Mrado’d just completed his weekend training. Murder-machine meeting place par excellence. His guilty conscience-he was there too seldom. Pancrease Gym: Krav Maga, shootfighting, thai boxing, combat tae kwon do. The basement venue consisted of a large room with padded flooring. Four seventeen-pound sandbags suspended by chains along one of the walls. A broad metal locker with sweaty gloves, pads, and safety vests in one corner. A boxing ring in another.
The head instructor was Omar Elalbaoui. Professional shootfighter, fourth dan, Japan. Fastest left hook in town. Middleweight champion in Pride Grand Prix MMA-mixed martial arts, all styles. Swedish-Moroccan prize-podium hunter. Poet of violence. Feared full-contact prophet.
Broken noses, busted knees, dislocated shoulders-legion. And the question: What does fear mean? Omar Elalbaoui’s philosophy: “Fear is your worst enemy. Everyone is afraid of something. You’re not afraid to get hurt. You’re afraid to do poorly, to fight a bad match, to lose. That is the only thing to fear. Never become a loser.”
MMA: everything allowed-kicks, punches, knees, elbows, throws, choke slams, grips. No pussy helmets or huge gloves. The only protection: finger gloves, mouth guards, and jockstraps. Sport of sports. Raw strength, agility, and speed were important factors, but above all: strategy and intelligence.
It was the ultimate thing: no props, no complex courses or plans, no complicated rules. Just fighting. The one who gave up first or was knocked out lost. As easy as that.
Mrado’s advantages: size, weight, the power behind his punches. Range. But the guys at Pancrease were good. Took punches. Avoided kicks. Blocked tackles. Mrado often got his ass kicked. Once, four years ago, he’d had to be rushed to the hospital. His nose was broken in two places. But the thing was, Mrado liked getting beaten. Made him feel alive. Made him practice not being afraid. To keep feeding jabs even though his head was going numb. To never give up.
Competitions were mostly held in Solnahallen, a large venue in Solna. The organizers easily sidestepped the national ban on boxing. Sometimes they fought in cages, Brazilian vale tudo. Mrado knew the guys; a lot of them trained or had trained at Pancrease. He knew their styles, their weaknesses/strengths. At the latest competition in Stockholm, he’d cashed in ten grand. Knew how to place his bets. MMA in its different incarnations was blowing up as a sport.
Mrado knew what was up. Had learned techniques. Trained the right muscle groups. The stronger muscles, tendons, ligaments you have, the more difficult it is to knock you down. The more flexible you are, the lower the risk of pulling something. Maintain your guard. Eye on the punches. Follow your opponent’s movements. At the same time, tense the right muscle groups to take the hit. Above all: A strong neck reduces the movement of the head. With Mrado’s neck, he was almost immune to knockouts.
Mentally: Pain increases with fear and is reduced with aggression.
Mrado’s only problem: Lately, he’d been working out at the gym too much, hadn’t been to Pancrease enough. State of contradiction: beefier muscles, less agility. He was starting to lose it. Stiffer joints. Reduced flexibility. Slower punch sequences.
Fighting was a lifestyle.
Mrado pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt after the training. Let the sweat dry. He didn’t shower at Pancrease. Showered at home. The guys at the fighting club were too young. Too jazzed. Mrado liked the meatheads at Fitness Club better. He downed a protein drink. When he got home, he’d take his own witch’s brew of growth meds.
Went home.
Drove over the Vasterbron bridge, the most beautiful spot in the city. Lit up from below. View over a territory: a business empire annexed by the Serbs. No puny AWOL nigger could take that away from them.
Reached Katarina Bangata in four minutes. Home. Now he had to find a parking spot.
The apartment: a two-bedroom. Living room, Mrado’s bedroom, and Lovisa’s room.
