He knew most of what there was to know about weapons. It was still part of his profession. But this? The FN BRG-15? He’d only ever heard rumors about it. Because it didn’t exist. Had never been manufactured.

“War? FN BRG-15? Is this a joke? Has this whole fucking week been a practical joke? All your typewritten letters and your little toys?”

It was supposed to be the most powerful machine gun ever built, designed and manufactured by Fabrique Nationale in Belgium, which already made machine guns for the Swedish defense force and twenty other militaries. So powerful it could knock out an armored vehicle a mile away, slice through steel armor like nothing else. In order to do that, it needed a bigger caliber and a new kind of cartridge. But when it was finally ready to go into production, there were no buyers. Someone had done some pretty rotten market research, or probably none at all. Production stopped before it even started.

“Hand grenades, Hoffmann, are never a joke. A dead child will never laugh again. And what if, maybe, just maybe there’s a lovely new toy waiting in a side pocket of that bright red backpack? What if we let your son carry it around for a couple of days? So many books in the main compartment, what difference would the extra weight make to a little boy. So if you believe us, it’s time to stop asking questions and start listening a lot more carefully.”

He understood what the voice was saying.

What it was really saying.

And all of sudden he felt like he was falling right there in that stairwell.

This was no empty threat.

Rasmus had a new grenade in his backpack. Which he’d carried around with him, into their home, their car, and now into his classroom where he was surrounded by so many other children.

“You fuckers . . .”

“Shhhh . . . what did I just say? Listen. You’re going to initiate a small gang war. You’re going to do it with an FN BRG-15. You can decide which criminal organization you find the most suitable to start with. As long as it has . . . how should I put this . . . significant influence in the underworld. You choose. You knock them out. And then, using your contacts, let it be known which weapon was used in the attack. Then make sure people know where they can get one of their own.”

And then that gruesome distorted voice with its distorted reality hung up, ending the conversation. Piet Hoffmann stood in a stairwell in the center of the city with electronic silence.

Then he started to run.

Down the stairs and out into the traffic and the hysterical honking as he zigzagged across the street toward his car parked on the other side. It had been a long time since he felt this way, an anxiety that was so pitch black. He thought he’d worked through it for good.