Easy Money (45 page)

Sometimes there’s nothing you can do but take the next step—and then the step after that.

Mrado wasn’t thinking about all the crap today. Just did what he had to do.

Dressed slower, more carefully than usual. Like a slow-motion scene in an action flick, as if to underscore the importance of perfection.

Not because he had doubts or was scared, just because everything had to be perfect.

The knife: a Spec Plus U.S. Army Quartermaster with an eight-inch-long blade in black carbon steel with a blood groove. Black calfskin sheath, strapped around his shin with two Velcro bands.

He tightened them. Made sure the sheath was in place—it was plastered against his leg. Secure. Without interfering with the flutter of the pant leg if he made any sudden moves.

He weighed the knife in his hand. Sure, it was American, but it was also the best battle knife Mrado knew of. He balanced it. Ran his thumb over the blade’s edge.

It was newly sharpened.

Images in his mind: the Battle of Vukovar. Bayonet fight with a Croatian sniper.

Warm blood.

He put on his pants. Thin black chinos: Ralph Lauren Polo, for warm summer days. Cool clothes were good. Light clothes.

On his upper body he wore a white wifebeater.

Looked himself in the mirror. Flexed his triceps. Did he detect some deterioration? Not impossible—he hadn’t been to Fitness Club since he was demoted over three months ago. Trained at World Class instead but didn’t know anyone there. Pleasure diminished. Attendance declined. Triceps and other muscles didn’t measure up. Stung to see it.

He put on a button-down shirt, beige Hugo Boss.

On top: a dark linen jacket.

No holster today. If the cops made a bust, he wanted to be able to toss the weapon somewhere without having to explain why he was wearing a gun holster. Happy that his S & W was so small.

Even happier about the ammunition he had: Starfire, hollow bullets that exploded on impact. Worked extra well in weapons with short muzzles, where the bullet’s speed was lower, the expansion at contact greater.

Held the revolver in his hand. It was polished. So beautiful with its stainless steel. The emblem on the side gleamed above the grip. An inscribed text above the trigger:
Airweight.

Mrado remembered when they’d taken it from him at the ski-jump tower by Fiskartorp. After today: Remorse would be their inheritance.

He put it in the inside pocket of the jacket.

Tied his shoes—meticulously.

Ready for the greatest coup of his life—100 million on the street.

Worth certain risks.

Nenad was waiting in the car downstairs. He’d sold his old luxury car. It attracted too much attention. Now he drove a red Mercedes CLS 55 AMG, a powerhouse with soft curves.

Nenad was dressed in a linen suit. Handkerchief in the breast pocket. Slicked-back hair. A big day required smart clothes. The blow and bordello king never scrimped on style.

The Benz feel inside the car was elegant.

They drove the Södra Länken freeway out of the city. Then west. Toward the cold-storage place.

Discussed the break. The pleasure. Radovan’s attempt to push them down.

The old bastard was finished. The new kings of the hill were spelled M & N.

Revolution within the Yugo Mafia drew near. Within a few hours, they would be the coke kings of the city. Of Sweden. Of Europe.

They stopped at Gullmarsplan. Were meeting up with Bobban. Ratko hadn’t been able to make it. Mrado wondered why. Wasn’t Ratko on his side, or what?

Bobban was waiting as planned outside the bus terminal above the subway station. He drove a Volvo XC90 and was dressed in his usual black denim jacket. Mrado thought, That guy never changes style.

All in place: three men against Radovan.

Not really. Three professionals against a confused and drugged-out Arab, Abdul.

Besides, they had an insider on their team. The Stureplan slick in the know.

They drove in a convoy toward Västberga.

Nenad was playing gym techno on high volume. Pounded his fists to the beat against the wheel.

Power.

An easy match.

A nice day.

Västberga’s industrial area could be seen from far away. Warehouses. Logistics centers. Cold-storage units. The businesses in the area consisted of a key factory, low-end IT technicians, car companies, sorting plants, and machine workshops.

Mrado thought about Christer Lindberg. The ultra-Sven who’d had to file for personal bankruptcy in order to cover the tax debts from the video stores. This area was filled with his type of people.

Mrado didn’t feel bad for him. If you play the game, you have to deal with the rules of the game, or whatever. The guy only had himself to blame.

They drove toward the cold-storage building. It was enormous. Over seventy units, with everything from over two-thousand-square-foot refrigeration halls to rooms of less than fifty. Meat, vegetables, fruit, mink coats—everything kept better if kept cool. Rumor had it that some units housed organs for the Karolinska Medical Institute.