The living room: Eastern European luxury look. A group of black leather corner couches. Glass table. Bookshelf with a stereo, flat-screen TV, and DVD player. Expensive shit. Also on the shelves: CDs, mostly Serbian music and rock, Bruce Springsteen, Fleetwood Mac, and Neil Young. DVDs: action, boxing, all the Rocky films, and Serbian documentaries. Photos of his family in Belgrade, the Swedish king, Slobodan Milosevic, and Lovisa. Three bottles of good whiskey and a bottle of Stoli Cristall. The rest of the booze was in anther cupboard. Four flint-lock rifles on the wall, bought at an arms market in Vojvodina-symbols of the 1813 uprising against the Turks. In a broad glass-front cupboard beside the bookshelf: two Browning pistols, one Smith amp; Wesson Magnum. 41 replica, a bayonet, and a real land mine from the war. The bayonet was well used. Constant question about the mine: Was it disarmed? Mrado kept up the suspense. Never told anyone the truth.
He sat down on the couch. Turned the TV on.
Channel-surfed. Watched a couple minutes of a nature show about crocodiles. Got bored. Kept zapping. Shit across the board.
Fingered his gun. Mrado packed Starfire ammunition. The bullet was hollow at the tip. Effect at impact: explosion. Tore up enough flesh to kill with one shot.
Put the revolver down on the table. Mused.
The Jorge fag was a total fucking fiasco. He was annoyed with himself for not having found the Latino yet, with Radovan for his arrogant style, and with Jorge for lying low.
Flipped through his notebook. Questions and probable answers. In the middle, a column devoted to questions without answers. Two words were underlined and circled: current location. The trail’d ended. But people usually slipped up eventually. Ran outta kale. Wanted to bang bitches. Live la dolce vita. Livin’ on the lam was hard. But Jorge was keeping a low profile. Nevertheless, Mrado was certain the blatte was still in the country/city. It wasn’t over yet.
But where to pick up the search?
Mrado leaned back.
His cell vibrated.
A text: Met Jorge tonight. He at Vadim’s now.
Bingo.
Adrenaline rush.
Mrado called the number. A guy, Ashur, answered. Mrado remembered the name. One of the kids him and Ratko’d shown pics of Jorge to during their runs in Sollentuna. Got the story told to him in crappy Swedish.
Ashur, Jorge, and another hoodlum, Vadim, had been out partying the night before. Cruised to Mingel Room Bar in the Sollentuna Mall and boozed. Jorge’d almost been collared. The Latino’d asked to crash at Vadim’s. Ashur’s theory: They were still there; it was only noon.
Mrado thanked him. Agreed to stop by later and pay up what he’d promised.
Put on his leather jacket. Stuffed a rubber baton in his inside pocket. Popped the revolver into the holster. Walked down to the car.
Drove the road he now knew by heart. To Sollentuna. To Jorge. It was about fucking time.
What was the smartest thing to do? Head straight into the apartment and do his thing, like he’d done with Sergio? There was a big risk that Vadim, Jorge, and maybe others who were in the apartment would be harder to overpower than Sergio’s screaming chick. Risk number two: If neighbors heard and the cops showed up, Jorge’d be put away again. The Latino’d be able to cut down big parts of the Yugo empire with what he knew. Conclusion: Mrado wanted to get at the fugitive alone.
Meanwhile, he called Ratko, Bobban, and other contacts. Asked them if they knew Vadim. Who the guy was. If he was dangerous. Put them to work making calls and finding out more: if the dude worked, where he worked. Who did he hang with? Did he pack heat?
Mrado kept an eye on the entryway to the building. People went in and out. He took note: an unusual number of people around for this time of day. Immigrants, junkies, wife beaters, other criminals-all bunched together in the same kind of concrete towers he’d grown up in.
Mrado was on the phone with Bobban when a guy who looked like Jorge stepped out.
