Was it Petter?
No.
Big guys.
The 5–0?
Maybe.
No.
Men with ski masks over their heads. Both wearing blazers. Reservoir Dogs, or what?
Guns in their hands.
Abdulkarim screamed. Jorge pulled his gun. JW got behind a pallet. Fahdi was suddenly holding his gun in hand. Fired shots. Too late. The bigger of the men-and he was really enormous-held a small revolver in his hand. Smoke from the barrel. Fahdi collapsed. Jorge didn’t see any blood. The other man, the one with a handkerchief in the breast pocket of his blazer, yelled, “Get down on the floor, fast as fuck, or I’ll pop another one.” JW obeyed. Jorge remained standing. Abdulkarim hollered. Cursed. Called for Allah. His constant squire was on the floor. Blood was beginning to show. Trickling from Fahdi’s head. The man with the handkerchief in his pocket said in drawling voice, “Shut up and get down.” Pointed his gun at Abdulkarim. The man who’d shot Fahdi said, “You, too, Latino fag, get down.” Jorge lay down. Dropped his weapon. Could hardly see JW behind the packing case. Abdulkarim was on the floor, his hands on his head.
Jorge thought he almost recognized the voice of the man with the handkerchief.
He definitely recognized the voice of the man who’d shot Fahdi.
58
JW sat with his back against a packing case. The floor was cold. His position was uncomfortable. His hands were taped back a little too tightly.
But not that tightly-part of his agreement with Nenad was that they’d tape him so that he’d have a chance to break free. Who wanted to end up on their ass in a cold-storage facility all night?
Even so, the situation’d gotten out of hand.
Shooting Fahdi was not part of the fucking plan. JW had no clue who Nenad’s helpers were, but that big asshole’d definitely made a mistake. A horrific overstep.
Panic was creeping up on him.
Abdulkarim was on the floor, with his hands behind his back, duct tape wound tightly around his wrists. But he refused to shut up. The Arab screamed, spat, and drooled in turn.
Jorge was sitting just like JW, against a pallet, with his hands taped behind his back. He stared at JW.
Chills ran up and down JW’s spine. The room was chilly. The Yugos were ice-cold.
Fuck.
Nenad and his helper unpacked the last of the cabbage. Opened it just like Jorge, JW, and Fahdi’d done. Crammed the baggies into the suitcases. Skipped the weighing and tasting. Ignored the Arab’s screaming. Didn’t even look in JW’s direction.
Jorge kept staring. But not at the men in the ski masks, who were in the process of stealing over two hundred pounds of C. He was staring at JW.
“You told them, didn’t you?”
JW thought, How could Jorge know?
“You, you fucking idiot, got ’em here, and you don’t even know who they really are.”
“What are you talking about? I have no idea who they are.”
JW turned his head. Looked over at Nenad. He had a cabbage in his hand. Carefully slit it open with a box cutter. Took care not to cut the bag. A couple of spilled grams-maybe ten thousand kronor. Nenad didn’t seem to give a shit about JW and Jorge’s conversation. Maybe he didn’t hear it-Abdulkarim’s curses were distracting.
Jorge said in a low voice, “Fahdi for sure ain’t the canary. Why’d he let someone in who’d shoot him in the face? Abdulkarim? No, he’d never drag anyone into this who’d shoot his best friend. So, who can it be? Petter or you-’cause it ain’t me. And you said something a half hour ago that I’m thinkin’ about now. You told me to be chill. I’ve never heard you talk like that before. Why’d you say that anyway? How’d you wanna affect me? You’re fucked, JW, man.”
“Shut up.”
JW looked straight ahead. Turned his eyes away from Jorge. The Chilean was smarter than he’d thought. But what did it matter now? In a couple of minutes, Nenad and his man would be gone. JW would break free and maybe help Jorge with the tape, then disappear. Jorge, Abdulkarim, and Fahdi, if he was alive, would have to make it on their own-sorry, boys, that’s life.
There was one case of cabbage left. The Yugos worked quickly. JW closed his eyes and waited for them to skip out.
Jorge hissed again, “Listen to me, JW.”
JW ignored him.
“Fuck, man, listen. You workin’ with those hustlers? You know who they are? You know what they done to your sister?”
59
Experienced, efficient, evil. They cleaned the Arab out. And the best part of it: By extension, they were sinking Radovan.
Mrado and Nenad, the dynamic duo, didn’t take shit. Pinched the blow bags till it stung the old toad.
Abdulkarim used to work for Nenad and was now directly under R. He couldn’t have suspected Nenad knew shit about the C deal, since the Yugo boss’d shut him out. Dumbass.
Despite all the planning and JW’s information, Mrado was still slammed with some surprises: One of the Arab’s helpers was the Latino he’d beaten up eight months ago in the woods north of Akersberga. What was he doing in Vastberga Cold Storage? JW’d said that a Latino was working alongside him on this gig, but he’d never mentioned his name.
It was a bizarre collaboration. Mrado thought, Either the Jorge dude’s hired help for this one gig or else he’s been working for Abdulkarim the whole time. In that case, he’s been working indirectly under Nenad the whole time, and, even more indirectly, under Rado.
Ironic but not impossible. The Latino knew a lot about C. Wasn’t strange that Abdulkarim’d wanted to recruit the guy. Not strange that Nenad didn’t keep track of every clocker who worked for the Arab, either. And if Nenad’d known, it wasn’t strange that he hadn’t mentioned it to him: Nenad couldn’t know that he’d taught the Latino a lesson he deserved.
Mrado thought, The Latino only has himself to blame. Humiliated by me a second time. And now by sitting with his hands tied and watching his Arab employer snot all over the floor. What a joke.
They had less than one crate left to unload. Mrado stood by the suitcases, Nenad by the packing crates. Lifting out cabbages. Making incisions with a knife, carefully, precisely. Unnecessary to cut anything that shouldn’t be. Mrado picked up the bags. Filled the last suitcase.
The ski mask was uncomfortable.
Abdulkarim spat on the floor. Refused to stay calm. Yelled curses in Arabic. Mrado guessed, it was something like: I’m gonna fuck your mother/sister/daughter. The pool of blood around the gorilla on the floor grew big. JW and Jorge sat with their arms taped, each with his back against a packing crate. They were staying calm.
Everything’d gone according to plan. JW’d done a good job. The kid could be trusted. Like Nenad said: The guy wanted up. Would do anything for cash. He’d informed Nenad and Mrado exactly where, when, and how the Arab and his crew would receive the blow. Said all they had to do was drive there, cut down that one lookout, and step right in.
Almost too easy.
In three or four minutes, they’d be done. Mrado and Nenad in one car. Bobban in the other. If shit went down, they had an extra escape car parked safely on the other side of the cold-storage facility. Ready to roll instead of the others cars if the situation blew up.
Within six months, when the whole load’d been sold off, they’d be 100 million richer.
Fresh as fuck.
That’s when he was hit with the day’s second surprise. The JW guy got up. His hands were obviously untied. Mrado’d cut the guy’s tape so it’d be possible to break free. Unnecessary, he realized now.
Why had he gotten up?
Abdulkarim’d understand that something was off. That JW’d collaborated with Nenad.
He said something.
Mrado glanced over. Nenad looked up, interrupted what he was doing. Held a head of cabbage in one hand, the knife in the other.
JW was holding a Glock in both hands. Pointed at Nenad at only four yards’ distance.