He found a track and followed it across the clearing, then ducked in among the trees again, aiming for the blue lights he had just seen off to his left. He couldn’t be more than fifty, max seventy-five, meters from the E4 now. But apart from the squeaking sounds from his soaking-wet sneakers it was almost completely silent.
The traffic had been stopped completely, so whatever was going on was pretty fucking massive.
The trees thinned and he was getting closer and closer to 1710. The van had rolled almost to the bottom of the access road and seemed to be parked close to the edge of the actual lane. He could see Fifty-Eight sitting inside, leaning forward and staring at a glowing object that he was holding above the steering wheel.
HP recognized what it was at once.
His cell phone.
Turn my world again, for everything we once dreamed of
Everything you do becomes beads of sweat on my brow
she hummed to herself. Damn good song, that, what had she done with the CD?
♦ ♦ ♦
He climbed out of the ditch in three quick steps. The spray can in his right hand, his left hand on the door handle.
A quick jerk, door open, then he let off a serious squirt of tear gas in the face of the unsuspecting Mr.-A-Number-fucking-One.
Say hello to my lil’ friend!!
The spray blew every-bloody-where; he got a cloud of it in his own face and shut his eyes in reflex.
Hell, it stung, like his eyes were burning, so it had to be a hell of a lot worse for Fifty-Eight Hasselqvist. The man was squealing like a stuck pig, rubbing his face in panic with his lower arms.
Even though HP’s eyes were stinging, it was no problem grabbing hold of Fifty-Eight’s clothes and pulling him out of the seat and onto the tarmac, then into the ditch. HP was blinking like mad, his eyes were still stinging, but he remembered something he’d learned at a Reclaim the Streets demo a couple of years ago.
Because tear gas isn’t actually a gas but a powder, the last thing you should do is rub your eyes, because that only made things worse. Instead he turned his head into the wind, blinked quickly a few times, and regained enough of his sight to be able to give Fifty-Eight a good kick in the guts as he lay on the ground.
“Now we’re going to have a little chat,” he muttered through clenched teeth, pulling out the sock with the billiard ball inside it.
♦ ♦ ♦
“I recognize that.” Wikström smiled. “That’s Kent, isn’t it?”
“Mmm . . .” she muttered in agreement, even though she hadn’t actually been able to think of the group’s name until he said it.
Kent—yes, of course it was!
♦ ♦ ♦
“Kent!?”
“Y-yeah,” Fifty-Eight snorted.
“You’re telling me your name’s Kent?”
Another whimper of confirmation.
This wasn’t quite right.
“So who the fuck’s Micke, then?” HP roared.
“What!?”
Hasselqvist, whose first name was apparently Kent, was blinking madly as various bodily fluids gushed from his face.
HP took a deep breath. He felt like smashing the drooling little shit’s head in, but that would have to wait. He had more questions he wanted answers to before he could get shot of the Game Master’s pathetic Golden Boy.
“The girl in that clip of yours, she calls you Micke?”
Hasselqvist looked completely blank as he lay there crying.
“Tall, dark, in pretty good shape. Looked like it was shot in a café, doesn’t ring any bells?”
Finally a sign of life.
“Not me, she’s talking to her boyfriend. I just had to film them, it was a really easy assign . . .”
Suddenly Five-Eight seemed to remember rule number one, and his jaw snapped shut like a mousetrap.
HP shrugged his shoulders, then gave him a kick in the balls. He gave Hasselqvist a few seconds to recover, then leaned over him.
“I know all about the Game, my dear little Fifty-Eight, including rule number one. But if I was you I’d be considerably more worried about making it through the next couple of minutes than about our mutual friend the Game Master getting pissed off about you squealing, right?”
Hasselqvist just nodded stiffly in reply as he clutched his crown jewels.
“Good! So, am I right in thinking that your assignment was to film the girl and her guy?”
Hasselqvist nodded again.
“So do you know him, this Micke?”
Hasselqvist shook his head, but not very convincingly.
“You’re lying!”
HP raised his foot and took aim to deliver another kick.
“Wait!” Hasselqvist whimpered, holding one hand up to defend himself.
He cleared his throat and went on.
“I don’t know him, but I recognized him. He only lives a couple of blocks from me. I’ve seen him on the bus, I think.”
“Is he mixed up in the Game?”
Another shake of the head, considerably more convincing this time.
HP breathed out.
Micke and Fifty-Eight weren’t the same person!
They just happened to live in the same area and looked a bit similar, but that was it. Becca wasn’t mixed up in the Game. She was safe!
♦ ♦ ♦
They had just started the sweeping left-hand bend around Sollentuna. The convoy was well spaced, the road ahead was completely clear.
This was going like clockwork.
♦ ♦ ♦
“So what’s this assignment all about?” HP asked, dangling the billiard ball in the sock in front of Kent Hasselqvist a.k.a. number Fifty-fucking-Eight’s face.
More sniffing. The tear gas must have gone by now, but the guy seemed to be the world’s biggest crybaby. What a fucking loser they’d chosen! Was this shrimp-dicked fool really the best they could come up with?
Someone who had what it took for an End Game?