He’d seen the Latino four or five times before. The last time: at the trial, where he’d testified so that Jorge was put away for three years. Radovan and Mrado’d fed him to the wolves-you had to take some losses. Then: The Latino’d been a young, cocky player with modern, gaudy threads. Gold chain with a cross. Gelled hair. Good-looking stubble. Quick movements and machine-gun tongue. Now: The person outside the car looked like a fucking nigger. Nappy hair, dark brown complexion. Walked like a Rastafarian: sluggish with rhythm. Baggy clothes, dirty puffy. Still, there was something about the person’s worn appearance that seemed to suggest something else: vigor.
It had to be the Latino.
Mrado hunched down lower behind the wheel. Saw Jorge look around. Then walk toward the commuter rail station. Too many people around to act.
Mrado waited until Jorge rounded the corner toward the path leading to the station before he stepped out of the car. Put on a pair of shades. Wound the scarf a couple more times around his chin. Sent off a prayer to the big Car God: Let my car be left untouched, unscratched, unstolen here on Sollentuna’s most dangerous street.
Walked to the corner where Jorge’d turned off.
Jorge didn’t turn up the stairs to the station. Kept walking straight. Toward the Sollentuna Mall. Mrado kept his distance, but he didn’t want to lose sight of his target.
Into the Sollentuna Mall. Mrado waited a couple of seconds outside the automatic doors before he followed Jorge in. As soon as he stepped inside, he saw Jorge disappear into the grocery store. Mrado sneaked into the photo store across the way. He was such a scout-combat-trained. He called Ratko. In Serbian: “Ratko, where are you? It’s important.”
In past conversations, Ratko’d been whiny about the over-the-top treatment of Sergio. Now he heard that something real was up.
“I’m home. Watching TV. D’you find him?”
“Yeah. He spent the night at some guy’s in Sollentuna. On his way outta here now. Get ready. Go to your car.”
“Damn, I was getting so comfortable. Where am I going?”
“Don’t know yet. Just get ready for the starting shot.”
“Already out the door.”
“Nice. I’ll call you. Bye.”
Jorge walked out of the store. Had two bags in each hand. Looked like they were full of food. The Latino was probably on the way to his hideout.
He trailed him up to the train station. Ground rule: no sudden movements when you’re following someone. A guy like Jorge was electrified with tension-would react right away.
Jorge walked out on the platform. Mrado stayed inside the station house. Hoped the outside light turned the glass doors into mirrors. Jorge seemed watchful.
The train headed to the city rolled in. Jorge got on. Mrado got on another car.
He called Ratko again. Told him to drive toward the city.
Mrado looked out the doors at every stop. Jorge didn’t get off.
The train slowed down. Rolled slowly into the Stockholm Central Station.
Came to a stop. Mrado looked out. Saw Jorge get off.
Mrado waited outside the train till Jorge walked down the stairs toward T-Centralen, the subway station. He followed. Jorge walked farther up, mixed with the crowd. Mrado concentrated, couldn’t lose him now.
They walked the underground passage toward T-Centralen.
A South American band was blowing into pan flutes and banging on drums. A woman in a trench coat standing by a pillar was peddling the Watchtower.
Jorge: down toward the subway track. Mrado followed at a measured distance.
Jorge got onto the train toward Morby Centrum. Mrado boarded another car on the same train.
The car was half-empty. Two punks in baseball hats and windbreakers-potential future recruits-were sitting with their feet propped up on the seats. A misplaced Stureplan brat: blond, knee-length coat, narrow jeans, backslick. Was listening to his MP3 player.
Jorge got off at the Royal Technical Academy, KTH, station. Mrado: same.
Jorge walked out past the turnstiles. Stood and checked out the bus schedules. Went into the bodega. Bought something. His bags looked heavy. He walked up to the bus stop. Mrado followed. The Stureplan brat from the train was there, too, positioned himself at the same bus stop as Jorge. Probably just a coincidence.
Mrado eyed the bus number: 620. Jorge was clearly waiting for a ride to the Norrtalje area.
Mrado called Ratko. Told him, “Drive to KTH.”
The 620 bus pulled up. Ratko hadn’t shown. Mrado walked over to the hot dog stand by Valhallavagen. Beside it: a taxi stand.
