Читать книгу After the Monsoon: An unputdownable thriller that will get your pulse racing! - Robert Karjel - Страница 11

With Ernst Grip still clutching his shirt, the young man began to return to his senses. He said nothing, had barely come around, but at least he’d wiped his nose, and he stared down at all the blood on the towel. Then he cleared his throat low, as if to regain his dignity, and looked up at Grip. It was as if he’d said he was ready to proceed, to wait patiently, to do whatever was expected of him. Beneath the arch of his eyebrows, his eyes revealed an underlying sadness.

“Secure!” someone shouted from farther back in the apartment, and just as Grip was about to pull the youth out toward the living room, the other two security police officers came rushing into the bedroom. They were dragging the suspected terrorists along with them, both with their hands cuffed behind their back. One looked scared and stumbled along, while the other looked tall and defiant with every step.

He glared at Grip and the one who was dragging him. Impressive, thought Grip for a second, that the man could resist such a show of force. But that didn’t explain the look in his eyes. At the same time, the young man he was holding grew anxious, lurched and mumbled something, as if the other’s expression was a call to arms. Grip shook him and he grew still.

Grip wondered what they were planning to do to the two men in the bedroom. “What’d you find out there?” he asked.

“We need to get more,” said one of the security police officers, without looking at him. All the SWAT guys were somewhere else. At first, Grip didn’t realize what was happening. Something unspoken had been agreed on, and the three detained men understood more than he did himself. He had a deep sense of foreboding when one of them whimpered. Out of reflex, he tightened his hold on the young man’s shirtfront. When one of his coworkers yanked open the bathroom door, the terrified prisoner threw himself down on the bed, trying to stay away from the open door. He lay on his back and kicked, before he was captured again. He pleaded. They were going to get him in there, some kind of shit was about to go down, but the Säpo guy who held him couldn’t drag him by himself, so the other officer had to let go of the defiant one and grab the man’s legs. And in that instant, the man wound up and threw a powerful kick.

Ernst Grip saw in a split second what was happening, the step back and the kick that would have hit his coworker from the side. But its force, just as it was about to land, rebounded right back as it met Grip’s own kick. Not a clean hit, but the impact went straight to the gut. Sensing something, the police officer turned around. Behind him, the man lay curled on the floor, groaning, his arms cramping from the handcuffs when he tried to pull them to his stomach.

“Never mind,” said Grip. “What are you …?”

“Just hold down those two.”

The man who’d tried a futile escape over the bed was pulled into the bathroom by the security police officers. The last thing Grip saw before the door slammed shut was that they’d turned on the bathtub taps. Soon, from the other side, came terrified screams.

Now Grip was alone with one man who was bleeding, and the other, who was doubled over in a bedroom. Trapped. They knew that Grip would be loyal. None of the SWAT team was in sight; they must have been told to stay out and look for evidence. That way there were no witnesses, at least, no one who wasn’t 100 percent loyal. That was that. All this unspent energy, when the final confrontation never happened. They probably hadn’t found anything useful out there, maybe some cash and a few unused cell phones. But then again, they had these men, three terrorists traced to ISIS, that’s the thing. Tips, notifications, hundreds of cell numbers, intercepted calls, transactions traced and lost—the Americans, or the French, or whoever they were, they knew. They’d pointed their finger, and now the Swedes would seize their chance. They had to. They couldn’t leave empty-handed, not again.

And Ernst Grip, that bodyguard who kept to himself, the one no one cared about, but who was a hell of a fighter, would keep watch outside. He was the type who couldn’t afford to say anything if you needed to turn up the heat. Two security police coworkers with far more influence than he in the corridors of power, and totally single-minded, had seen their chance. Grip had anticipated only the kick, not the other thing that was coming. Not until the bathroom door had closed.

The man with the nosebleed moved restlessly at the end of Grip’s fist, while the man on the floor looked up. He was still panting, and there was something broken in his eyes. The whole world knew what anonymous security officers, handcuffed men, and full bathtubs added up to. Behind the closed door, they heard the water still running, and their friend’s senseless shrieks.

“Wipe yourself off” was all Grip could say, picking up the towel again. The bloody young man didn’t take it, didn’t see it, but kept his hands gently cupped around Grip’s tense fist and looked at him with that sadness in his face. He said something strange, it sounded like a plea. Grip didn’t look at him, or anywhere. All attention was on the closed door, and the turmoil behind it. Screams, voices, unintelligible words, splashes, and several thuds heard through the wall.

The adrenaline was pumping and Grip’s entire being protested. An unholy agreement—they were counting on his muscles and his loyalty to shut out the world. It was within him that the moral line would be drawn, not in the bathroom, but he couldn’t possibly let himself get involved like the other two in there. Not with this, not the splashing and the screaming.

“Stop it,” he screamed and kicked the bathroom door. “Now!”

It took a few seconds before there was silence. Grip registered the bleeding youth’s pleas and yet again felt his hands on his own hand. All had gone quiet on the other side of the bathroom door. The man on the bedroom floor swayed and shook his head, and it seemed that he was crying. The young man in his grasp swallowed and repeated something; it sounded like a name. Grip looked at him, tried but didn’t understand. “What are you saying?”

Again the sound of running water from the bathroom.

The bleeding man still held on to Grip’s hands, trying to pull him closer, then whispered again what he’d said and continued in broken Swedish: “He man you want.”

His eyes were terrified; he thought he was next.

“He is man you want.”

Grip raised his foot. “That’s fucking enough,” he shouted, and kicked so hard that his shoe broke through the door, and the lock gave way.