The building was made of white sheet metal with a flat roof. Drearier than dreary. Streamers outside read
WELCOME TO VÄSTBERGA INDUSTRIAL AND LOGISTICS PARK.

They stopped the car outside the fence surrounding the loading docks. Nenad gave Mrado a key. They’d made duplicates; in case one of them went down, the other could make off with the car.

Began to walk toward loading dock number six.

Knew what they were looking for.

Bobban pulled in with his SUV. Parked it outside dock number five. The idea: one car close by and the other outside. If shit went down, they would need alternatives.

Nenad’d also parked a rented Volkswagen by the flagpoles on the front side of the cold-storage building the night before. A third getaway car if needed.

Bobban stayed in his car. Scoped out the area.

Mrado’s cell phone rang, a silent vibration in his pocket.

Bobban’s voice: “I see him now. He’s smoking by loading dock six. Swede. Blue sweater.”

“Thanks.” Mrado hung up.

Apparently, Abdulkarim’d placed only one man outside. Rookie mistake.

Mrado ran toward the loading dock. Saw the guy from twenty yards away. Slowed to a walk. Didn’t want to scare him.

The dude saw him too late.

Mrado, commando-style: slit his throat.

The guy gargled, didn’t have time to scream.

Mrado worried about bloodstains.

Pulled the guy in under the loading dock. Hid the body.

Bobban stepped out of the car. Jumped up onto the loading dock.

Could be days before the guy’s body was found under the loading dock’s overhang.

Bobban remained standing up on the loading dock. Stared in the opposite direction. Kept watch.

Mrado fingered his revolver. Felt the faint outline of the handle’s grip-friendly ribbing.

Nenad stood behind Bobban.

Waiting.

The air was clear. In the distance, the sound of two trucks leaving the area could be heard. No people in sight.

The big question: Had JW unlocked the entrance to unit 51 as promised? The little question: How vigilant were Abdulkarim and his boys?

Mrado tested the door handle to the entrance. It was designed so you could drive pallets with foodstuffs in and out—could be opened like a hatch.

Nenad pulled his gun.

The load-out was quick.

Jorge’s head, like a soup. A mix of fear, triumph, confusion.

Disgust.

It was JW’s sister he’d seen in the video on the computer.

Raped, abused. Beaten to bits. Murdered?

As soon as Jorge got in the car with JW, he’d thought the Östermalm brat reminded him of someone. At first couldn’t think of whom. Half an hour later, he knew for sure.

Ay, qué sorpresa.

JW’s sister—a whore. Taken by the Yugos.

He couldn’t bear to say anything.

They’d driven the boxes in on dollies. Ten of them. Heavy and difficult to maneuver. They weren’t exactly truckers.

Abdulkarim, revved up. Fahdi, sweaty. JW was calm, for being him. Jorge himself didn’t know how he was feeling.

The Arab ordered Petter to keep watch outside. The dude was supposed to call if he saw anything shady. The pigs were on their backs like crazy these days.

The cold-storage facility had white walls and steel beams in the high ceiling in which to fasten lifting devices. Abdulkarim swore, wished they’d rented an indoor crane. The floor was made of metal. Smelled like cold fruit. It echoed.

Cool temperature in the entire space.

Two doors, the one they’d come in through and one at the other end of the room.

Four pallets were
sin
C—the ones that’d been farthest out. That was their safety margin if customs’d taken a random sample—always a chance they only checked the veggies on the end.

They began to empty the other cabbages.

Jorge and JW tore open the cabbages. Cut them open. Plucked out the small plastic bags with the white powder.

Abdulkarim stood by calmly and watched. Weighed and counted every single bag. It had to be correct down to the last gram.

Fahdi packed the bags into a couple of suitcases that they’d lined up against the wall.

Jorge’d already opened one of the bags. Stuck down his finger. Rubbed it against his gums in the classic manner. Tasted good. Tasted 90 percent.

JW was pleased. The eagle’d landed.

After fifteen minutes in the cold-storage facility, they had three pallets left to unpack.

Thirteen suitcases filled with bags. Bulked with old blankets.

They were almost done. Soon they’d load half the suitcases on Jorge and JW’s pickup, and the rest in the car that Abdulkarim, Fahdi, and Petter’d come in.

Abdulkarim, ardent. Every single bag’s weight was written down. Added up. Every suitcase had to contain 13.75 pounds of C. To be stored at different hiding places around town. Spread the risks.

