmitted itself to the rest of his body as he tried in vain to think about something that would put him off. But it was impossible.

“I’m coming,” he gurgled in warning, but she made no attempt to get off. Instead she let go of the headboard, moved her hand down her back toward his groin, and, just as he started to come, she dug her nails into his scrotum. He thought he was dying! His orgasm was so intense that he arched his back as far as it would go, and, to judge by her screams, she was using his movements to her own advantage.

It took him several minutes to come to his senses again, during which time she had rolled off him and lit a cigarette.

“Isn’t this a nonsmoking room?” was the first thing he managed to say when he regained the power of speech.

“Who are you—the smoking police?” She grinned, blowing a long plume of smoke toward the ceiling.

Quite. Who the hell cared? What a total dweeb he could be sometimes!

“What . . . what’s your name?” he stammered, in the absence of anything better to say.

“Anna—Anna Argos.”

She put the cigarette out in one of the glasses on the bedside table, then slid down the bed.

“Erm . . . nice to meet you, Anna.”

But she didn’t answer. Her mouth was already fully occupied trying to wake the dead.

♦  ♦  ♦

The gun was pointing straight at her, but Rebecca still couldn’t move.

Her arms were hanging over the car door while her feet dragged on the ground rushing past below her. She was still clutching the pistol in her right hand, but because the whole of her body weight was resting on her lower arms, she couldn’t move it more than a centimeter or so. She tried to get a foothold, so she could redistribute her weight and free up her pistol arm.

But the running man had already raised his own gun and she realized she didn’t have time. The dust was flying up from the car wheels, swirling around her and narrowing her field of vision to a red tunnel, until all she could see was the barrel of the shiny revolver at the far end. She waited for the shot.

But it didn’t come.

The car suddenly lurched hard to the right, and the force of the swerve was so great that it threw her halfway inside the vehicle. She got a grip on the seat, managed to brace one leg against the door pillar, and pulled herself in. The car continued to spin, the door slammed shut behind her, and suddenly they had performed a 180-degree turn and were heading forward again, back down the road they had arrived on.

The dust from the Land Cruiser’s wheels billowed around them and Modin had to switch on the windshield wipers to see anything.

Rebecca spun around to try to get a glimpse of the man with the revolver through the rear window. She rested her arm
on the back of the seat, ready to fire. Her eye was glued to the view along the barrel of the gun, her finger on the trigger . . .

But all she could see behind them was a swirling cloud of red dust that seemed to cover the whole world.

The refugee camp, the mob, the man with the revolver—everything just vanished. After only a couple of seconds it was as if they had never existed at all . . .

Modin was shouting something, and far away she heard the radio crackle, but her pulse was pounding so hard against her eardrums that she couldn’t make out any of the words.

Everything around her seemed to be happening in slow motion. She could make out the tiniest details: the smell of the leather seats, the figures huddled on the backseat, Modin’s jerky movements as she fought to keep the car on the road.

Her hands were clutching the pistol so tightly that her fingers were beginning to cramp.

The dust was still being whirled up by the airflow behind the car, forming long, hypnotic spirals that captured her attention and made it impossible to look away.

Then Modin must have hit a pothole, because for a few moments it felt as if they were flying, floating free, almost like in a dream.

A couple of milliseconds of weightlessness—then the car hit the ground again. Rebecca crashed down against one of the seats, the dreamlike sensation vanished, and she was thrown back into reality again.

“Answer the radio!” Modin was shouting, and at the same moment Rebecca realized that her earpiece had fallen out and was dangling on her right shoulder. She quickly poked it back into her ear, lowered her gun, and sank back onto the passenger seat.

“Is everyone okay, Normén, over?”

Malmén’s voice sounded worried.

She twisted around to glance at her fellow passengers.

The minister and Gladh were each huddled on either side of the backseat.

“Are you okay back there?”

No answer, but two chalk-white faces peered slowly up at her.

“Are you okay, Ann-Christin?”

Rebecca leaned back at an angle and prodded one of the minister’s knees, which was at least enough to prompt a glassy nod in response.

“The minister’s okay. We’re returning to the villa,” she said as calmly as she could into the microphone, but the radio somehow seemed to reinforce the tremble in her voice.

“Understood,” Malmén replied curtly.

Rebecca suddenly realized she was still clutching her pistol with her right hand.

She loosened her grip, put the gun back in its holster, then slowly pulled the seat belt on.

Her pulse had begun to slow down, the adrenaline kick slowly faded away, and she could feel a vague sense of nausea rising in its place.

“That was damned close . . .”

Without taking her eyes from the road, Modin nodded in response.

“I thought I’d had it for a moment there, I don’t know why he didn’t shoot.”

Modin gave her a quick sideways glance.

“He probably didn’t have time to get his rifle out before they were on top of him.”

It took a couple of seconds before Rebecca understood.

“No, no, not the soldier—I mean the man with the revolver, of course.”

“Who?” Modin said, shooting her a questioning look.

Before she had time to answer, Gladh leaned forward and spoke into her left ear.

