Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

“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.”