Piet Hoffmann held it in his hand. Let his thumb slide over the hard surface, over the rise on the top. A small oblong ball with a metal casing, with explosives pressed inside, and a spark plug connected to a striking pin, which, the moment it was pulled, would run down toward a fuse and everyone who happened to be in its vicinity would have five, or four, or sometimes only three seconds to live.

Fury. Terror.

Two sides of the same emotion.

It used to be so much easier.

Back then when he chose rage and anger, any fear that pushed its way inside could be used, transformed into more aggression. Psychologists at his school and then at his juvenile correction institute and finally in prison all called it a lack of impulse control. They said that’s why he preferred violence. But that wasn’t true at all. Violence was just a good tool. If you used it correctly. And so he did—he mastered the violence that came so naturally. Until finally Zofia and his kids were forced to pay for it. Until love and truth and trust made life so much more complicated and opened the doors to fear.

The fear that he might lose the people who meant more to him than himself.

He heard Rasmus flush the toilet, heard him washing his hands.

Piet Hoffmann weighed the hand grenade again, almost unconsciously, bobbing it up and down in his open palm. He’d come across more than his share of these in recent years, received offers for them from his black market contacts; the market in grenades had grown in recent years. He had eyes and ears out there—paid for quality information, because it was his greatest asset in the security industry, and quickly went out of date. It was crucial to keep informed about the life he no longer led, though sometimes wanted to.

The bathroom sink whined when you turned it on full blast, which Rasmus always did even though he wasn’t supposed to. The water rushed out like a howling rain, and that’s why it was so noticeable when he turned it off.