Anger Mode (27 page)

He went down to the man on the stairs, who was quiet. He had managed to stop the bleeding by tying a knot around his hand.

“Actually, I should just put a bullet in your skull right now,” Martin snarled as he pushed the barrel hard against the man’s temple. He carefully squeezed his finger against the trigger and looked the man in the eyes, intensely. He was probably not worth the hassle that Martin would face in an ensuing internal investigation.

“Don’t shoot,” the man stammered. “I know a lot. A whole shitload of stuff.”

“Right, you know plenty,” Martin replied dryly. “For example, that you’re about to become a corpse.”

The man said nothing, staring, petrified, at Martin.

Suddenly, the pain in Martin’s arm flared up and he was forced to take the gun away from the man’s head. He felt his wound with his hand. The arm had swollen and was throbbing fiercely. The bullet must have hit him worse than he had first thought.

“It was you that shot first, motherfucker!” Martin shouted as he took off his jacket.

“Self-defence,” the man excused himself and moved back against the wall like a whipped dog.

“Self-defence? Firing shots at the police? Is that self-defence? You must be a complete idiot.”

“I don’t like being called an idiot,” the man said, defiantly.

Martin was so surprised by the man’s arrogance that he lost his train of thought. He suddenly felt a surge of rage, aimed his pistol and fired a shot.

The shot echoed around the stairwell. The bullet grazed the wounded man’s hand and he screamed and rolled into a ball. More likely from shock than physical pain.

“You fucking idiot!” Martin shouted. “I don’t give a shit what you like.”

Martin’s arm was more shot-up than he had first thought. The bullet had penetrated deep into the muscle, but at least it didn’t seem like it was still there. The pain increased with each pulse beat. He needed medical attention.

But first he had to get his story straight. What was he going to say? How should he explain the incident? Why had he and Jernberg made their way to the warehouse outside Gnesta without backup? What was the mission? Who had sanctioned it?

Everything had gone wrong from start to finish. First, the Arab towelheads and now this. He would have to put together a believable story. But how could he do that as long as this shit was still alive? He would surely spill the beans for a shorter sentence. Just as well to silence him for good anyway. Better a dead witness than a live one.

But then he started to think about Omar, the reason that they were here in the first place. Where was Omar and what were these two trigger-happy characters doing here?

Martin had no more time to consider this because an acrid smell forced its way into his nostrils. Under the door to Omar’s office, he saw smoke rising. Martin opened the door and looked into the office. He stopped in the doorway. The fire was spreading over the carpet and onto the office furniture. At the other end of the large room, something resembling a human body was in flames. It was an unpleasant sight. At first, he thought about trying to put the fire out with the fire extinguisher that was mounted on the wall, but realized that it was pointless; the room would soon be engulfed in flames.

He moved down the staircase, which was slowly filling with smoke. The man was gone, but had not got very far. Stumbling, he was trying to leave by the entrance door.

“You’re in quite a hurry. Are you late for an appointment?” Martin said and shut the door. He shoved the man, who fell to the floor, put his shoe over his injured hand and pressed down. The man screamed and, in desperation, tried to pull Martin down to the floor with his other arm. Martin reacted by kicking him in the stomach, which made him lose his grip. The man moaned and was close to losing consciousness.

Martin took a handkerchief he had in his pocket and put it in front of his face. He watched the man for a few seconds until he appeared to come to again.

“If … only you knew … about Omar and his deals. … Your name …” the man coughed in the smoke. He tried to get up but could not.

“My name?” Martin coughed back.

“Sure … Your name … with the others,” the man continued, coughing heavily.

“Which others?” Martin moved towards the door.

“Other … cops,” the man tried to talk.

“Names of other cops?” Martin repeated.

The man tried to nod, but was unable to.

Flames flared out of the burning office. The heat and smoke was so strong that Martin was now forced to make a critical decision if he wanted to make it out alive. It would be best to leave the man to burn here. A more natural cause of death would be hard to arrange. If only the man had not just said what he had said. Omar had names of other cops? In that case, which ones? Was Martin on the list despite using a false name? Why had Omar been killed and what did this man really know? Martin took hold of the door handle, but changed his mind at the last second. There were too many unanswered questions.

Coughing violently, Martin took hold of the man’s legs and dragged him through the door, into the fresh air. He dragged him across the tarmac until he had no strength left.

He bent over with his hands on his knees, gulped in some air, closed his eyes, and enjoyed the fresh air filling his lungs.

The pain in his arm was becoming unbearable. It felt as if it was going to explode with each new heartbeat. Dragging the man out had not done it any good, but he hoped that it was worth the suffering. He gritted his teeth from the pain. Now it was time for this chicken to sing like a canary.

“Okay,” Martin said and took out his Sig Sauer. “What did you want to tell me?” He pressed the mouth of the gun against the side of the man’s chin.

The man stopped coughing. He turned to face Martin and saw the muzzle of the Sig Sauer staring him in the face.

“Well then?” The pain in Martin’s arm was taking its toll on his patience.

“My hand doesn’t hurt anymore,” the man said, examining the bundle around his hand.

“Of course you don’t feel anything. You don’t have a hand left to feel any pain,” Martin said.

“I have a proposal,” the man quickly responded.

Martin stared at Ove Jernberg’s murderer. Was he losing his grip on the situation? It was as if he no longer made the decisions. He could not lose his temper. Control was his signature and had made him successful. If it had not been for that equal opportunities cunt, he would have been section leader by now. She had fewer years, was less deserving and, to top it all, was half-coon. There was that shit about a multicultural perspective, new gender directives applauded by Agency Director Anders Holmberg and others to look good for the politicians. Martin had to suffer for that. Who knew if he would ever get another fucking chance? Everyone was so fucking afraid of being politically incorrect in every situation. Bloody closet commies.

