Anders Roslund - Three Seconds

"Extremely antisocial personality disorder. No ability to empathize. Extensive reports, significant characteristics include impulsiveness, aggression, lack of respect for own and others' safety, lack of conscience."

Sven looked at his boss but got no answer, no contact.

"Shooting incident involving a police officer in Söderhamn, at a public space on the edge of town, he hit-"

"That's enough."

He bent down toward the prostrate marksman.

"Two minutes. Prepare to fire."

He pointed to the door into the tower and the aluminum ladder peeping over the top of the hatch. They would go down into the room with the wooden altar-the marksman was to be disturbed as little as possible. He was about halfway down when he turned on the radio and held it to his mouth.

"From now on, I only want traffic between myself and the marksman. Turn off your mobile phones. Only the marksman and I will communicate until the shot has been fired"

The wooden stairs creaked with every step-they were approaching the control post and he would only leave again once it was over.

Mariana Hermansson knocked on the dirty window and looked at the camera that was focused on her. It was the fourth locked door in the long passage under the prison and when it was opened, she ran toward central security and the exit.

Martin Jacobson didn't understand what was happening. But he felt that it was nearing the end. In the last few minutes, Hoffmann had run back and forth several times, he was out of breath and he had shouted loudly about time and death. Jacobson tried to move his legs, his hands, he wanted to get away. He was so frightened, he didn't want to sit here anymore, he wanted to get up and go home and eat supper and watch TV and have a drink of Canadian whisky, the kind that tasted so soft.

He was crying.

He was still crying when Hoffmann came into the cramped storeroom, when he pushed him up against the wall and whispered that soon there would be an almighty explosion, that he should stay exactly where he was, that if he did that he would be protected and wouldn't die.

He was lying with both elbows positioned on the wooden floor of the balcony and enough room for his legs; his position was comfortable and he could concentrate on the telescopic sight and the window.

It was close.

Never before on Swedish soil had a marksman taken another life in peacetime, not even shot to kill. But the hostage taker had threatened his hostages, refused to communicate, made another threat. He had gradually forced the situation to this choice between one life and another,

One shot, one hit.

He was capable; even at this distance he felt confident: one shot, one hit.

But he would never see the consequences, a person blown to bits. He remembered one morning during training, the remains of live pigs that had been used as target practice-he couldn't bear to see a person like that.

He edged fractionally farther out on the balcony so that he could see the window even better.

She ran through the open prison gates and out into the nearly full parking lot, she rang Ewert's number for the second time and for the second time was cut off, she was nearly at the car and tried Sven and tried Edvardson without getting through, she got into the car, started it and drove over the grass and plants, looking up at the church tower as much as at the road as there was someone lying there, waiting.

Ewert Grens removed his earpiece, he wanted to get rid of the voices that were there because he had ordered them to be, that were his responsibility now and that had one single task.

To kill.

"Target?"

"Single man. Blue jacket."

"Distance?"

"Fifteen hundred and three meters."

He didn't have much time left.

Hermansson turned out of the prison drive and drove toward the small town of Asps1 s on the wrong side of the road.

"Wind?"

"Seven meters per second right."

She accelerated fast as she turned up the volume on the radio to max. "Outside temperature?"

"Eighteen degrees."

Oscarsson, what he had just said, Ewert… before anything was fired, before… he had to know.

I have never shot at a person.

I have never ordered anyone else to shoot at a person.

Thirty-five years in the police. In one minute… less than one minute. "Grens, over."

Sterner.

"Grens here, over."

"The hostage… he's covered… as if there's some sort of blanket wrapped round him."

"Right?"

Ewert Grens waited.

"I think… the blanket… Grens, it looks pretty weird…" Grens was shaking.

It wasn't the people outside the walls who were going to decide, it was the hostage taker, he was the one who moved the boundaries, challenged them, forced them.

"Continuer"

"… I think he's preparing for a… an execution."

You've worked there your whole life.

You're the oldest one there. You're the weakest. You're the chosen one. You are not going to die.

"Fire."

He had been watching the tower and the people up there the whole time. He had been careful to stand in profile, with the hostage close by, the diesel barrel close by, he had listened to their voices which had been crystal clear, it had been easy to understand the order.

Fire."

Fifteen hundred three meters.

Three seconds.

He heard the click.

He hesitated.

He moved.

The shot.

Death.

They waited.

"Abort. Object out of sight."

Hoffmann had stood there, his head cocked, in profile, he had been easy to see and easy to hit. Suddenly he moved. One single step was enough.

Ewert Grens was breathing heavily, he hadn't noticed before. He put a hand to his cheek, it was hot.

"Object in sight again. Ready to fire. Awaiting second order."

Hoffmann was back, he was standing there again.

One more time. A new decision. He didn't want to do it, couldn't face it.

"Fire."

He had heard a click. When the gun was cocked. And he had moved. This time he stayed where he was. In the middle of the window.

The first click in his ear and he stayed where he was.

Next.

The second click.

A finger on a trigger.

Fifteen hundred and three meters. Three seconds.

He moved.

One single moment.

It stretched out. It was empty and it was silent and prolonged.

Ewert Grens knew everything about moments like this, how they tormented you, ate you up and never, never let go.

'Abort. Object out of sight."

He had moved again.

Ewert Grens swallowed.

Hoffmann was about to die and it was as if he knew-one single moment, he used it and moved again.

"Object in sight again. Ready to fire. Awaiting third order."

He was back.

Grens grabbed hold of the earpiece that was resting on his shoulders, put it back in.

He turned toward Sven, looking for a face that was turned away. "I repeat. Ready to Fire. Awaiting third order. Over."

It was his decision. And his alone.

A deep breath.

He fumbled for the transmission button, felt it with his fingertips, pressed it, hard.

"Fire."

Piet Hoffmann had heard the order for the third time.

He had stood still when the gun was cocked.

He had stood still when the finger pressed on the trigger.

It was a strange feeling, knowing that a bullet was on its way, that he had three seconds left.

The explosion blocked out all sound, light, her breath… somewhere behind her something detonated that sounded like a bomb.

She braked abruptly and the car lurched, pulling her over toward the edge of the road and the ditch. She hung on, braked again, and regained control. She stopped the car and got out, still so shaken that she hadn't had time to be scared.