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.
When the first shot rang out, people cheered. It hit the dusty ground of the shooting range, and a little cloud rose up like an exclamation point before falling again. Without a breath of wind, the smell of gunpowder clung to the shooter. In the harsh sunlight, the only shadows were made by the men waiting to shoot and by the row of cardboard figures against the berm. And so only human-shaped shadows darkened the ground—the targets were shaped like soldiers on a rampage.
One of the Swedish soldiers had tried to give an introduction to rifle shooting, but it became a dull recitation of weapon parts, firing procedures, and which orders meant what. A necessary ritual. Some of the Djiboutians tried to follow along—this was useful information about weapons, after all—but the lesson was ruined by the others, who couldn’t stop fooling around. Even the interested ones lost track, and the Swede sped up to get it over with. He fired a shot for show, afterward explaining how to unload and how to secure the safety on a semiautomatic machine gun. After looking into the barrel and dropping the bolt back with a click, he turned the selector to lock and repeated in English: “Very important, do not forget.”
The Djiboutians were anxious, once the mandatory introduction was over. When some of the Swedes disapproved, they’d split up into several small groups. Not much was said. A few pushed cartridges into empty magazines, one stood and drank water with a hard gaze, turning away from it all.
“Okay, one of us for every weapon,” said the sergeant, Hansson, raising his voice to make something happen.
“Do we start now?”
“Yes, now we start!” Hansson pushed hard into the back of the soldier who asked, forcing him to get moving.
This got a few others going, and soon all the weapons had been picked up, and the soldiers began instructing the Djiboutians, the click-clacks sounding as the bolts slid back and forth. The magazines were pushed in with a final slap, at the end. Most of the fooling around was over. Proper shooting positions were tried out, with the rifle butt pressed fully against the shoulder. A helping hand went to the man’s other shoulder, and one to his hip, making his chest turn and lean forward. The back leg was extended to provide support behind, creating stability to absorb the recoil again and again.
“No one fires until I say,” shouted the sergeant who’d given the lesson. Lieutenant Slunga went up to Mr. Nazir and cajoled the foreman to participate, to get a feel for the weapon, fire a few shots. Wouldn’t it be harmless to try it, have a little fun? Mr. Nazir nodded and smiled, but he retained his island of self-respect and didn’t budge. Slunga clucked, but Mr. Nazir pretended not to notice.
“Damn it, keep after that one!” someone shouted when a muzzle was pointing every which way.
“Please, only point forward.”
A shot rang out and everyone jumped. The shooter laughed.
“Goddammit!”
“What did I say?!”
Glances were exchanged among the Swedes, both among those who were worried and those feeling they maintained a sliver of control. Hansson stretched and grinned with a glance toward Slunga. He thought for a moment and then said: “Let them shoot it off.”
And so the shooting
