Project Nirvana by Stefan Tegenfalk Page A

Colt Combat Commanders and you have a deal,” Tor tried.
    “Your hearing gone bad?” the old man wheezed. “No cash, no shooter.”
    “Look, you can keep the ring as security until I have fixed up the cash,” Tor said, holding up the ring in his hand. “We’ve done deals before . . .”
    “No deal,” the old man said firmly and stood up. He indicated that it was time for Tor to leave.
    Tor stifled an impulse to jump all over the old codger. He could easily break his neck, but that would hardly help him. The old geezer didn’t even have a butter knife at his house. Everything was hidden in a secret stash. Tor scratched his head and beads of sweat formed on his brow. Things were starting to look really fucked up. No cash, no weapon and nowhere to run. The Hut and the stupid slut had screwed up everything. And now this fucking old geezer. If Tor rammed his pipe down the old man’s throat, perhaps he would become more accommodating. Or perhaps not. He was a hard bastard. The type that would rather croak for a principle. He would tell Tor to go to hell and spit in Tor’s face before his lights went out.
    The old man watched Tor through the window as he walked down the gravel path towards the road. His eyes burned into Tor’s back and Tor wondered if the old codger would rat on him. To the Albanians maybe. A while ago, he had climbed out of the taxi with the hope of getting back in the game. Now that hope was dashed and he was instead filled with despondency. It was as if every fucker was turning against him. He wished that Jerry was still alive.
    Three kilometres from the old geezer’s house was the old Dalarö tugboat-pilot station that was now a tourist lodge. Tor intended to stay the night in one of the single rooms and mull over his precarious situation accompanied only by the sound of the Baltic waves. Unless the ice still lay frozen.
    His cash would pay for two nights, but he also needed something to eat. Perhaps a few beers in solitude too, or even better, a joint to get high. He had quit the latter, but at this moment he was dying to light up a joint and escape all his shit for a while.
    Three years ago, he had lived in the small tourist lodge, just before he and Jerry did their last stretch in the nick. He and Jerry had roughed up a guy in Tungelsta because he had owed a car dealer money. They had later acquired a police escort just past Haninge and had taken refuge at the tiny tourist lodge. For safety’s sake, they had laid low there for three days. Tor used to go down to the water’s edge and watch the sun glittering on the waves in the water before it disappeared below the horizon. There was something special about sunsets over the water that made his thoughts follow unfamiliar paths.
    He sometimes imagined what it would have been like if he had never started the shoplifting and breaking into cars. Or taking drugs. Would he have lived a completely normal life with a family now? What would he have worked as, and who would his friends be? Perhaps he’d be walking around in a suit like an executive somewhere. Perhaps with a few kids. He would’ve raised them to not stay out at nights like he had. But what was the point of dwelling on what he couldn’t change? The only thing he was sure about was that in less than six months he’d gone from being on his way to the top to being out of cash and hunted by pretty much every bastard he knew. A creeping desperation began to slowly spread under his skin. He needed a hideaway. A place with peace and quiet so that he could forget this shit and relax.
    An hour later, he walked through the door to the tourist lodge.
    Leo Brageler’s bodyshook from the cold, which was becoming more intense than the pain. The Mentor signalled Martin to prop Leo up against the wall so that he could see the eyes of his interrogation subject.
    “Shall we continue?” he asked.
    Leo slowly nodded his head. “Afterwards, the grief, hatred and rage took control of me,” he whispered.