X Ways to Die

by Stefan Ahnhem

  No one knew where Sleizner was. For the past forty minutes, he’d been refusing to answer his phone. Normally, that would have aggravated Hesk’s ulcer, but this time he was fine with it, because it gave him a chance to step up, take charge and show what he could do.

  In fact, most of the anxiety he’d been feeling just an hour ago had evaporated. It was a relief no longer to have to wonder but rather to know that all hell had broken loose and that it was up to him now.

  The mood at the amusement park was definitely different to usual. No widespread panic yet, luckily, but it was simmering beneath the surface and risked bubbling over any second.

  Panic was something they wanted to avoid at all costs. Once panic broke out, there was no way back, and the death toll could quickly rise into double digits when twenty-five thousand visitors started trampling each other to get out.

  For that reason, they’d left most of the rides running, except for the old roller coaster and the Ferris wheel. The important thing was to perform an orderly evacuation while making sure the killer wasn’t able to slip through their checkpoints. It was a difficult balancing act, but to his mind, it was their only option under the current circumstances.

  At least no one was running around spraying the crowd with automatic gunfire. If that had been the case, they would have had hundreds of dead people just in the first fifteen minutes. The downside was that now they had a more protracted scenario on their hands and a perpetrator killing clandestinely was much harder to locate.

  That’s where Fabian Risk came in. In fact, it was all about him now. The Swede who had stormed in with his gun drawn, without inhibition and with a demeanour that said nothing was going to stand in his way.

  He’d sensed it the moment he stepped into the room where Risk was being held. The darkness and the firm determination that showed he was ready to go all the way, no matter what the consequences.

  In a way, he envied Risk. He’d always tended to think more about the consequences than the goal itself. He was no hero, and he never would be. The truth was that he was mediocre. But he was smart, and this time he had no problem letting someone else play the hero.

  76

  MILWOKH PUSHED ON and made sure to keep moving like the dice had ordered him to. He walked around calmly to avoid drawing unwanted attention to himself and tried to look like he was one of all the oblivious visitors, enjoying the sunshine, unable to think of a better place to spend an afternoon.

  Most people apparently had no idea what had happened, though he saw some who seemed to be fighting a gnawing sensation that something was awry. A few had realized and were hurrying towards the exits where the queues were growing longer, dragging their loudly protesting children with them, and here and there he saw discarded baseball caps, backpacks and shirts, all at least partially red.

  He hadn’t counted on that, and he could do nothing about it. A change of colour would have been helpful, but the dice had instead opted to change his weapon again, to the knife, which in a way was preferable since he was running low on crossbow bolts.

  He’d worried about the crossbow, but looking back, he had to admit it had been the most fun weapon to use. It even beat the sword. There was something elaborate about the whole thing that really hit the spot. Physics at its best. Not to mention the bolts. He couldn’t think of anything sexier than the way they silently sailed through the air and penetrated their target without permission or apology.

  He stopped by the fountains outside the concert hall and looked around. Maybe it was just in this particular spot, or maybe more people than he’d thought had removed their red clothing. Either way, the fact was he hadn’t seen any red whatsoever in the last four minutes. There should obviously be an unlimited supply, but for some reason it was as though his eyes could no longer perceive the colour red.

  He continued past the outdoor seating area of Nimb Brasserie, where a girl of about twelve was sitting with her parents holding a large ball of light-red candyfloss. The urge was instantaneous, but the question was if candyfloss even counted. Or the red lighter on the table between the parents.

  ‘No, I think we should leave now,’ the mother was saying. ‘This place doesn’t feel right.’

  His thoughts were a clear sign of his growing desperation. He knew full well only clothes and accessories counted, nothing else. Besides, the candyfloss was more pink than light-red. And, off-topic, he couldn’t understand how a responsible parent could puff away like that in front of their child.

  ‘You’re being hysterical,’ the father replied. ‘Look around, everything’s nice and calm.’