Jorge got on the bus. It pulled out. Drove off.
Mrado told the taxi driver, “Follow the six twenty bus.”
They drove for thirty minutes. Mrado was worried. The Jorge-guy was smart. On his guard. Might start wondering why the same taxi kept driving two to five cars behind the bus.
Mrado kept in touch with Ratko.
Switched to his car at Akersberga.
They kept their distance. Nothing strange about it. There were several cars backed up behind the bus. It didn’t make many stops.
The Latino stayed on.
Finally: Dyvik. The bus stopped. Jorge got off.
The Stureplan brat did, too. Weird, but no time to think about that now.
Mrado yelled, “Turn, goddamn it!”
Ratko turned off in the direction Jorge was walking. Mrado ducked in the passenger seat. They passed Jorge at a ten-foot distance. Drove as slowly as they dared. Like people who didn’t really know their way around. Looked in the rearview mirror, saw him walking. Worked for a minute or so. Then it got shady. They had to keep driving. Lost sight of Jorge behind them.
They stopped the car. Got out. Mrado walked up into the the woods. Couldn’t be seen from the road. Ratko started walking in the opposite direction. Toward Jorge.
Two minutes later, Ratko called. “He’s a little over two hundred yards away from me on the road. Still coming at you. What do I do if he recognizes me, gets jittery, and runs?”
“Keep going toward him. Just pass him like it’s nothing. Then turn around when you know he can’t see you. Start following him. I’ll take care of him here.”
Mrado waited. No houses nearby. No people. No problems.
His cell was on. Ratko on speed dial. Poised to call him.
Jorge came walking. Bags in hand. Looked tired. He was twenty yards away, down on the road. Mrado called Ratko. Whispered. Told him to run.
Mrado charged out of the woods like an evil Boy Scout, size XL.
Jorge knew right away. Panic in his eyes. Dropped the bags. Turned around. Saw Ratko running from the other direction. In a game of pickle. Tried to run-too late. Mrado grabbed him by the jacket.
Return of the Yugos. Fall of the blatte.
Mrado punched Jorge in the gut with full force. Jorge doubled over. Fell. Ratko came up behind, grabbed hold of him, and, with Mrado’s help, dragged the Latino up into the trees. Away from the road. Mrado snatched the bags. Jorge puked. Sour stink. Vomit on Mrado’s shoes. What a pig. Mrado, with the baton in hand, hit Jorge across the back. Jorge fell to the ground. Stood on all fours. Mrado kept beating him. Jorge screamed. Mrado was careful: didn’t break anything. No fractures. No bloodshed. No life-threatening injuries. Nothing that necessarily required medical attention. Just struck with the rubber baton. Across his thighs, arms. Hit across his back, neck, stomach. Whacked. Thrashed. Crushed.
Jorge tried to get on his knees. Folded. Protected his head. Curled into a ball.
Mrado let the baton dance. It bounced up and down over the Latino’s body.
Finally, Jorge was a puddle. Destroyed. Almost passed out.
Mrado knelt down.
“Can you hear me? Faggot.”
No reaction.
Mrado lifted his head by the hair. “Blink if you can hear me.”
The Latino blinked.
“You know what this is about. You tried to fuck with the wrong people. Radovan doesn’t dig your style. You only have yourself to blame. Who the fuck do you think you are? Blackmailing Rado. Remember this: We’ll find you, always. Wherever you are, on the run, in the joint. With your mom. We never forget. We always punish. If you tell anyone so much as a peep about us, I won’t be as nice next time.”
Mrado released his grip on Jorge’s hair. His head fell back down.
“Oh, and one more thing.” Mrado pulled out his cell phone. Scrolled to his photos. Held up the screen in front of Jorge’s face.
“You know this chick? I’ve talked to her about you. Go ahead, ask her. I know her well. Know where she lives. Where she goes to school. What classes she’s in. Don’t fuck shit up for her. That’d be a shame for such a pretty girl.”