“What the hell do you think you’re playing at, Normén?” he hissed.

“HELLO?”

“Good evening, my friend. It is already evening with you, isn’t it
 . . . ?
Is this a bad time to call?”

“No, no, not at all, I’ve been waiting for you to get in touch. I’m in position—is everything
 . . .
ready?”

“Everything’s ready.”

“What about
 . . . ?
”

“Like I said—everything’s ready. The only question is: Are you? The task is risky, so I can understand that you might be feeling doubtful
 . . .
But the fact is that we can’t do this without your help.”

“I’m ready—no problem!”

“Excellent!”

“So when do we get going?”

“Soon, my friend—very soon
 . . .”

♦  ♦  ♦

“Darfur?”

“Hmm . . .”

“How long?”

“About a week for recon, four days with the minister, then a couple of days to finish off. Two weeks in total, I’d guess,
depending a bit on whether I come home in the government plane or have to take a regular flight.”

He nodded, then looked down at the morning paper open in front of him.

“It’s my job, Micke. You know that.”

“I know,” he muttered without looking up. “But that doesn’t mean I have to cheer every time you head off for some new dangerous location, especially when there are other options. So what’s it going to be next time, Baghdad?”

More like Kabul,
she almost said, but stopped herself before the words formed. She was planning to hold back that particular little surprise until she was sure it was her team that would be going.

“Look,” she said, then waited until he looked up. “I am actually capable of taking care of myself, and besides, I like my job. We’ve already been through the whole idea of me doing something else, so how about showing a bit of support instead of this grouchy routine every morning?”

She held his gaze for a couple of seconds until, as usual, he backed down.

“Sure, sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like an old woman . . .”

He folded the newspaper and put his hand over hers.

“Sorry, Becca, of course you need to go. Okay? The last thing you need is problems at home before a trip like this. I’ve just been having trouble sleeping, lots to do at work, you know . . .”

He looked at her with his puppy-dog eyes and she smiled back dutifully.

“Sure,” she muttered. “No problem.”

His abrupt change of attitude ought to have cheered her up, but instead she mostly just felt disappointed.

Micke was a wonderful guy who never caused any trouble, and who always backed down if they had different opinions. Good job, good general knowledge, sense of humor, all that . . . The dream prince really, especially in comparison with her previous experiences.

But still she found herself regretting not throwing the Afghanistan trip in his face while she had the chance. Pouring a bit of gasoline on the flames just to see what would happen. But good girls didn’t do that sort of thing . . .

Besides, there wouldn’t have been any point.

He might have sulked for another minute or so, but the end result would have been the same.

Big, sad, puppy-dog eyes and “Sorry, Becca.”

For some reason that whole routine was starting to make her skin crawl more and more, and the idea of working for the same company as him held no appeal at all, even if the salary they were offering was almost double what she was getting now.

Sometimes she longed for the days when they only used to meet up for a bit of undemanding sex. He’d been more fun back then, more exciting somehow . . .

She grabbed part of the paper and started to leaf through it without much interest. He did the same for a few moments and she was left in peace with her thoughts.

She had everything she could wish for—and she still wasn’t happy.

What was wrong with her?

♦  ♦  ♦

There had been two million dollars, give or take a bit of loose change, in the Game’s account when he cleared it out.

Admittedly, slightly less than he had expected at the start,
but still more than enough to be able to live a comfortable life.

A fair bit of money had gone to the banks that had helped him wipe away any trail, and some more had gone to the lawyer who had helped sort things out back home. Paying off the mortgage on his flat, setting up one trust fund to take care of ongoing costs, and another to give the poor cop he almost managed to kill at Lindhagensplan a bit of money to compensate for his aches and pains. The newly established Special Police Foundation had awarded Inspector Hans Kruse a tax-free grant of a million dollars for bravery in the course of duty, and, for the same reason, his colleague Rebecca Normén had received an amount that almost exactly matched the amount owing on her mortgage with Handelsbanken.

Thanks to the lawyer, all the documentation was one hundred percent kosher, so neither of the recipients had thought to question their award. He also knew that his old friends Gustav “the Goat” Boch and Farook “Mange” Al-Hassan had each received a bulging envelope through their letter boxes, the contents of which more than made up for the cost of two wrecked mopeds and a fire-damaged shop.

After all his expenses and making allowances for living expenses, about half of his haul remained.

A cool million dollars, stashed damned well out of sight somewhere only he could find it. Not bad . . .

♦  ♦  ♦

Four people in her team—three men and one woman.

There really ought to be more, but at the current time the supply of bodyguards was nowhere near enough to meet demand.

But anyway . . .

Four well-trained, experienced bodyguards who had worked together for a long time and who knew exactly how things were done. Even if they had all known each other for a while, a new boss almost always introduced a note of uncertainty. No matter what anyone might say when asked, most people aren’t especially fond of change. The problem with her group was that they had been without a boss for several months and that the group’s deputy, David Malmén, had been expected to be appointed as the new boss.