Buzz: A Thriller (45 page)

Which, in some ways, was actually true . . .

He noticed that his heart was starting to beat faster. A quiet rustling sound from somewhere inside the flat made him jump.

A burglar?

No, impossible. He’d locked the high-security door, all three locks, just like he always did. The door had cost a fortune, but it was worth every single damn penny. Steel frame, double cylinder hook-bolt locks, you name it—so, logically, no one could have broken into the flat. But the umbrella of paranoia wasn’t about to let itself be taken down so easily . . .

He crept out of bed, padded across the bedroom floor, and peered cautiously into the living room. It took a few seconds for his eyes to get used to the gloom, but the results were unambiguous. Nothing, no movement at all, either in the living room or the little kitchen beyond. Everything was fine, there was no sign of any danger. Just the unnatural, oppressive silence that still hadn’t broken . . .

He crept carefully over to the window and looked out. Not a soul out on the street, not that that was particularly surprising given the time. Maria Trappgränd was hardly a busy street at any time of day.

Closed off for roadwork, that had to be it. Half of Södermalm already looked like some fucking archaeological dig, so why not go for a complete overnight shutdown? All the little cops were probably just having a coffee break.

Plausible
—sure! But the uneasy feeling still wouldn’t let go.

Only the hall left.

He tiptoed across the new floorboards over to the front door, taking care to avoid the third and fifth ones because he knew they creaked.

When he was about a meter away he thought he saw the letter box move. He froze midstep as his pulse switched up a gear.

Two years ago someone had poured lighter fluid through his door and set fire to it. A seriously unpleasant experience, and one that had ended with him lying in Södermalm Hospital with an oxygen mask over his face. It wasn’t until much later that he had realized the whole thing was just a warning shot to remind him about the rules of the Game.

He sniffed carefully at the stagnant air but couldn’t smell paraffin or anything similar. But by now he was quite certain. The sounds had come from the front door.

Maybe someone delivering papers after all?

He crept a couple of steps closer to the door and carefully put his eye to the peephole.

The sudden noise was so violent that he staggered back into the hall.

Fuck!

For a few seconds he saw stars, and his heart seemed to have stopped.

Then another violent crash jolted him out of the shock.

Someone was smashing his door in!

The steel frame was already starting to bow, so whoever it was basically had to be stronger than the Hulk. A third crash, metal against metal, no bastard Bruce Banner but probably a serious sledgehammer—if not more than one.

The frame moved another few centimeters and he could suddenly see the bolts of the locks in the gap. A couple of more blows was all it would take.

He spun around, stumbling over his own feet, and fell flat on the floor. Another crash from the door sent a rattling shower of plaster over his bare legs.

His feet slid on the floor as his hands tried to get a grip.

He was up.

Quickly into the living room, then the bedroom.

Another crash on the door!

He could taste blood in his mouth, and his heart was pounding hard enough to burst.

His hands were shaking so much he had trouble turning the key in the lock.

Whatinthenameo
f
holyfucksgoingon . . . ?

Another blow from the hall, this time followed by a splintering sound that almost certainly meant that the door frame had given way.

He grabbed the chest of drawers and almost fell over when it glided easily in front of the bedroom door.

Fucking chipboard crap!

If the steel door out there hadn’t been able to stop his attackers, then a bit of self-assembly furniture from the other side of the Baltic wasn’t going to win him more than a couple of seconds at most. He leaped at the bed and fumbled about on the bedside table, which was covered with magazines and paperbacks.

The phone, where the hell was the phone?

There! No, shit, that was the remote for the television . . .

He heard rapid steps in the living room, gruff voices shouting to each other, but he was concentrating too hard on his search to hear what they were saying.

Suddenly his fingers hit the phone, so hard that it fell to the floor.

Fucking hell!

The door handle rattled, then a rough voice shouting:

“In here!”

HP threw himself on the floor, fumbling wildly with his arms.

There it was, right next to his left hand.

He grabbed the phone, scrabbled at the buttons. His fingers were twitching as if he had Parkinson’s.

One, one, two is easy to do
 . . . like hell it was!

A crash from the door and the Ikea chest of drawers almost fell over.

“Hello, emergency services, how can I help you?” a dry, professional voice said.

“Police!” HP yelled. “Help m—”

A sudden flash of light blinded him, burning onto his retina.

Then a blow that was so strong he was left gasping for air.

And then they had him.

Photo by Jorgen Ringstrand

A
NDERS DE LA
M
OTTE
is a former police officer and was until recently director of security at one of the world’s largest IT companies. He now works as an international security consultant in addition to being Sweden’s most exciting and innovative new thriller writer.

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Also by Anders de la Motte

Game

Bubble

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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 by Anders de la Motte

Translation copyright © 2014 by Neil Smith

Originally published in 2011 in Sweden by Alfabeta Bokförlag AB. Published by agreement with Salomonsson Agency.

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First Emily Bestler Books/Atria Paperback edition January 2014

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

ISBN 978-1-4767-1291-8

ISBN 978-1-4767-1293-2 (ebook)

Acknowledgments

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