and weed sales were sprinkles on top.
Mrado kept his eyes peeled for traffic signs to Tullinge. Being behind the wheel of the Benz was always a true pleasure. V-8 engine. Curved leather seats. Seriously broad tires.
He downshifted; the car growled from pure power. Driving delight at max.
Radio drone in the background, broke off for the news. Something about the Americans’ war in the Middle East. Mrado’s mixed feelings. He hated the U.S., while he loved that they were rubbing out towelheads. The fight. Light facing off against the darkness. Europe facing off against the Orient. The Serbs’ everlasting duty. And who thanked them for it? That they’d resisted for centuries. Kept the gate to the rest of Europe shut. Sacrificed themselves. Mrado’d fought, too. Now people whined about fanatic fundamentalists and girls being forced to wear veils. Europe, you only have yourself to blame. The Serbs’d done what they could. Been reamed royally by the rest of the world, and the U.S.’d been the first to climb on top. The Serbian people didn’t owe anyone anything.
He lowered the volume. Highways were so damn dull. He was planning on taking Lovisa to Kolmarden, the big animal park outside the city, next week. Visit the dolphins. Maybe take the back roads. Enjoy.
The sky was gray. Was February the crappiest month? Mrado hadn’t seen the sun in four weeks. The other cars on the road were snow-stained, sans style, soiled. Boring.
The problems spun. Worry/angst as mood music instead of the radio.
Radovan was losing faith in him. Maybe it’d been eating at Rado for a long time. What the hell did Mrado know? The more he thought about it, the more obvious it seemed that Rado’d never trusted him.
He kept certain things secret, like how crappy the laundromats/video-rental stores were working. Above all, he hadn’t said anything about how he planned to rig the market division in his favor. Rado was probably ticked off about his demand for a bigger cut of the profits. Irked about the Kvarnen fiasco. Pure luck that he’d actually gotten away without a prison sentence. Meant an extra bonus for the Yugos’ own lawyer, Martin Thomasson.
Mrado needed to insure himself against Rado’s capriciousness. He ought to talk more with Nenad.
On the bright side: Mrado’d dealt with Jorge. Best of all: Mrado was needed to divide up the market in the gangster war.
Wet snowflakes were falling. The windshield wipers were moving back and forth on the lowest setting. He turned up the warm air blowing toward the window. His hands were resting on the wheel. His movements felt stiff- the bulletproof vest was heavy.
He took the exit toward Tullinge. Followed the signs.
Seven minutes later, he’d found the place. A row of low gray storage buildings. Snow on the roofs. Green containers lined up. Ads for a recycling company on the facade of one of the buildings. The area was fenced in. Mrado knew where the Bandidos’ bunker was, and it wasn’t here. Still, this felt like their home turf. On the other hand, if they messed with him, they’d have to count their losses-in lives.
He parked the car. Remained sitting for a minute. Made sure the switchblade was in its place in his boot. Pulled out his revolver. The chamber was loaded. No bullet in the circuit-honest old safety measure. Finally, he sent Ratko a text. I’m on my way in. Will be in touch in max two hours. /M
Took a deep breath.
The first time he’d gone alone to a meeting. Ratko was usually at his side.
Squeezed his eyes shut for ten seconds.
No wrong moves today.
He stepped out of the car. Big snowflakes settled on his eyebrows. Poor visibility.
Farther away, on the other side of the fence, two people were walking toward him. Mrado remained standing where he was. Hands at his sides. The people came into better view. Big guys. Leather jackets, patches on their breast pockets: the Bandidos logo. One had a dark, full beard, probably a blatte. Bandanna on his head. The other was a blondie with a pockmarked face.
The bearded one pulled off a leather glove and extended his hand. “Mrado?”
Mrado shook his hand. “That’s right. And you are?”
“Vice president of the Stockholm chapter. James Khalil. Are you alone?”
“That’s what we agreed on. I keep my end of agreements. Does that surprise you?”
“Not at all. Welcome. You’ll soon meet Haakonsen. Follow me.”
