Piet Hoffmann sped up without ever noticing how the potholes made the car sway and hit his body like little knives, or how the gravel let go in those sharp curves and the deep ditches came rushing closer. If running and climbing had felt easy, this felt like flying, he was done, he was free. Absolutely free! And he wanted to hear it. That’s why, for the very first time, he called that distorted voice for answers.

“Yes?”

“You didn’t get back to me.”

“Back to you about what?”

“The photographs you requested, the evidence that my mission was completed.”

“We got your little illustrations. But too late.”

He froze.

A sharp icicle fell through his body.

From his mind down to his chest.

“I sent it at 9:56, six minutes to spare. My phone confirms that.”

A short, unpleasant silence.

That was what Hoffmann heard as this icicle began burying itself inside him.

Finally the distorted voice answered.

“10:07—five minutes too late—the pictures were received. My phone confirms it. So when Zaravic was released he was met not only by his lawyer, but also by the address where your family is hiding. And, as you can probably understand, he’s already on his way.”

Chapter 43

Drive, for fuck’s sake!”

Piet Hoffmann screamed into his phone.

“Zaravic is on his way! You have to go there, now!”

But Ewert Grens didn’t really understand.

“Lower your voice. This damn phone, I don’t know, it doesn’t seem . . .”

“Atlas Road 41. Gamla Sickla. First floor on left side. Zofia and the boys and . . . now, Grens, now!”

Chapter 44

Last year when a boy who had come to trust him was found dead in a refugee foster home, Ewert Grens had run for the first time in a couple of decades. The detective superintendent, whose hip was shattered once and never moved the same again, for a moment chased shadows without pain and without limping.

Now, not only did he feel like he was running, he was.

With Sven and Mariana just a few steps ahead, through corridors and down stairs, toward his car on Kungsholms Street.

Chapter 45

Another long day trapped in an apartment that wasn’t theirs. Because they had to hide. Because Dad disappearing and guns hidden under the sink and Mom destroying SIM cards in acetone were all things that meant something dangerous was going on. But it didn’t feel dangerous. Sitting on the edge of the kitchen table in front of the window looking out on a boring street where nothing happened. He’d being staring for a half hour into the darkness and only counted four cars looking for a place to park, nine people walking home, two dogs who peed on the same exact lamppost. Still, it was more than yesterday at this time; then only seven people had walked by and one dog, a little tiny one.

Four cars and nine people.