Then something strange happened. The door out toward the loading dock opened.

Jorge turned around. Looked at whoever came in. He was still holding a cabbage in his hand.

Was it Petter?

No.

Big guys.

The 5-0?

Maybe.

No.

Men with ski masks over their heads. Both wearing blazers.
Reservoir Dogs,
or what?

Guns in their hands.

Abdulkarim screamed. Jorge pulled his gun. JW got behind a pallet. Fahdi was suddenly holding his gun in hand. Fired shots. Too late. The bigger of the men—and he was really enormous—held a small revolver in his hand. Smoke from the barrel. Fahdi collapsed. Jorge didn’t see any blood. The other man, the one with a handkerchief in the breast pocket of his blazer, yelled, “Get down on the floor, fast as fuck, or I’ll pop another one.” JW obeyed. Jorge remained standing. Abdulkarim hollered. Cursed. Called for Allah. His constant squire was on the floor. Blood was beginning to show. Trickling from Fahdi’s head. The man with the handkerchief in his pocket said in drawling voice, “Shut up and get down.” Pointed his gun at Abdulkarim. The man who’d shot Fahdi said, “You, too, Latino fag, get down.” Jorge lay down. Dropped his weapon. Could hardly see JW behind the packing case. Abdulkarim was on the floor, his hands on his head.

Jorge thought he almost recognized the voice of the man with the handkerchief.

He definitely recognized the voice of the man who’d shot Fahdi.

JW sat with his back against a packing case. The floor was cold. His position was uncomfortable. His hands were taped back a little too tightly.

But not that tightly—part of his agreement with Nenad was that they’d tape him so that he’d have a chance to break free. Who wanted to end up on their ass in a cold-storage facility all night?

Even so, the situation’d gotten out of hand.

Shooting Fahdi was not part of the fucking plan. JW had no clue who Nenad’s helpers were, but that big asshole’d definitely made a mistake. A horrific overstep.

Panic was creeping up on him.

Abdulkarim was on the floor, with his hands behind his back, duct tape wound tightly around his wrists. But he refused to shut up. The Arab screamed, spat, and drooled in turn.

Jorge was sitting just like JW, against a pallet, with his hands taped behind his back. He stared at JW.

Chills ran up and down JW’s spine. The room was chilly. The Yugos were ice-cold.

Fuck.

Nenad and his helper unpacked the last of the cabbage. Opened it just like Jorge, JW, and Fahdi’d done. Crammed the baggies into the suitcases. Skipped the weighing and tasting. Ignored the Arab’s screaming. Didn’t even look in JW’s direction.

Jorge kept staring. But not at the men in the ski masks, who were in the process of stealing over two hundred pounds of C. He was staring at JW.

“You told them, didn’t you?”

JW thought, How could Jorge know?

“You, you fucking idiot, got ’em here, and you don’t even know who they really are.”

“What are you talking about? I have no idea who they are.”

JW turned his head. Looked over at Nenad. He had a cabbage in his hand. Carefully slit it open with a box cutter. Took care not to cut the bag. A couple of spilled grams—maybe ten thousand kronor. Nenad didn’t seem to give a shit about JW and Jorge’s conversation. Maybe he didn’t hear it—Abdulkarim’s curses were distracting.

Jorge said in a low voice, “Fahdi for sure ain’t the canary. Why’d he let someone in who’d shoot him in the face? Abdulkarim? No, he’d never drag anyone into this who’d shoot his best friend. So, who can it be? Petter or you—’cause it ain’t me. And you said something a half hour ago that I’m thinkin’ about now. You told me to be chill. I’ve never heard you talk like that before. Why’d you say that anyway? How’d you wanna affect me? You’re fucked, JW, man.”

“Shut up.”

JW looked straight ahead. Turned his eyes away from Jorge. The Chilean was smarter than he’d thought. But what did it matter now? In a couple of minutes, Nenad and his man would be gone. JW would break free and maybe help Jorge with the tape, then disappear. Jorge, Abdulkarim, and Fahdi, if he was alive, would have to make it on their own—sorry, boys, that’s life.

There was one case of cabbage left. The Yugos worked quickly. JW closed his eyes and waited for them to skip out.

Jorge hissed again, “Listen to me, JW.”

JW ignored him.

“Fuck, man, listen. You workin’ with those hustlers? You know who they are? You know what they done to your sister?”