Mrado knew the lingo. The key word was respect. Short, hard one-liners. No signs of insecurity. Second-guess when you can second-guess. Respectfully.
They walked toward one of the containers. The Bandidos boys’ boots made deep impressions in the snow. Thirty or so yards farther off, a truck engine rumbled to a start. Drove out of the area. Mrado took note of several other noises coming from the same direction. Understood that normal work was actually being done on the premises.
James turned a key in a gigantic padlock hanging on a freight container. Opened it. Turned on a lamp. Mrado saw a table. Three chairs. A couple of bottles on the table. A construction site lamp suspended from a steel setting in the ceiling. Simple. Practical. Smart.
Before Mrado took a step in, he said, “I assume the place has been secured.”
James looked at him. Seemed to consider piling on the sarcasm but then thought better of it. “Of course,” he said. “We work according the same principles as you do. To act but not be seen.”
James pulled out one of the chairs. Kept his leather jacket on. Offered Mrado a seat. The guy with the pockmarked face stayed outside the container. James sat down. Offered him a drink. Poured out whiskey for Mrado. They exchanged pleasantries. Sipped the whiskey. Waited in silence.
Three minutes passed.
Mrado thought, If he’s not here in five, I’m out.
He lifted his gaze from the glass and looked at James. Raised one eyebrow. James understood.
“He’ll be here any minute. It’s not our intention to keep you waiting.”
The answer was enough for Mrado. Important that they really knew whom they were dealing with.
Two minutes later, the hatch to the container was opened. Jonas Haakonsen walked in, hunched over.
Mrado got up. They shook hands.
Haakonsen sat down on the third chair. James poured out whiskey.
Jonas Haakonsen: at least six two, hair in a ponytail, and a thin blond beard. Bloodshot eyes. Leather jacket with the customary patches. On the back: Bandidos MC, Stockholm, Sweden. The logo in big block letters, surrounded by embroidered machetes. He had a crazed look in his eye. Reminded Mrado of what he’d seen in the faces of some of Arkan’s men. Glazed eyes, shark eyes. Psychotic warrior eyes. Could go to attack mode at any moment.
Haakonsen was the kind of man you’d take a mile detour to avoid bumping into. The dude could silence an entire chow hall just by opening his mouth.
He took off his leather jacket. Apparently, the chill in the container didn’t faze him. He wore a leather vest under the jacket. Under the vest: a long-sleeved black T-shirt with the text We are the people your parents warned you about. His neck: covered in tattoos. On one of his earlobes: the SS lightning bolts. On the other earlobe: the letters BMC — Bandidos MC.
Mrado didn’t give much for the attitude. But the eyes. He knew what those eyes’d seen. Everyone knew. Jonas Haakonsen as a nineteen-year-old in Denmark. Leader of a gang of guys from south Copenhagen who robbed post offices and pushed lighter drugs. They made a big hit, the post office in Skanderborg’s mall. Three guys. Rushed in right when the armored van was about to pick up the banknotes. Their weapons: a sawed-off shotgun and two axes. One of the guards thought fast. Locked the bills into a security bag. But Haakonsen thought faster, grabbed the security bag-and the guard. The robbers switched cars somewhere on the freeway. Drove out into the Danish countryside. The guard was in the trunk, like in an American gangster flick. He was found three days later, staggering along a road near Skanderborg. Delirious, with a T-shirt wrapped around his head. Coagulated blood everywhere. The EMTs removed the T-shirt. The guard’s eyes were poked out. Haakonsen’d asked him for the combination to open the security bag. The guard hadn’t known it, but Haakonsen’d been persistent. The guard hadn’t had anything to say. Haaksonsen’d popped the man’s eyes out with his thumbs. One at a time. He managed to stay on the lam for three weeks. Then they got him. Haakonsen was slammed with only five years, because he was so young. He caged out after three. Angrier than ever.
Haakonsen downed a gulp of whiskey. Then, with a light Danish accent: “So, the infamous Mrado. Floored any bouncers recently?”
