Ларс Кеплер - The Rabbit Hunter

Joona holds the pistol and his other hand up above his head. After all his years of training he’s made the same mistake that killed his father. He got carried away by the situation, by the desire to save someone, and left himself open to attack from behind for a few seconds.

Parisa’s stomach is heaving in time with her terrified breathing. Her white bra is soaked with blood and a dark puddle is spreading out beneath her. The bearded man is breathing hard as he puts the axe down.

‘Drop the pistol,’ the old man says.

‘Shall I put it on the floor?’

Joona starts to turn towards him, and sees his shadow on some old tins of paint.

‘Toss it away from you,’ the old man replies.

Joona turns slowly and sees the man standing four metres away. He’s standing next to a diesel engine hanging from a winch. Joona gently lowers the pistol as if he’s given up, but he’s just waiting for the right moment to fire. He’ll aim just below the nose, to knock out his brain stem instantly.

‘Don’t try anything,’ the man calls.

‘Which way do you want me to throw the pistol?’

‘Easy, now... This is a shotgun, I won’t miss.’

‘I’m doing what you said,’ Joona replies.

The old man’s face stiffens and the barrel of the gun moves slightly to the right. A dark shadow spreads across the dangling boat engine.

Joona hears the son’s footsteps behind him, stands still, then steps quickly forward and sideways when the blow comes. The axe misses, but the edge of the blade cuts into the back of his shoulder.

Joona spins around as he moves and rams his left elbow into the base of the man’s neck, breaking his collarbone.

The axe spins through the air, hits a jack and falls to the cement floor. Joona wraps his arm around the man’s neck, tips him over his hip and down onto the floor in front of him to act as a shield as he raises his pistol towards the father.

The old man has already rested the butt of the shotgun on the ground and put the end of the barrel in his mouth.

‘Don’t do it,’ Joona calls.

The old man reaches down and just manages to reach the trigger. His cheeks light up as the blast goes off, simultaneously his head jerks back and fragments of skull and brain tissue spray up at the ceiling and rain down onto the floor behind him.

His body falls forward and the shotgun clatters to the ground beside it.

‘What the hell happened?’ his son gasps.

Joona quickly ties his arms and legs with thick steel wire, then drags him to his feet and pushes him back towards the dangling engine.

‘I’ll kill you!’ the son screams hysterically.

Joona winds the wire twice around the man’s bearded neck and the sturdy axle of the generator, then picks up the control pad from a workbench, and raises the engine just high enough that the man is forced to stand on tiptoe.

Joona hears more rifle shots from outside, then semiautomatic gunfire.

He runs over and lowers Parisa to the ground, telling her repeatedly that she’s going to be all right. He rolls her over onto her stomach, quickly wipes the blood away with the palm of his hand and seals the deep wound temporarily with duct-tape.

‘You’re going to be fine,’ he says calmly.

He adds more layers of tape, even though he knows it won’t hold for very long. He can see that the wound won’t be fatal if she gets to a hospital.

She tries to stand up but he tells her to lie still.

‘I just wanted to get Fatima,’ she says, trying to control her ragged breathing.

She gets to her knees, then rests for a moment.

She’s shaking and wobbling because of the blood she’s lost, but he helps her up and supports her through the workshop, though her knees threaten to buckle several times.

They emerge into the cool air. The entire marina is burning, the gusting wind fanning the flames.

Joona leads them up the gravel path along the side of the workshop, clutching his pistol in one hand.

When Amira sees them she gets to her feet beside the forklift-truck and walks towards them, her face grey and impassive. Her eyes seem distant, her pupils enlarged. Joona helps Parisa sit down and wraps his jacket around her.

Gustav is standing further up the path. His heavy bulletproof vest and semiautomatic rifle are lying on the ground.

The operation has been brought to a close, and he’s reporting back to command in an unsteady voice, saying that they have the situation under control and requesting ambulances and fire engines. He nods, mutters something, then lowers the radio to his side.

‘Are there ambulances on the way?’ Joona calls.

‘The first ones will be here in ten minutes,’ Gustav replies, staring at Joona with wet eyes.

‘Good.’

‘God... I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Joona. I did everything wrong.’

‘It’ll be OK.’

‘No, it won’t. Nothing’s going to be OK.’

A few metres behind him the old woman is sitting on the stack of motors, still knitting with a sad expression on her face. Her youngest son is lying on the ground, his arms fastened with zip ties.

‘We were given orders to go in immediately,’ Gustav says, wiping tears from his cheeks.

‘Orders from whom?’

There’s a loud crack and Gustav takes a small step forward.

The bang echoes between the buildings as the smell of powder dissipates.

The old woman is holding Parisa’s pistol in both hands. Her knitting is on the ground by her feet.

She fires again and Gustav fumbles for the wall with one hand. Blood is running from his stomach and a wound in his upper arm. Adam, who is standing next to the woman, grabs the gun and wrestles her to the ground, breaking her arm at the shoulder and holding her down with his boot.

Joona catches Gustav when he collapses and lowers him gently to the ground. Gustav looks confused and his mouth is moving as if he wants to say something.

Joona spent two hours waiting in the hallway outside the operating theatre where Gustav was being treated. Eventually he had to leave, but there was still no word about whether Gustav was going to survive.

He parks the car next to the top of Tule Street and feels the cool air from the park. He remembers that part of one of Sjöwall and Wahlöö’s books took place here, in an flat overlooking Vanadislunden.

As he walks down the hill towards the hotel, the local anaesthetic he was given for the axe-wound starts to fade. He had to get eleven stiches, and now the pain is starting to flare up again.

The shoulder of his jacket has been taped together, but it’s still crumpled and spattered with blood. He smells like smoke, has a cut across his nose, and his knuckles are raw.

The woman in reception stares at him open-mouthed. Joona realises that his appearance has changed quite a bit since he checked in.

‘Rough day,’ he says.

‘So I can see,’ she replies with a warm smile.

He can’t help asking if there are any messages, even though he doesn’t really expect Valeria to have called.

The receptionist checks her computer first, then his cubby hole, but there’s nothing there.

‘I can ask Sandra,’ she suggests.

‘There’s no need,’ Joona says quickly.

He still has to wait while she goes to speak to her colleague. He stares at the empty desk and the pattern of scratches in the varnish as he thinks about the fact that his part of the mission is over.

They all knew that the infiltration and ensuing operation were a gamble, but there was no other option. There wasn’t enough time.

Joona has done all he could to help the Security Police, and he wishes he could tell Valeria that now he’s just an ordinary inmate out on leave.

‘No, sorry,’ the woman smiles when she comes back. ‘No one’s asked for you.’