Jens Lapidus - Never Fuck Up

He speed-analyzed different alternatives. Rush in, try to arrest the intruders. Wait for the blatte to possibly leave and overtake him on the way out. Shoot the guys from a distance.

To rush in was dangerous. At least seven to nine yards. Niklas would have time to detonate the bomb and shoot a fuckload of people before he reached them. To wait for the blatte to leave—might never happen. That wouldn’t work.

Try to play sniper? Yes, maybe—that was Thomas’s thing. He was one of the best shots in the police force, after all.

If he’d had his Strayer Voigt Infinity, it would’ve been easy. But now—the police gun wasn’t exactly suited for sniper duty. At the same time: he should be able to handle nine yards. First Brogren, then the blatte.

He positioned himself with one knee on the floor. Straightened his back. Stretched his arms out. As long as they didn’t see him through the crack in the door. Remembered his bull’s-eye at the Järfälla club’s shooting range on the same night that Ljunggren’d told him that they’d found Rantzell’s apartment. He held the gun as still as he could. Sought out the sight. It was slow on the SIG Sauer. Fixed the notch. Subtle tremble. Relaxed. Didn’t bother with the poor lighting. Focused on one of Niklas’s legs. No point in aiming at his chest—the guy was wearing a bulletproof vest. Thomas squeezed the trigger, slowly. The founding principle was clear: squeeze, massage, stroke it. He squinted. Lost consciousness of everything else. Even slower. One single movement. The only thing he saw was Niklas’s thigh. It was the only thing in the world right now.

The shot rang out. Reality came crashing in. The sound hurt his ears.

Niklas stumbled. But didn’t fall.

The opposite. He roared. Took a step forward toward the man he was about to pop.

This wouldn’t do. He had to do something else.

Thomas regained his position.

Aimed for Niklas again.

The right side of his chest this time. Wouldn’t injure the lunatic too much. The guy was wearing a bulletproof vest, after all.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Some fucker was still around. Some cunt that Babak hadn’t spotted.

Niklas stumbled. But didn’t fall.

“I’ve been hit!”

Mahmud didn’t know what he should do. This was not part of the plan. What a fucking idiot he’d been. It could be the 5-0. A blue storm rolling in.

FUCK.

Babak yelled from the room next door, “ Habibi, what’s happening?”

Mahmud responded, “We gotta go.”

Babak ran in to Mahmud and the others.

Niklas roared, “Wait, I want to complete the mission.”

Babak approached him. Mahmud wondered why he’d come in. They were gonna split now.

Babak grabbed hold of Niklas. Tried to drag him away.

Tugged at his arm. Tore. Screamed, “Fuck, man, we gotta go.”

Another shot rang out in the room.

Mahmud saw Niklas. Like in slow motion. He collapsed like a rag.

On the left side of his head: the skull was busted.

Someone’d shot him again.

Khara. KHARA.

Niklas on the floor. They had to get out.

“Come on, man. Can you get up?”

Niklas tried to say something.

Gurgled.

Babak howled in the background.

Mahmud ran.

The second shot was bad.

Niklas dropped the Beretta.

But he was still holding the detonator in his hand.

Tight grip.

He felt the blood over his cheek and chin. Didn’t feel the blood. Didn’t feel anything.

He saw images. So many people, stories, faces.

Mom on the couch at home. The men in the mosque they’d torched down there. Collin.

The faces drifted past as if he were seeing them in a mirror.

Jamila. Benjamin. The cop who’d interrogated him.

He didn’t see anything anymore.

No johns, no old guys.

He saw a crystal chandelier swing above him.

Swing.

All the men who’d beaten and abused.

Mats Strömberg, Roger Jonsson, Patric Ngono.

Claes. Remembered him. All the punches.

Remembered Bolinder.

Niklas gripped.

Squeezed.

So still.

The detonator.

Everything was so still.

Thomas was sitting in the squad car with Ljunggren. They were both staring at the new radio system. Rantzell, that’s what it was called. Now dispatch could keep track of where all cars were situated at all times. Serious drawbacks: they couldn’t pull their usual excuses and evasive maneuvers. They would be forced to take the crap calls that the cadets should really be dealing with. But there was an advantage. Thomas and Ljunggren’d been given a new topic of conversation that would last for several days—whining about management that didn’t trust them. And there was maybe an even greater advantage: no downtime on the job. Less time to think. To bury yourself in guesswork. To brood. Have regrets.

Two months’d passed.

At first, Thomas’d been given a complete leave of absence from the force. To rest up, as they put it. What they were actually doing was investigating him again. Fuck, he couldn’t handle more investigations. But it was perfect timing. Sander’d arrived. He was the most fantastic little person Thomas’d ever met. He already loved the boy more than anything. It was beautiful and felt so good.

Niklas Brogren’d detonated the bomb that he’d strapped on Bolinder. The walls, the crystal chandeliers, the johns, the whores: smeared in oldman matter. Thomas’d rushed into the room, tried to do CPR on the man. But it was too late. What was left of Bolinder couldn’t be saved.

Thomas went over to Niklas. The guy looked up, but there was no life in his eyes. He was wheezing. Gurgling. He’d taken Bolinder with him to the other side.

The blatte boys’d disappeared.

The men and the hookers were in shock. People were whimpering, weeping, screaming. He was used to that kind of thing.

He hadn’t meant to shoot Niklas in the head. He’d aimed at his chest. But when that other blatte surprised him by coming into the room and pulling on Niklas, it’d messed up his aim. Niklas’s body was pulled down. Enough for a disastrous miss. A bad hit.

Maybe he never should’ve stepped into that room to save Bolinder. Maybe he should’ve split just like the immigrant guys. After a minute or so, he walked out of the room. Into the hall. Saw the blue lights. Heard the sounds of police in the house.

Hägerström stormed in, followed by ten or so men.

Their entire case seemed to go up in smoke, just like a New Year’s firecracker.

Two weeks after the incident, Stig H. Ronander, the detective inspector who’d taken over the Rantzell case after Hägerström, called.

The guy had a nasal voice.

“Good morning. This is Inspector Stig H. Ronander.”

Thomas’s first thought: What a douche to say his own rank like that. I know very well who he is.

“I want to talk to you about the incident on Smådalarö.”

That someone would call was expected, but Thomas didn’t know what to expect from Ronander, of all people. He was actually in charge of the other investigation.

“Yeah, you call that an incident?”

Ronander didn’t bother responding.

“We have to meet up.”

Two hours later, Thomas was sitting across from Ronander in the inspector’s office. He noted: framed photos of Ronander’s wife and some young children in overly cutesy clothes. They had to be grandchildren. Thomas thought about Sander. Longed to go home.