HP shook his head in exasperation and bumped Hasselqvist with the billiard ball.
“Okay, do you want to do this the easy way, or would you rather have a number eight ball on your ass?”
He swung the sock around his head a couple of times and it made a terrifying swishing sound.
“Just had to park the van here and wait for instructions,” Hasselqvist whimpered. “That’s all, I promise!” he said when HP gave him a skeptical look. “It was just a Game, a cool thing, yeah? I’m a nobody, just an ordinary guy,” he said as he tried to grab HP’s feet in supplication. “Please, don’t kill me,” he sobbed to HP’s already soaked sneakers.
HP spun the sock a couple more times, then lowered it.
“Fuck off!”
“What?!”
Hasselqvist looked up with his red, tear-streaked face.
“You heard, fuck off!” HP snarled, nodding toward the trees. “If you’re not gone in five seconds I’m going to smash your skull in, get it?”
He didn’t need to give any further explanation. Four seconds later Hasselqvist rushed headlong into the undergrowth. To judge by the speed he was going, he probably wouldn’t slow down until he reached the center of Kista.
What to do now?
Suddenly he heard a ringtone. He patted his breast pocket and was about to pull out his new iPhone when he realized it was the wrong ringtone. The ringing was coming from inside the police van, and it took him a couple of seconds to realize.
Of course, Fifty-Eight’s cell! It was on the floor. Hasselqvist must have dropped it when he got a faceful of tear gas.
The screen was lit up and a short message said that an incoming call was waiting.
For some reason, he didn’t really know why, he pressed the icon for Answer and slowly lifted the cell to his ear.
“Hello?”
“Good evening, my dear HP, this is the Game Master speaking,” the voice at the other end said.
♦ ♦ ♦
“Alpha 101 passing Sollentuna,” she rep
orted to Control.
“Understood, Alpha 101,” the operator replied.
She glanced at Wikström. Hands on the wheel, quarter to three, eyes fixed well ahead. Speedometer stuck on 120.
He was good colleague, a real pro, she thought.
♦ ♦ ♦
HP opened his mouth but it was like he was chewing thin air and no words came out.
“You’ve certainly been working hard tonight, my friend. But I’m afraid you’ve got a bit more work ahead of you before you can get some well-deserved rest.”
The voice was soft, almost tender. Swedish, with a hint of an accent. A faintly metallic note that suggested the caller was using some sort of voice-distortion device, or possibly one of those translation gadgets? He’d always assumed that the Game Master was male, but this voice could just as easily belong to a woman.
“This evening’s assignment is worth 25,000 points. If you succeed, you will have accumulated 33,200 in total, and because we have reached the end of this round, that means you will be our winner and that the Reward will therefore be yours.”
“W-w-what!?” HP spluttered.
His brain was working hard to try to absorb this new information.
“Soo, if I do this, if I help you, you’ll let me back in? I mean . . . let me back into the Game again?” he said after a few seconds of bewildered thought.
“HP, HP, HP. ” The Game Master chuckled, and for some reason the laughter made the hairs on the back of HP’s neck stand up.
“What makes you think you ever left us?”
♦ ♦ ♦
Everything was going smoothly, the convoy was still neatly grouped behind them. Almost perfect safety distance. Next the Kymlinge junction, then past the Police Academy, Järva Krog, and they’d practically be in the city.
Ten minutes to go, max.
♦ ♦ ♦
“Look around you, my friend. Look at where you are! Right in the center of events.
“The setting for the culmination of the drama. And why? Well, because you have put yourself here. Entirely of your own accord! A quite exceptional achievement, as all of us who have been following your adventures agree. And obviously you must be rewarded accordingly!”
The voice was smooth as honey and HP couldn’t help lapping up its message.
“The central role is yours, HP, you’ve gone all the way, as you would doubtless put it. This is your End Game, your richly deserved chance to write yourself into the history of the Game, not to mention humanity itself.”
The Game Master paused and HP tried in vain to digest what he had just been told and what it meant. But he just couldn’t manage it, this was total information overload!
“Now listen carefully, HP, because this is your final assignment. This is what will turn you into a living legend,” the Game Master went on. “For 25,000 points you must park the police van as close to the traffic lane of the highway as possible. You will open the back door and plug the phone onto the cable you will find there. When you have done that I suggest that you get yourself to safety. We will take care of the rest. Time is starting to run out, so it’s a matter of some urgency, but of course we will wait until you have got far enough away. Your safety is our first priority. Have you understood the assignment, HP?”
“Y-yes,” he muttered as the dryer in his head started spinning at double and then triple speed.
This was totally absurd!
Fucking Twilight Zone on steroids!
But at the same time it was everything he had ever wanted—and more!
He was . . . speechless!
“Good. I would like to conclude by pointing out that the choice is yours. Just like before, you yourself must decide if you want to carry out the assignment or not. The ball’s in your court, HP. Win or fade away?
“In other words, you have a very important decision to make, and I wish you the best of luck!”
The line went dead abruptly.
He stood where he was for a couple of seconds, then took a few stumbling steps toward the back doors of the police van. As soon as he saw the black duffel bags he realized what the Game actually wanted him to do.
