Anders Roslund - Three Seconds

He dialed the number again. The first ring, the second, he waited. Was she still there, did she still have the same number, he didn't know, he hoped, maybe she-

Her voice.

"You?"

It had been so long.

"I want you to do exactly what we agreed."

"Piet, I-"

"Exactly what we agreed. Now."

He hung up. He missed her. He missed her so much.

And now he wondered if she was still there, for him.

The blue, flashing light got stronger, clearer, and would soon push its way through the woods that separated the country road from the drive up to Aspsås prison. Lennart Oscarsson was standing next to Sergeant Rydén in the parking place by the main gate when two heavy, square, black cars approached. The national task force duty troops had left their headquarters at Sorentorp and Solna twenty-four minutes earlier and dropped off-while the heavy vehicles were still moving-nine identically clad men in black boots, navy blue overalls, balaclavas, protective visors, helmets, fireproof gloves, and flak jackets. Rydén rushed forward and greeted the tall thin man who got out of the passenger seat of the first car. Head of the task force, John Edvardson.

"There. The black roof. Top floor."

Four windows in the building nearest the outer wall. Edvardson nodded, he was already heading over there and Oscarsson and Rydén had almost to run to keep up. They looked around and saw the eight others following, submachine guns in hand, two of them with long-distance sniper guns.

They passed central security and the administration block, continued through an open gate in the next wall which was slightly lower and divided the prison up into different sectors, identical squares with identical three-story L-shaped buildings.

"G Block and H Block."

Lennart Oscarsson kept close to the inner wall where they had an overview but were still protected.

"E Block and F Block."

He pointed at the buildings one by one, the home of long-term prisoners.

"C Block and D Block."

Sixty-four cells and sixty-four prisoners in each complex.

"Normal prisoners. The special sex offenders' unit is in a separate part of the prison, as we had a few problems some years ago when several prisoners crossed paths."

They continued sprinting along meter after meter of thick concrete, getting closer to the last L-shaped building. Oscarsson was flagging a bit, but he kept up.

"Blocks A and B. One in each arm. Block B faces the other way. He's been spotted a few times in the big window, the one that looks out over the fields, toward the church over there, Aspsås church. I've had sightings from two separate wardens and they're absolutely certain."

A gray concrete bunker, a Lego brick, an ugly and hard and silent building.

"At the bottom, the isolation unit. Solitary confinement. Bl. That's where he took the hostages. That's where he escaped from."

They stopped for the first time since the armed task force had arrived in their vehicles a couple of minutes earlier.

"One floor up, B2 left and B2 right. Sixteen cells on each side. Normal prisoners, thirty-two of them."

Lennart Oscarsson waited for a few seconds, still speaking in short bursts-he hadn't caught his breath back yet.

He lowered his voice a bit.

"There, at the top. B3. The workshops. One of the prisoners' workplaces. You see that window? The one that faces the yard?"

He stopped talking. The big window, it felt so strange-it was beautiful outside, the sun and the green fields and the blue sky, and inside, behind the glass, death.

"Armed?"

While he waited for Rydén's answer, Edvardson ordered six of the national task force men to position themselves at the three entrances to Block B and the two snipers to check out the roofs of the nearby buildings.

"I've asked the guards who saw his weapon twice. They're still confused, in shock, but I'm fairly certain that what they're describing is a kind of miniature revolver that can take six bullets. I've only ever seen one in real life, a SwissMiniGun, made in Switzerland and marketed as the world's smallest gun."

"Six bullets?"

"According to the guards he's fired at least two."

John Edvardson looked at the prison chief warden.

"Oscarsson… how the hell did a prisoner who's locked up manage to get hold of a deadly weapon in the hole, in one of Sweden's high-security prisons?"

Lennart Oscarsson couldn't bear to answer, not right now. He just shook his head in despair. The national task force chief turned toward Rydén.

"A miniature revolver. I don't know anything about it. But you reckon it's powerful enough to kill?"

"He's already done it once."

John Edvardson looked up at the window that faced the beautiful church; the hostage taker had been spotted there, a prisoner serving a long sentence who obviously had contacts who could get him a loaded gun in a high-security prison.

"Classified psychopath?"

“ yes:,

Reinforced glass in the window.

Two hostages lying naked on the floor. "And a documented history of violence?"

“Yes.”

The man in there had known what he was doing the whole time. According to the wardens he was calm and determined, he had chosen the workshop, and that wasn't by chance, either.

"Then we've got a problem."

Edvardson looked at the front of the building where they wanted to get in. They didn't have much time, the hostage taker had just threatened to kill for a second time.

"He's been seen in the window, but the snipers can't access it from inside the prison. And given your description of this Hoffmann and his record… we can't force our way in either. Break down the door or smash in one of the skylights on the roof, it would be simple enough, but with such a dangerous and sick prisoner… if we were to do that, if we stormed him, he wouldn't turn on us, he'd stand his ground, he'd point the gun at the hostages, no matter how threatened he was himself, and he'd do what he's promised to do. He'd kill."

John Edvardson started to walk back toward the gate and the wall. "We're going to get him. But not from here. I will position the snipers. Outside the prison."

He moved away from the window.

They were lying naked at his feet.

They hadn't moved, hadn't tried to communicate.

He checked their arms, legs, pulled a bit at the sharp plastic band, which already was cutting in deeper than was necessary, but it was all about power. He had to be sure that word of his potency got out to those who were just turning theirs in toward him.

He had heard sirens for the second time. The first, about half an hour ago, were police from the local station, the only ones who could get here that fast. These ones had a different sound, more persistent, louder, and had lasted for as long as it took for them to get from the national task force headquarters in Sorentorp to the prison.

He walked across the room, counted his steps, studied the door, studied the second window, looked up at the ceiling and the layer of loose glass-fibre tiles, used to absorb and dampen sound in the noisy workshop. He picked up a long, narrow metal pipe from one of the workbenches and starred to force the fiberglass tiles loose until they fell to the floor, one after the other, and revealed the actual ceiling.

The heavy black car left the parking place outside the main gate into Aspsås prison and stopped about a minute and a kilometer later outside another, considerably smaller gate-one that opened onto a gravel path that led up to a proud, white church. John Edvardson walked along the newly raked gravel, Rydén beside him and the two marksmen right behind. Some visitors to the sunny, well-maintained graveyard looked uneasily at the armed, uniformed men with black faces-they didn't fit together somehow, violence and peace. The church door was open and they looked into an empty but impressive nave, and then chose the door to the right and the steep stairs up to the next door which, given the fresh evidence on the door frame, looked like it had recently been forced open, and then finally the aluminum steps that led CO a hatch in the roof and to the church tower. They bent down to pass under the cast iron bell and didn't straighten up until they were our on the narrow balcony, where the wind was stronger and they got a clear view of the gray, square blocks of the prison. They kept a firm hold on the low railing as they studied the building nearest the wall and the window on the second floor where the hostage taker had been seen and was assumed to be hiding.