Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

Fourteen minutes’d passed. The trucks backed into the loading docks, spots five and six, by the cold-storage facility. JW parked the car.

He said to Jorge, “This’ll be a chill day. You just be chill, too.”

Jorge didn’t seem to be listening. Was he focused on something else? What the hell was he up to?

They got out of the car and walked over to the freight trucks. The two drivers’d climbed out. JW thanked them and discussed briefly when they could pick up the cars again. Then he paid them. They got three thousand kronor each, cash in hand. A good mood settled. Maybe they thought it was cigarettes, liquor, or other small-time stuff. The risk that they understood that they’d just driven 100 million kronor in cocaine to, at the moment, the most nervous drug pushers on this side of the Atlantic was minimal.

Jorge got out of the car and took a turn around the loading docks. It was his job to scout out the area.

Petter, who’d arrived with Abdulkarim and Fahdi, walked in the opposite direction. He was also scoping out the scene. Made sure everything was straight.

Fahdi emerged from a steel door on loading dock number five.

He nodded to JW. Made eye contact with Jorge in the distance. Meaning: Everything’s been cool here so far.

Abdul opened the container on one of the trucks so that JW could look inside. In the dark he glimpsed a pallet and six rows of boxes.

Passed it. Instead, he groped with his hand in one of the boxes in the pallet behind the first one and picked up a head of cabbage.

Fahdi’s stare was fixed on the cabbage.

JW held it in his left hand.

Pressed his right fist down between the stiff white leaves.

He could feel it distinctly-the plastic baggie.

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 calf-skin 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 get-away 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.”