This was some mothafuckin’ freaky ass shit!!
♦ ♦ ♦
The overpass of the Kymlinge junction was approaching, and in the distance she could make out blue lights. It looked like there was a police vehicle at the bottom of the exit access road. A minibus to judge by the headlights. Suddenly, and for no good reason, she started to feel uneasy. There was something about that image that didn’t make sense, but it took her a few seconds before she worked out what it was.
♦ ♦ ♦
He pulled down the zip of one of the bags and his suspicions were confirmed at once. “Dynamex,” it said in red lettering on the little packages. The bag was full to bursting; there must be at least fifty kilos in there in all.
He pulled the zip back up. Fifty kilos in each bag, giving a total of one hundred kilos, which would give . . . well, what? One hell of a big bang, that much was obvious! So what were they trying to blow up?
When he saw the blue lights approaching he suddenly realized just how deep this rabbit hole really was . . .
Déjà vu!
The dryer’s speed control had slipped into the red zone.
♦ ♦ ♦
A police van facing toward them. Hardly the way she would have parked it for a standard roadblock. But it was considerably more troubling that there had been no other vans parked like that until now, right on the edge of the expressway. They were too far away for her to be able to see its number with her bare eye, but she remembered that they had binoculars in the glove compartment. It took a few seconds before she located the van and adjusted the focus.
♦ ♦ ♦
There was a cable sticking out of one of the bags. A mini-USB, he just had to plug it in and drive the van a few meters closer to the traffic lane, then run off into the woods. The Game Master would take care of the rest. One last call, ring-ring in the bag, then . . .
KA-BOOM!!
And after that?
“To the victor belongs the spoils,” according to lard-ass Bacala in The Sopranos. All his dreams would come true. He was going to be fucking well famous, at least if he could believe the Game Master.
The only question was: Did he?
The blue lights were getting closer.
He didn’t have much time.
The decision was really very simple. He’d been aware of that a few days ago, but it hadn’t really sunk in before now. That there was really only one alternative. The blue pill or the red? Safe or all in? Win or fade away?
Ladies and gentlemen, the clock is ticking, please place your bets . . .
He pulled out the cell phone from his pocket, plugged in the cable, and slammed the rear doors.
Then he raced around to the driver’s seat, put it in gear, and slammed his foot down hard on the accelerator.
♦ ♦ ♦
“Stop!” she yelled all of a sudden.
“What?” Wikström said, twisting his head to look questioningly at her.
“Stop, for fuck’s sake, stop the car!” she shouted, grabbing the radio mic.
The access road was getting closer and closer, and now you could read the number without binoculars, 1710, the van that was supposed to be in the workshop. The one Henke claimed had been stolen. Either way, the bastard thing wasn’t supposed to be here! Not now!
Absolutely not!
“All cars stop!” she shouted into the microphone, as Wikström slammed the brake pedal down. As the seat belt jerked and caught her, she watched as the police van began to move toward them.
♦ ♦ ♦
Blinking is supposed to be the fastest movement the human body is physically capable of.
Even so, it hardly compares to the brain’s electrical synapses.
Not now! was the thought that flashed through his head when the light hit him.
And, from his point of view, he was absolutely right.
There ought to be more time, plenty of time—that was what he had been promised. After all, he had followed the instructions to the letter, had done exactly what he had been told to do.
So this shouldn’t be happening. Not now! Absolutely not!
So when the cell phone’s screen suddenly lit up and the ringtone started, he was actually taken aback.
But not, however, particularly surprised.
♦ ♦ ♦
“Threat ahead, reverse and retreat!” she commanded, and both Wikström and the drivers of the other vehicles all obeyed her immediately.
The convoy went into reverse, rolled some hundred meters, and then, almost as if on command, the cars began to spin around all at once. They were going so fast that they never actually stopped before carrying on, now heading back the way they had come.
“Alpha 102, take the lead,” she concluded once the maneuver was complete and they were heading north again.
♦ ♦ ♦
He spun the wheel, performing a wheel-screeching U-turn, then gunned back up the access road with the engine howling. A sharp right-hander with the flares playing around the wheels, then he was back on the Kymlinge link road.
He could see the blue lights of the van flashing against the dark trees. A few seconds later they were joined by more.
♦ ♦ ♦
Her hands were shaking, but she was having no problem controlling them. They had already gone past Sollentuna.
“Control, we have a stolen police van, 1710, heading along the Kymlinge link road toward Kista. Suggest you put our uniformed colleagues onto it, but tell them to keep a safe distance, over!”
♦ ♦ ♦
The patrol car that had been guarding the roadblock was already tailing him, and soon there would be more.
But he didn’t give a flying fuck. Fifty-Eight’s cell was still ringing on the passenger seat, and the ghostly light from the screen was lighting up the whole cab. He took the turnoff into Kista on two wheels, steering furiously to avoid the grass mound at the center of the roundabout, finally regaining control before putting his foot on the floor down the straight.
The cell was still ringing.
Without taking his eyes off the road he reached for it.
The Game Master’s voice was cold.
“You’re disappointing us, HP!”
Game: A Thriller Page 30