Emelie Schepp - Marked For Revenge

The National Crime Squad had contacted him.

They wanted to talk about last spring’s investigation of the murder of Hans Juhlén, a Swedish Migration Board department chief in Norrköping. The case was closed and Henrik had already put it behind him.

What had initially seemed to be a typical murder investigation of a high-ranking civil servant had turned into something much more, much worse. Something macabre: the smuggling of illegal refugees had led the team working the case to a narcotics ring that had, among other activities, been training children to be soldiers, turning kids into cold-blooded killers.

It was far from a routine case, and the investigation had been front-page news for several weeks.

Tomorrow, the National Crime Squad was coming to ask questions about the refugee children who had been transported from South America in shipping containers locked from the outside. More specifically, they wanted to talk about the ring leader, Gavril Bolanaki, who had killed himself before anyone could interrogate him.

They’d be reviewing every minute detail yet again.

Henrik opened his eyes and stared out into the darkness. He glanced at the alarm clock, saw that it was 10:15 and knew the dishwasher would soon signal the end of its cycle.

Three minutes later, it beeped.

CHAPTER TWO

HER HEART WAS pounding and her pulse racing.

Jana Berzelius breathed as quietly as possible.

Danilo.

A wave of mixed emotions flowed over her. She felt simultaneously surprised, confused, irritated.

There was a time when she and Danilo had been like siblings, when they had shared a daily existence. That was a long time ago now, back when they were little. Now they shared nothing more than the same bloody past. He had scars on his neck the same as she, initials carved into flesh, a constant reminder of their shared dark childhood. Danilo was the only one who knew who she was, where she came from—and why.

She had sought out Danilo last spring to ask for his help when the shipping containers filled with refugee children began appearing outside the small harbor town of Arkösund. He had seemed helpful, even favorably inclined, but in the end he had still betrayed her. He had attempted to kill her—unsuccessfully—and then disappeared underground.

Ever since then, she had been searching for him, but it was as if he had vanished into thin air. She hadn’t been able to find a single trace of him in all those months. Nothing. Her frustration had intensified in proportion to her desire for revenge. She daydreamed of different ways to kill him.

She had sketched his face in pencil on a white sheet of paper, drawing and erasing and drawing again until it was a perfect likeness. She had saved the picture, pinned it to a wall in her apartment as if to remind herself of the hatred she felt for him—not that she could ever forget it.

In the end, she had given up on her search for him and returned to her everyday life with the belief that she would probably never find him.

He was gone forever.

Or so she had thought.

Now he stood fifty feet from her.

She felt her body tremble and stifled an impulse to throw herself forward—she had to think rationally.

She held her breath so that she could hear the men’s voices, but she couldn’t make out a single word. They were too far away.

Danilo lit a cigarette.

The worn duffel bag lay on the ground, and the man with the birthmark was crouched down next to it. He pulled the zipper, exposing its contents. Danilo nodded and gestured with his right hand, and both of them went with quick steps through the alley and disappeared down the stone steps toward Strömparken.

Jana clenched her teeth. What should she do? Turn around and go home? Pretend she hadn’t seen him, let him get away? Let him disappear from her life yet again?

Silently, she counted to ten before stepping out of the shadows and going after them.

* * *

Detective Inspector Mia Bolander opened her eyes and immediately clapped her hand to her forehead. Her head was spinning.

She got out of bed and stood there naked, looking at the man whose name she had forgotten, who lay on his stomach with his hands under a pillow.

He hadn’t been completely with it. For twenty minutes, he had paced the room and repeated that he was a waste of space and didn’t deserve her. She had told him again and again that of course that wasn’t true, and in the end she had convinced him to get into bed with her.

When he later asked considerately if he could massage her feet, she was too exhausted to say no. And when he had put her big toe in his mouth, she had finally reached her limit and asked straight out if they couldn’t just fuck. He had gotten the hint and taken his clothes off.

He had also moaned loudly, licked her neck and given her hickeys.

That shithead.

Mia scratched under her right breast and looked down at the floor where her clothes lay in a heap.

She dressed quickly, not caring if she made noise. She just wanted to go home.

She’d only intended to make a quick stop at the pub. Harry’s had had a Christmas-themed karaoke night, and the place had been packed with women in sparkly dresses and men in suits. Some had been wearing Santa hats and had probably gotten drunk earlier in the night at some Christmas party somewhere in Norrköping.

The man whose name she had forgotten had been standing at the bar, holding a beer. He seemed to be around forty and had straight, blond hair that was oddly styled—parted straight down the middle. She had seen a colorful skull-and-crossbones tattoo on his neck. He had otherwise been neatly dressed in a sport coat with overstuffed shoulder pads and a tie.

Mia had sat down a few stools away from him, fingering her glass and trying to get him to notice her. He finally had, but it took even longer for him to walk over and ask if he could join her. She had answered with a smile, again running her finger around the top of her glass. He’d finally understood that he should buy her another drink. Three pints of beer and two seasonal saffron-flavored cocktails later, they’d shared a taxi home to his apartment.

She could still taste the saffron. She went out in the hall, into the bathroom and turned on the light. She was blinded for a second and kept her eyes closed while she drank water out of her cupped hands. She squinted into the mirror, tucked her hair behind her ears and then caught sight of her neck.

Two large red hickeys featured prominently on the right side, under her chin. She shook her head and turned off the light.

She took his sport coat from the hook in the hall and rifled through the pockets. His wallet was in the inside pocket and only held cards—no cash at all.

Not a single krona.

She looked at his driver’s license and saw that his name was Martin Strömberg, then she replaced it and put her boots and jacket on.

“Just so you know, Martin,” she said, pointing a finger toward the bedroom, “you are a goddamn waste of space.”

She unlocked the door of the apartment and left.

* * *

Jana Berzelius stopped at the top of the hill near Norrköping’s Museum of Work and looked around. She couldn’t see Danilo or the man with the birthmark anymore.

She surveyed all the street corners in front of her, but neither of the men were there. She didn’t see another living soul, in fact, and was amazed at how deserted the industrial landscape could be on a chilly Wednesday evening in early December.

She stood there silently for ten minutes, watching. But she didn’t hear a single sound or see the slightest movement.

Finally, she accepted that they were gone. She had lost him. The anger welled up inside her. There was only one thing to do now, and that was to leave, go home with the feeling of again having been tricked.