  He considered staying around until they got up, to see who would pick up the lighter. Once one of them did, it would definitely count as an accessory and the girl would be burdened with one less irresponsible parent.

  A few steps later, he finally spotted something red in the form of a scarf around an older woman’s neck, about fifty feet away. She was sitting on the edge of the wishing well in the park outside Nimb with the same serene facial expression as the bronze statue behind her. She didn’t look like she was waiting for anyone, more like she’d found the perfect spot in the shade.

  For some reason, she’d already noticed him, and she was looking at him without the slightest hint of fear in her eyes, as though she had no problem with him approaching her. It was almost as though she knew what he was going to do, even though he was smiling back and keeping the knife hidden in the sleeve of his hoodie.

  But, then, everyone reacted differently to danger. Some started to scream and tried to run. Others broke down and begged on their bare knees to be spared. This lady apparently faced death with a smile.

  ‘Yes? And what can I do for you?’ she said, standing up.

  ‘Nothing,’ he replied, and took another step towards her. ‘Just relax.’ Without taking his eyes off hers, he let the steel sink into her midriff and in that moment, it dawned on him that he had completely misunderstood her.

  The shock in her eyes surprised him, and he had to put one hand over her mouth to keep the scream from escaping while he continued to dig around her insides with the knife. But eventually she calmed down, and he could finally let her fall to the ground and hurry away from the agitated voices.

  77

  KEEP WALKING. THERE was nothing else. Keep moving forward, even though every step seemed to rub another layer off his hip joint, intensifying the pain. If it hadn’t been for the pain, he would have been able to move considerably faster. As it was, he was hobbling along barefoot, trying to put as much of his weight as possible on his right leg so he could make any progress at all.

  But it wasn’t fast enough. He’d lost sight of Milwokh a few minutes ago, which could mean he’d rolled a one and left the park.

  He rounded the corner of Nimb Brasserie and instantly realized there was another victim when he spotted the crowd by the wishing well. The pain in his hip was now so debilitating it took him several minutes to push his way to the older woman, who had already received care to stop the bleeding.

  ‘Has anyone called an ambulance?’ he said, noting the red scarf around her neck.

  ‘Yes, they’re busy, but they’ll be here as soon as they can,’ someone replied. ‘From what I hear, she’s not the only victim.’

  ‘What, there are more?’ someone else piped up.

  ‘I heard someone got hit by an arrow.’

  ‘Can you hear me?’ Fabian said, bending down over the woman, who nodded, almost imperceptibly. ‘Where did he go? Did you see in which direction he ran?’

  Her mouth opened, but he couldn’t make out any words. Just ragged breathing. He defied the pain, knelt down and put his ear about an inch from her mouth.

  ‘The stairs…’ she said on a trembling exhalation. ‘Up the stairs…’

  Fabian struggled back onto his feet, spotted the stairs, which looked like they led up to the indoor section of Nimb Brasserie, and started limping towards them.

  ‘Take these,’ someone said behind him.


  Fabian turned around and saw an older man on crutches. ‘Thank you,’ he said, taking them. The crutches allowed him to move much faster. The pain was far from gone, but certainly more bearable. When he entered the restaurant, he was greeted by a waiter.

  ‘We’re closed.’

  ‘What, closed?’

  ‘Yes.’ The waiter nodded. ‘All of Tivoli is closed on account of the terror attack.’

  ‘And the Asian man with long dark hair who just came in? Where did he go?’

  ‘Towards the hotel,’ the waiter said, pointing.

  Fabian continued through the dining area on his crutches and found himself in an unmanned hotel lobby facing the street and the central station on the other side of it.

  A person could just walk out. No staff. No guards. Nothing, just straight out into freedom.

  But if he knew Milwokh, he would only have done that if he’d rolled a one. It was a one in six chance, which meant the chance of him being somewhere nearby was considerably greater.

