into his iPhone.
“The SWAT team will meet us outside,” he said. “If Hedman is close by, it could get bloody messy. He has an itchy trigger finger and loves handguns with full magazines.”
Jonna nodded and felt her pulse quicken.
Chapter 4
Tor Hedman paid the taxi driver and climbed out of the car. He had a headache from the Latin-American driver’s constant jabbering. Since they had left T-Centralen station, the guy had run through a list of mankind’s problems, and how they should be solved. In addition, Tor now knew as much about the dago’s family as he did. Tor had his own problems and couldn’t give a shit if the world was consumed by greenhouse gases or if Taco Bell’s kid had scored a goal in some Tiny Tots football match. He shook off these trivial thoughts and focused on the building that was the destination of his journey.
The old, dark red farmhouse stood a small distance into the forest. He had been there many times. The old codger was a sure bet for fixing unregistered shooters. There were rumours that even cops bought guns from him. He could get his hands on almost any weapon except bazookas and howitzers. Otherwise, he had it all.
Tor walked towards the house. As soon he came to the iron gate, two barking Rottweilers sprang out of a kennel. Fortunately, they were chained to the side of the house and could not reach the gravel path.
The dogs seemed eager to say hello to Tor. Or more likely, to tear big chunks out of him. He walked up the gravel path, praying that the chains would hold. Tor hated dogs. Almost as much as he hated stupid sluts.
Before he reached the front door, it opened with a creak.
“Yes?” an elderly man croaked, putting on a pair of thick glasses. He was wearing light grey, corduroy trousers and a striped shirt.
“Wossup?” Tor greeted him and went towards the steps.
The old geezer examined Tor silently for a few seconds. “What do you want?” he asked as he recognized Tor.
“I need some shooters,” Tor answered, continuing up the stone steps.
The old man waved Tor inside the house and shouted at the dogs to shut the fuck up. He closed the front door and locked it. In the kitchen, he waved Tor to sit in the kitchen settle and sat down opposite him. He lit a pipe, sucking loudly while he inhaled the smoke. Tor had two cigarettes left and did not want to be left out. Soon the kitchen filled with tobacco smoke.
“What type of shooter?” the old codger began, coughing up phlegm.
Tor considered which weapons would be the most suitable purchases. They had to be easy to re-sell as well. He would stick with his original plan. “Some Colt Combat Commanders,” he said, tapping ash into a white paper cup.
The old man removed his glasses and stared at Tor with small, lively, piggy eyes. “How many?”
Tor wondered if he should place the signet ring on the table and spill the beans, or if he should discuss payment later. The problem was that the old codger always wanted twenty per cent up front and the rest on delivery. Tor did not have the twenty per cent. He was forced to spill the beans. “How many can I get for this?” He put Omar’s signet ring on the kitchen table.
The old geezer looked suspiciously at the object that Tor had placed on the table. “What’s that thing?” he said, taking his pipe out of his mouth.
Tor took a deep drag and exhaled smoke through his nostrils. “A ring,” he said. ”It’s worth at least eighty grand.”
The old codger picked up the ring and examined it. “So sell it then,” he said, and put it back on the table.
Tor put out his cigarette in the paper cup. “That’s exactly what I am doing now.”
“No cash, no shooter,” the old man said, putting his pipe back in his mouth.
Tor looked hard at the old geezer. He was getting irritated by the bloody pipe that he constantly sucked while he sat. “You can buy it from me cheap,” Tor suggested.
“Not interested,” the old codger replied drily.
“Give me four
“The SWAT team will meet us outside,” he said. “If Hedman is close by, it could get bloody messy. He has an itchy trigger finger and loves handguns with full magazines.”
Jonna nodded and felt her pulse quicken.
Chapter 4
Tor Hedman paid the taxi driver and climbed out of the car. He had a headache from the Latin-American driver’s constant jabbering. Since they had left T-Centralen station, the guy had run through a list of mankind’s problems, and how they should be solved. In addition, Tor now knew as much about the dago’s family as he did. Tor had his own problems and couldn’t give a shit if the world was consumed by greenhouse gases or if Taco Bell’s kid had scored a goal in some Tiny Tots football match. He shook off these trivial thoughts and focused on the building that was the destination of his journey.
The old, dark red farmhouse stood a small distance into the forest. He had been there many times. The old codger was a sure bet for fixing unregistered shooters. There were rumours that even cops bought guns from him. He could get his hands on almost any weapon except bazookas and howitzers. Otherwise, he had it all.
Tor walked towards the house. As soon he came to the iron gate, two barking Rottweilers sprang out of a kennel. Fortunately, they were chained to the side of the house and could not reach the gravel path.
The dogs seemed eager to say hello to Tor. Or more likely, to tear big chunks out of him. He walked up the gravel path, praying that the chains would hold. Tor hated dogs. Almost as much as he hated stupid sluts.
Before he reached the front door, it opened with a creak.
“Yes?” an elderly man croaked, putting on a pair of thick glasses. He was wearing light grey, corduroy trousers and a striped shirt.
“Wossup?” Tor greeted him and went towards the steps.
The old geezer examined Tor silently for a few seconds. “What do you want?” he asked as he recognized Tor.
“I need some shooters,” Tor answered, continuing up the stone steps.
The old man waved Tor inside the house and shouted at the dogs to shut the fuck up. He closed the front door and locked it. In the kitchen, he waved Tor to sit in the kitchen settle and sat down opposite him. He lit a pipe, sucking loudly while he inhaled the smoke. Tor had two cigarettes left and did not want to be left out. Soon the kitchen filled with tobacco smoke.
“What type of shooter?” the old codger began, coughing up phlegm.
Tor considered which weapons would be the most suitable purchases. They had to be easy to re-sell as well. He would stick with his original plan. “Some Colt Combat Commanders,” he said, tapping ash into a white paper cup.
The old man removed his glasses and stared at Tor with small, lively, piggy eyes. “How many?”
Tor wondered if he should place the signet ring on the table and spill the beans, or if he should discuss payment later. The problem was that the old codger always wanted twenty per cent up front and the rest on delivery. Tor did not have the twenty per cent. He was forced to spill the beans. “How many can I get for this?” He put Omar’s signet ring on the kitchen table.
The old geezer looked suspiciously at the object that Tor had placed on the table. “What’s that thing?” he said, taking his pipe out of his mouth.
Tor took a deep drag and exhaled smoke through his nostrils. “A ring,” he said. ”It’s worth at least eighty grand.”
The old codger picked up the ring and examined it. “So sell it then,” he said, and put it back on the table.
Tor put out his cigarette in the paper cup. “That’s exactly what I am doing now.”
“No cash, no shooter,” the old man said, putting his pipe back in his mouth.
Tor looked hard at the old geezer. He was getting irritated by the bloody pipe that he constantly sucked while he sat. “You can buy it from me cheap,” Tor suggested.
“Not interested,” the old codger replied drily.
“Give me four
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