“If you promise not to top me, then I swear you’ll get everything I know about Omar and that fucking trannie cop.”

“Trannie cop?” Martin’s forehead wrinkled in puzzlement.

“Yeah, the bloke who double-crossed us on the contract to snuff out that fucking journalist.”

“Journalist?”

“Yeah, he’d been blackmailing the trannie with photos of them shafting each other in the arse, dressed in latex and leather. You know him; he’s a fucking high-roller police commissioner.” The man forced a grin.

“Wipe that grin off your face,” Martin growled and pushed his pistol harder into the man’s face.

“That faggot cop gave the job to Haxhi instead. The Albanians tried to waste me, Jerry and the journalist queer in the middle of town, but we shot our way out,” the man rambled on.

Martin took the gun away from the man’s face. “That’s a little too much bullshit for me.”

Martin already knew about the recent gun battle in central Stockholm, but so did anybody who watched the news or read the newspapers.

“What do you mean?” The man looked serious. “What I’m telling you is as fucking true as … as cows are vegetarians!”

“Now shut it!” Martin yelled. “I’ll tell you when you can talk. I’m getting tired of your blabbing. Start by telling me your name; why you and the scumbag who shot my partner came here; why there’s a fire; and why you were so fucking stupid that you opened fire on two police officers.”

The man did not answer.

“Maybe too many questions at once?” Martin said sarcastically while grimacing at the dreadful pain in his arm. “Answer my questions!” he yelled and gingerly rubbed his arm in an attempt to ease the pain.

“My name is Tor Hedman, but they call med Headcase.”

“What’s your business with Omar?” Martin asked.

“Me and Jerry got jobs from Omar.”

“Jerry? Is that the pile of coals on the stairs?” Martin looked at the burning building.

“Yes,” Tor answered and shrugged. “We used to steal cars and rob upmarket houses before we met Omar.”

“What sorts of job did Omar fix you up with?” Martin repeated, irritated.

“Things like debt collection or eviction of tenants from different properties. Sometimes it could be both collection and eviction at the same time. See, first you take the cash, then …”

“Yeah, I get it. Keep going.”

“Me and Jerry formed a gang we called the Original Fuckers. We shortened it to OF.”

“No kidding.”

“Have you heard of OF?”

“No, can’t say I have.”

“Whatever, so …” Tor lost his focus. “Fuck, we even tattooed OF on our backs. We were going to expand, Jerry said. OF would be just as big as the Albanians or even the Yugoslavs. But Jerry’s dead now. So what am I supposed to do?” Tor lowered his eyes again.

Martin looked at Headcase, mildly amused. “You’ll have to rename the gang OL.”

“OL?”

“Original Losers,” Martin laughed.

“Bloody hell!” Tor suddenly burst out. “Why did you have to come and fuck everything up?”

He flinched, touching his wrapped bundle.

“We put out some feelers and, after a while, Omar contacted us. Among other things, we got the job to turn that faggot inside out. At first, we didn’t know what we were supposed to grab from him, except that it was some type of multimedia evidence. We went to his flat, but the bastard messed it up and said that he stashed the shit in some fucking safety deposit box. In the end, we were forced to take him with us. When we got to the street, those bloody Albanians jumped us. They were going to cheat us out of the job and snuff out me and Jerry. You know, two birds with one stone. The client grassed us up to Haxhi.”

“Why would the client give the job to someone else?” Martin asked, wondering why he was even listening to the man.

“Haxhi had told the client they would do the job for free as long as they were given OF. The Albanians didn’t like that we started our own crew and were pinching their clients. They wanted to waste us for good.”

“Haxhi, is that Albanian?”

“Yes, he’s their boss.”

“How do you know that Haxhi made this offer to the client?”

“Omar had made notes about everything in his laptop. Names of all the clients, how the job went and so on. Everything was on it.”

“Did Omar show it to you?”

“Not directly. Jerry found it out after we whacked Omar. He had his laptop in the desk drawer.”

“You got into Omar’s computer?”

“Yes.”

“How could you get into the computer without a password?”

“Jerry searched Omar’s mobile first. He had written the password on his speed-dial list. It said ‘Mhamuth’ and then a load of letters and numbers. People usually store their passwords and card codes in their contacts list as fake names. Even a bloke like Omar did it.”

Martin’s mouth tightened. He used the last four numbers of his social security number as the code for his cash card. The complex but foolproof password for his laptop was stored as a fake SMS on his mobile phone. Maybe it’s time to change that habit, he thought.

“Omar didn’t want to help us get in touch with the client. We just wanted to know how Haxhi knew that we were in the flat. But it was against his policy, he said – although he gave the name to Haxhi who in turn offered to do the job for free. But he wouldn’t tell shit to us. So we were forced to take Omar down as payback and to set an example. Well, actually, the gun went off by mistake. Shit happens. To cover our tracks, we torched the whole place.”

“But before that, you hacked his computer?” Martin asked, interested now.

“No, first we rang the client. Jerry found the number on Omar’s mobile and called the bloke. He said that Omar had given him the number and that he, Haxhi, and that journalist were all sitting in the same room like one big, happy family. Jerry lied that we had all joined forces against him. Jerry pressured him for cash, and he said that he knew where he lived and worked and that Haxhi had changed his mind about working for free. The bloke finally got really pissed off and said that he was a high-ranking police chief and that he was sick of the blackmail and all the bullshit. He was going to send some special task-force characters after us if we didn’t stop fucking with him. Jerry told him to go to hell.