  A flight of stairs led up to the first floor, and since Fabian couldn’t see a lift, he started slowly working his way up it. At the top of the stairs, he found a deserted hallway with numbered hotel rooms on the Tivoli side that led him to a large, palatial ballroom with three enormous crystal chandeliers suspended from a high, vaulted ceiling. A bar ran along the wall on his right and here and there were groups of brown leather sofas and large potted plants.

  But there were no guests or staff to be seen. Having pushed and shoved his way through crowds for so long, he now felt like the last man standing. The hotel had been evacuated, which certainly made it the perfect location if Milwokh had rolled a two and followed up with a five.

  Find a secluded spot, he muttered under his breath as he continued towards the three sets of tall double doors on his left. Two were open, so he hobbled up to the third set and paused to compose himself before entering.

  The rectangular room was furnished with a big black conference table decorated with candelabra and flowers. Silver-framed photographs alternated with sconces along the walls on either side, and above the table was a large domed skylight.

  At the far end, by the triple window, stood Milwokh, still wearing his shoulder-length wig, gazing out at Tivoli, where quite a lot of people were still moving about.

  ‘Secluded place. Knife. Red,’ Fabian said, and hobbled into the room on his crutches. ‘Maybe not the easiest combination.’

  Milwokh turned around with the bloody knife in his hand and looked from Fabian’s battered face to his dirty linen shirt, tattered jeans and bare feet.

  ‘Sorry. No red.’ Fabian spread his crutches. ‘But then again. Maybe you’re counting the blood stains?’ He smiled. Despite the gravity of the situation, there was something so absurd about the whole thing a smile might be as good a way forward as any.

  But Milwokh’s face remained expressionless as he continued to look him up and down as though to make sure he hadn’t missed anything, which had to be taken as a sign that blood was not well received by the dice.

  ‘Pull your jeans down,’ he said finally, and took half a step forward.

  Fabian had no idea what colour underwear he had on. It could easily be red.

  ‘Take them off,’ Milwokh said again, and held the knife out in front of him as though he was getting ready.

  ‘And if I don’t? Then what will you do? Surely you can’t kill me unless the dice gives you the okay?’

  ‘I can just ask.’ Milwokh started to shake his left arm, making the dice inside the plastic dome jump around. ‘One, two or three, that’s all I need.’

  ‘Why not the other way around? Or odds and evens?’

  ‘Because what’s decided is decided and it’s not up to me or you.’ Milwokh stopped shaking and held out his arm so Fabian could see the outcome too.

  A two.

  ‘The dice has spoken. The ball’s in your court. Either your jeans come off, or one minute from now you’ll be bleeding to death. It’s up to you.’

  The idea of taking two steps forward under the pretence of checking that it really was a two, grabbing his arm and pulling him down onto the floor never got beyond the realm of vague fantasy. Images from the Ica Maxi CCTV footage in which Milwokh had hurled himself over the meat counter and stabbed Lennart Andersson were still flashing before Fabian’s eyes.

  He wouldn’t stand a chance.

  One last time, he tried to recall what he’d put on that morning. But he had no idea and saw no other way than to unbuckle his belt with trembling hands and undo the buttons of his fly. Then he pulled down his jeans and lowered his eyes for the verdict.

  It was a pair of cheap H&M pants Sonja had been on the verge of binning on several occasions. But each time he’d put up a fight, arguing that as long as there were no holes, they should be kept in rotation. Now, the yellow and green stripes were saving his life.

  ‘Pull your shirt up,’ Milwokh continued and Fabian did as he was told.

  The elastic was white with green text spelling out the name Dobber all the way around. The tag with the laundry instructions may have been red or white. But he’d long since cut it off.

  Fabian exhaled and looked up, only to see that Milwokh had suddenly pulled his arm back as though about to attack. ‘Come on, are you colour-blind or something? There’s no red. You can’t just—’

  But the knife had already left Milwokh’s hand and all Fabian could do was watch as it spun past him, about a foot away. When he turned around, unsure if it had missed, it had already plunged through the red tie and was deeply embedded in the chest of a waiter standing in the doorway.

