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Overview
Jorge was making a living as a drug dealer until he was caught and thrown into prison. Recently released and warned to keep out of trouble, he’s already bored with his new existence: selling lattes and cappuccinos at a café. Who wouldn’t be? But Jorge has a plan, and big money looms on the horizon if he can pull off one final audacious heist and flee the country before the police close in.
Meanwhile, Deputy Inspector Martin Hägerström—entrusted with a secret mission, code name Operation Tide—has gone deep undercover as a disgraced cop turned corrections officer. He’s slowly earning the trust of Stockholm’s imprisoned expert money launderer, Johan Westlund. A career criminal with a taste for the jet-setting lifestyle, JW is a dangerous man to befriend, one who may demand more loyalty than Hägerström had planned on offering.
Natalie is the twenty-two-year-old daughter of Radovan Kranjic, the Serbian crime boss who rules Sweden’s underworld. When an assassin threatens Radovan’s life, Natalie is hurled into a chaotic struggle for control of her father’s empire—and the competition is fierce. Who will rise to power in the voracious hunt for money, prestige, and luxury to become Stockholm’s new king—or queen—of crime?
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780307908513 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 09/16/2014 |
| Sold by: | Random House |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 512 |
| File size: | 3 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Prologue
It was the second time in my life that I visited Stockholm for a job.
The first time I was here for a wedding, as a bodyguard for one of the guests. That was seventeen years ago, and I was young then. I remember how I looked forward to the day after, when I could party in Stockholm and bed some blondes. The wedding itself was a large affair compared to the ones in my home country. They said it was considered big even for Sweden—there were maybe three hundred guests. And sure, it was grand. The newlyweds emerged from the church dressed in winter furs. They had a small child too, a pretty girl, who was also wearing a fur. The bridal couple were driven from the church in a sled pulled by four white horses. Their little girl stood with her nanny on the church steps and waved. The air was clean, the snow glittered, and the sky was clear. I remember what I thought at the time: that Sweden must be the cleanest country in the world. Then I saw the guests’ faces. Some showed joy and others admiration. But they all expressed one thing: respect.
#
The man who was married then was the person I was here to take care of now: Radovan Kranjic. Fateful irony, to have seen the beginning of the new life that I was now going to end.
I usually don’t let myself feel. No, I kill myself before every mission. I am hired, paid, independent—there is nothing personal about what I do. But to come to Stockholm this time around gave me a sense of completion, somehow.
The circle would be closed. A kind of balance would be restored.
#
And then something happened.
I’d been staking out in the Volvo all day. When I returned to my room, I decided to clean my handguns. I’d purchased them in Denmark, where I have connections—after the Americans’ so-called war on terrorism, I don’t pack heat when traveling into the EU anymore.
I had an Accuracy International L96AI—a finer-grade sniper rifle—and a Makarov gun. I took them apart and laid them on a cover on the bed, clean and gleaming. I was holding the final weapon, a revolver, in my hand.
That was when the door opened.
I realized that I’d forgotten to lock it, like I normally always do.
It was a housekeeper. I wondered what kind of crap hotel I was staying at, anyway, where the staff didn’t knock before entering.
She stared at my weapons for a few seconds. Then she apologized and began to back out into the hallway.
But it was too late—she’d already seen too much. I rose, raised the revolver, and asked her to step into the room.
She looked terrified. Understandably—that was my intention, after all. I told her to pull the cleaning cart with her into the room as well, and then I closed the door behind her. I kept my weapon aimed at her the entire time. Then I had her clean my room.
It took her max ten minutes—it was obvious that she was a pro. She vacuumed the small floor area, wiped off all surfaces, and washed the sink and toilet. It was important to me that it was done thoroughly.
Meanwhile I packed my bag.
When she was finished, I asked her to look out into the hallway and see if anyone was out there. It was empty. I pushed her in front of me out into the hallway and told her to unlock the door to another room. She chose one that was two doors down.
We entered it. The room was messy. The person staying there apparently took pleasure in torturing hotel housekeepers.
I closed the door.
She looked at me.
I held up a pillow.
Then I raised the revolver and shot her through the pillow. In the eye.
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