Jarkko Sipila - Vengeance

A choice, that’s what this was about. Fuck, Larsson thought. Suhonen had to die and he would, but not so easily. He wanted to see the pig cry and beg for mercy. That’s what revenge was about. Domination and power. For the victim to be totally at your mercy and devoid of any hope. Larsson wanted to see him a desperate, blubbering mess-trying to cut a deal. But all in vain, for Larsson wouldn’t agree to any deal. He would only watch as each glimmer of hope faded away. This wasn’t about Suhonen dying, it was about how he would die. A quick death would be far too easy for this long-haired, leather-jacketed pile of shit. The man had to be crushed, but that would take time. Time that, because of Steiner’s leg wound, he didn’t have.

Larsson got up, walked to the corner, and grabbed two stools, which were slathered with white paint. He twisted a leg off of each one and set both stools in the middle of the room. He took a hank of rope off the workbench and threaded it through a hook in the rafters so that the end of the rope dangled at the level of the workbench. How fitting that there were two of these hooks, he thought. The hooks were meant for lifting heavy equipment in the shed, and could easily carry a man’s weight.

Larsson yanked Salmela to his feet and forced him into a kneeling position on the wobbly stool. Salmela struggled to keep his balance. His feet and hands were bound with zip ties. Larsson strapped them together with a second tie, so that his hands and feet were bound together behind his back.

Next, Larsson tied a noose around Salmela’s neck, pulled the rope taut and tied the other end to the bench, which was bolted to the floor.

Salmela swayed back and forth in an awkward-looking position. If he lost his balance, the rope would strangle him.

“Goddammit,” Steiner moaned in the corner. “My eyes are getting blurry.”

Larsson turned to Suhonen with the gun in his hand. “Get up. Don’t try anything or I’ll kick the stool out from under your rat-friend here.”

Apparently, Larsson didn’t intend to kill them immediately, thought Suhonen, as he braced himself against the wall and shuffled to his feet. His shoulder throbbed and Suhonen wondered if something had broken in there. That, however, was the least of his problems.

Larsson commanded Suhonen to kneel on the other stool, which creaked ominously as the three remaining legs strained under his weight. He quickly wrapped a zip-tie around each of Suhonen’s ankles and strapped them together with a third. The fourth he used to link the zip-ties to the handcuffs so that Suhonen’s feet and hands were bound behind his back in the same position as Salmela’s.

Suhonen, too, got a noose around the neck, which Larsson pulled tight, then tied to the workbench.

“Rolf,” said Larsson as he turned to his friend. “I’ll get the car. Hold on a sec.”

Larsson left and a couple minutes later, Suhonen heard the car pull up. Larsson came back into the shed, went to the corner and grabbed Steiner’s gun and knife. Then he helped his moaning brother to his feet.

“Let’s go. I’ll help you,” said Larsson.

At the door, he turned to Suhonen and Salmela. “Try to stay alive until I come back. I won’t be long-then we’ll have some fun.”

Larsson closed the door and after a few seconds, Suhonen heard the car start.

The contorted position was extremely awkward. It forced the neck forward, which tightened the noose. The missing legs on the stools were on the front-right, so the men had to keep their weight on the left side.

Suhonen didn’t dare move on the wobbly stool.

They couldn’t hear the sound of the car anymore, and Suhonen shouted, “Help! Help us!”

“No use,” Salmela said. “The nearest house is a hundred-fifty yards away on the other side of the highway. Nobody’s gonna hear us.”

Salmela was right. Besides that, the door was closed and the woods would muffle any sound.

Larsson had left Suhonen’s phone in his pocket, but there was no way he could get to it. In the pocket of his leather jacket was a key ring with a key for police cuffs. Even if it worked on these cuffs, that too would be impossible to get.

“I’m sorry,” said Salmela. “I really did get away for a while, but maybe they just wanted me to call you.”

“Maybe.”

“That text was from Larsson.”

“It doesn’t matter now. This doesn’t look good.” Defying his balance, Suhonen turned his gaze as far toward Salmela as he dared.

Salmela’s voice was calm. “Why drag this out? One little slip and it’s all over. I’m ready.”

TUESDAY, 4:45 A.M.

TÖÖLÖ, HELSINKI

The blue Audi A4 turned right off of Mannerheim Street onto Eino Leino Street, sped through an intersection, and swung left.

Many of the cars in Töölö were still covered with snow, but the pavement was wet. An old woman in a brown fur coat was stepping into the crosswalk, but quickly shuffled back to avoid being hit.

“Stay awake,” said Larsson, poking Steiner in the shoulder as the man nodded off. “Don’t fall sleep.”

“Dammit,” Steiner wheezed. “I’m so tired.”

“We’ll be there in a minute. Fight!”

The front seat was drenched in blood. Larsson wasn’t sure how much blood Steiner had lost, nor how much he could lose before dying.

Larsson had wondered if he should drive to the Töölö hospital or the one in Meilahti, and had opted for Töölö, since the drop-off would be easier. The emergency room there was open twenty-four hours a day. The quality of the care couldn’t be that different, he thought. After passing Sibelius Street, the 1960s red brick building appeared on the right-hand side.

Larsson’s loaded Beretta lay on the center console. Steiner’s gun and stiletto were in the footwell of the back seat.

The entrance to the ER was deserted. A traffic sign nailed to a grimy telephone pole forbade parking, but stopping was permitted. The second floor of the building formed a fifteen-foot deep canopy over the entrance.

Larsson swung the Audi under the canopy and up to the front door. It was almost five in the morning and there were no ambulances or doctors on smoke breaks. That suited Larsson just fine.

He pulled up to the glass doors and stopped the car. On the way there, he had considered just shoving Steiner out and taking off. But the man was barely conscious now, and he’d likely crack his head on the sidewalk if Larsson pushed him out.

Larsson left the engine running and got out of the car. He rounded the front end to the passenger side and hauled Steiner out. The man mumbled something, but Larsson couldn’t make out the words. Well, at least he was alive. Nothing else mattered. Larsson laid him down in front of the door and glanced into the lobby. The lights were on, but the hallway was empty. Quickly, he returned to the car and got back inside. He pushed in the clutch and threw it into first.

He glanced through the glass doors again. Still nobody. Wouldn’t security be interested in a car and a half-dead man lying on the ground? Wasn’t somebody monitoring the security cameras? Couldn’t anyone be relied on anymore?

Apparently not, thought Larsson, and doubt began to sink in. Nobody had noticed-not doctors, not nurses, not the security guards. Steiner could die at the door of the hospital.

He spotted a doorbell next to the glass doors. There was no choice but to ring it, he thought, and he stepped out of the car.

* * *

The explosion in Käpylä had made for an extraordinary day. Officers Tero Partio and Esa Nieminen were working overtime on top of their double shift, and it was beginning to wear on them. Some of the patrol officers on the night shift had been tied up in the previous evening’s raids, and earlier in the evening, their lieutenant had radioed for volunteers to pick up an extra shift. That was fine with Partio and Nieminen and, of course, the lieutenant. So far, they had been on duty for seventeen hours straight.