  With blood pumping out of his mouth and gushing down onto his white shirt, the waiter collapsed on the floor and started flapping his arms and legs about in a desperate attempt to get back up, like a beetle on its back.

  A moment later, Milwokh was standing over him, pulling out the knife and stabbing again and then again until the flailing limbs slowed and finally grew still.

  Then he wiped the knife clean on the waiter’s clothes and pulled the body far enough into the room to allow the door to close.

  The whole thing was over so quickly Fabian only just had time to pull up and button his jeans.

  Meanwhile, Milwokh shook his left arm again, noted the outcome and shook it again. ‘I would like you to leave me be now.’ On his way back towards the windows, he sheathed the knife and in one smooth movement pulled the rifle out of the holster strapped across his back.

  ‘That’s not happening. You know as well as I do I’m here to arrest you.’

  ‘You’re free to go. Consider it a gift before the dice asks me to change to green victims.’

  ‘Another option would be for you to take control of your life and end this, even though you haven’t rolled a one.’

  ‘Take control?’ Milwokh let out a chuckle.

  ‘Yes. It’s just a regular dice. A stupid fucking Yahtzee dice.’

  ‘Leave.’ Milwokh walked up to Fabian with eyes that had suddenly gone flat. ‘For your own sake, just leave.’

  ‘You’re a slave, don’t you get that? An insignificant little slave with a lot of sick compulsions—’

  Pain flashed through him as though something had exploded in his face when the butt of the rifle hit him with full force. But just as quickly, it faded again, into the black of unconsciousness.

  78

  KIM SLEIZNER LOCKED his car and hurried through the garage under Copenhagen’s police headquarters, away from the sound of sirens. Away from the traffic jams that had made the drive in from Amager take forty minutes. Away from the chaos and confusion. But it was impossible.

  Even in the lift, where a vacuum-like calm normally reigned, all he could hear was a cacophony of wailing police cars and ambulances. He hadn’t even known they had so many cars. And he was the one who never missed an opportunity to beat his drum about the police not having enough resources.

  He didn’t know exactly what was happening because he hadn�
�t dared to turn his phone on. What little information he’d had he’d gleaned from the radio, where they were talking about a terror attack at Tivoli with a number of dead and injured.

  That was terrible, of course. But what was worse was that the Swedes had turned out to be right, again. If it got out that they’d warned the Danish police but had been ignored and dismissed, it wouldn’t look good. He’d already been in trouble once because of Dunja. If it happened again, he’d be hard-pressed to avoid repercussions.

  And for this to happen on the day he discovered his phone had been hacked was just beyond the fucking pale. How many of his calls had the little cunt listened in on? How many texts had she and her two pet freaks read? Had they been going through his emails and triangulating his position the moment he entered The Club? Or had she been able to access the microphone and listen to any conversation that took place while the phone was around? Or the camera. What if she’d had access to that?

  It was a perfect shitstorm, concocted by Satan himself. As though the entire world had decided to stick it to him, of all people.

  The light in the tunnel was Hesk. He was the one the Swedes had actually spoken to. He was the one who had been slippery and evasive. He was the one who had been more interested in tripping up Risk than taking the terror threat seriously and prioritizing the safety of the public. He was the one who seemed to have forgotten why he’d decided to join the police once upon a time.

  ‘There you are,’ said the annoying voice of Morten Heinesen before the lift doors had even opened fully. ‘We’ve been calling and calling, but—’

  ‘I know,’ Sleizner broke in as he stepped out of the lift. ‘I had to keep my phone turned off. Someone’s hacked it.’

  ‘Hacked?’ Heinesen hurried after Sleizner. ‘I’m sorry, are you saying it might be connected to what’s happening at Tivoli?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Sleizner lied, and he continued down the corridor, which opened into a small open-plan office that was currently in a state of considerable commotion, with phones ringing and people talking over each other. ‘That’s why I’m going to need yours.’ Sleizner held out his hand.