Never Fuck Up: A Novel (73 page)

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!”

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?”

Niklas didn’t respond. Kept raving.

“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?”

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.

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.

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.”