Jens Lapidus - Never Fuck Up

The handle of the Glock felt sweaty. The white of the kitchen was hurting his eyes. Fucking pigs.

Ratko was not an innocent.

He fired.

Bam-bam-bam.

For Dad.

First POC—point of contact—with the enemy. They were inside the house. Niklas scanned the room: white, white, white. Two whore guards. Ordered Mahmud to SBF—support by fire. Pop that fucker. Woman user, abuser, enemy combatant.

Niklas felt at home with the situation at hand. The adrenaline was pumping like in the good old days. He took a deep breath in through the nose, breathed out through the mouth. He was mentally prepared. At war again. Not just man to man—but with soldiers, a battalion, a battle.

Continued through the door toward where the men must be. FEBA—forward edge of battle area. A dining room. Wrong. He walked up to another door. Opened, looked in. A hallway. Turned around. Saw Babak taping up the remaining guard in the kitchen. Nice. Ordered him and Mahmud to follow him.

Outside: Javier and Robert’d stopped shooting at the house. But everyone inside must’ve gotten the message: area controlled. If anyone were to walk outside the house, they’d have to start firing again like madmen. Pepper everything that moved.

Through the hall. The Beretta safe in his hand. A large man who seemed to understand that something was happening. Probably the guy who let people in the front door.

“What the fuck are you doing? Who are you?”

Niklas landed a bullet in the guy’s knee. He crumpled like a dead man but he howled like a wild dog.

Niklas gave Mahmud an order: “Put some tape on that asshole.”

They taped the bouncer’s wrists and mouth. Niklas kept advancing. Alone.

Got in touch with Robert over the radio. A few rapid comments: “We’ve neutralized three combatants in here, and that’s most of the ones we believe may be dangerous. But maintain eyes on the big room that I pointed out. I’m making contact now.”

A gigantic room. Red wallpaper. Crystal chandeliers and spotlights in the ceiling. Large windows along one long end of the room. A fifteen-foot bar in the other end. Probably fifty people in there: half girls, half old guys. But they weren’t just any old guys. The ones Niklas’d spied on at the pizzeria’d been middle-class Svens, Eastern Bloc pimps, and dudes from the kind of countries where he’d been at war. These johns: thriving Swedish men in black tie. They were here to party and to get something more. Mahmud’d told him earlier what he’d been told by their employer: these weren’t your everyday horndogs—these were the leaders of the Swedish business world. Industry men, finance moguls, majority shareholders. Sweden’s head honchos. Here to taste fresh young pussy.

The old guys and the girls were gathered at the windows. Impressed by the New Year’s Eve fireworks. Champagne glasses in hand. The last fanfare of gunpowder and color blasted across the sky. They still hadn’t realized that they were under attack. Hadn’t heard the explosion from the IED, or at least not distinguished it from the noise of the fireworks. Everything’d gone according to plan: they would never be able to close or lock the hole out back. Always an open retreat route: assault tactics.

Two seconds was enough. He read the mood in the room: as if they were at a regular New Year’s Eve party where some younger single girls just happened to be. As if there was nothing wrong. Nothing dirty. Nothing humiliating about the whole situation. But Niklas knew: buying women equaled abuse. And his calling was to exterminate abusers.

Most of them were still turned away from him. Looking out at the sky or at one another. Except for two younger guys who were manning the bar. One of them reacted to Niklas in the doorway: a man with a ski mask pulled down over his face attracts attention. Niklas walked farther into the room. Mahmud followed behind him. Niklas’d ordered Babak to wait outside, guard the entrance, cover their backs.

The bar guy starting yelling something. Niklas raised the Beretta in both hands. A firm grip. He knew: this is the decisive moment—everything could go to hell. A turning point. A bottleneck in the exercise. Ready. Get set. Run.

The gun in one hand. One step. Two steps. Flew. Reminded him of his escape from the District Court.

He breathed in once. Twice. Twenty feet. Reached the guy. Raised the gun. Heard him say, “What the hell?”

Bam . Rapped the guy’s forehead with the Beretta, hard. The kid collapsed. Niklas turned around. Met the faces of the men and the girls—they’d turned around as well.

It was like time stood.

Still.

Everyone’d seen the attack.

Niklas and Mahmud: in control. Niklas’d informed Robert, “We’ve made contact, we’re gonna get this show on the road. Shoot everything that moves outside the house.”

The guys were lined up against the wall. The girls were standing next to them. Mahmud with his Glock pointed at the cluster of people the whole time. The bar guy and his friend were taped up on the floor. There could be more pimps, whore guards, in the house. Or, rather, there should be more: someone must’ve been responsible for the outdoor fireworks display. The advantage that Niklas and his troops had: because of what the men were up to, they weren’t exactly overly inclined to call the cops. The men knew it too. Still, he had to be smooth. He wanted to get ahold of those in charge.

Niklas took a step forward. In English: “I want Bolinder!”

No movement among the men.

“Who is Bolinder?”

A voice in the crowd, in English with a heavy Swedish accent: “There is no Bolinder here.”

Niklas responded in his own way. Fired off a shot at one of the chandeliers. Heard the bullet bounce around up there. Pulled the ski mask up halfway, bared his mouth.

“Don’t fuck with me ’cause then I’ll take you out, one by one. For the last time, who is Bolinder?”

The silence in the room was louder than the shot itself.

A man stepped forward. Said in a thin voice, “I am Bolinder. What do you want?”

He was slightly overweight, had carefully combed gray hair, and wore his tuxedo shirt unbuttoned to reveal a tuft of gray chest hair. He met Niklas’s gaze. The man’s eyes were gray.

Niklas stared back. Didn’t bother saying anything. This was the guy who arranged everything.

Bolinder was made to stand in the middle of the parquet floor. The light from a couple of spotlights in the ceiling hit him in the face. Niklas could see it clearly: the old john was scared as hell.

Mahmud pulled out the tape. Had Bolinder put his hands behind his back. The Arab wrapped them carefully. Laid the old guy down on the floor. The duct tape gleamed serenely.

Mahmud went closer. Gun pointed at the herd of men. He waved the Glock slowly from right to left and back again. If anyone tried anything, he’d hopefully be able to take down five or six people before he was overpowered. Instinctively, the men knew it too. No one wanted to take the chance.

Niklas yelled in English, “Down on the ground, every fucking one of you. Now. Put your hands on your head. Anyone who moves…” He made two shooting motions with the gun. They understood.

Niklas rummaged around in his backpack. The moment he’d been waiting for. He pulled out the plastic bag he’d prepared months ago. His own little project, parallel to surveillance of the wife beaters. It was pretty heavy, probably thirteen pounds. From the outside, it looked innocent enough: a gray bag with black electrical tape wound around it and a compact mass within. On the inside, it was highly lethal.