That voice. As far from distorted as you could get. It was sincere, spontaneous, trusting.

“Hey, sweetie pie.”

“We’re writing, Dad.”

Surely Marie and her whole class were listening to his conversation with his son. Or at least to Rasmus’s half of it.

“What are you writing?”

“Letters.”

“That’s great. Letters are a great thing to have in case you need to use them later. Listen . . . Sweetie?”

“Yeah?”

“Where’s your backpack?”

“Why?”

“Please, Rasmus, just answer the question.”

“On my hook.”

“Out in the hallway?”

“You have to hang it there. Otherwise, M . . .”

Hoffmann could see the scene in front of him. How Rasmus looked up, met Marie’s eyes, and realized she wouldn’t like him wasting the class’s time talking about her.

“. . . Mom gets angry.”

Nicely done. Good save.

Hoffmann smiled, grateful for any emotion other than the pitch-black anxiety in his chest.

“Why, Dad?”

“I was just wondering . . . See you soon. I’ll meet you in the parking lot.”

“Again?”

“Yes, again.”

“Hugo’s not gonna like that.”

Piet Hoffmann kissed his phone twice before saying goodbye to his son and hanging up.

Take out a criminal organization.

He was trapped in a car with his windows rolled down, in thirty-degree heat, and slowly he was starting to understand.

With a weapon that was far more powerful than anything else on the Swedish market.

What the hell this was about.

Then let other criminal organizations know.

What it was they were forcing him to do. What it would lead to.

And make sure they know where they can get more of the same kind.

This was about a new player trying to take over the weapons trade in the criminal underworld of Stockholm. Of Sweden. And they were doing it in the same way it was always done.

Create a need that doesn’t exist.

Change the balance of terror.

Be the only one who’s offering a new product.

He knew what things were like out there. Knew gun violence had increased in Sweden’s largest cities. Knew five times as many people were shot and four times as many killed in this country compared to all the other Nordic countries combined. He knew that in Europe only southern Italy was comparable to Sweden when it came to the number of shootings per capita, and grenade attacks here were comparable to the rates in Mexico. Back when he was part of that world, gangsters kept their shootings in certain circles, well-planned and for the specific purpose of disrupting a competitor’s activities—but these days shootings were more likely to be the work of very young men with very bad impulse control. And these days the number of guns in circulation was constantly rising, and guns were no longer seen as disposable after one use. Once they were smuggled here, they stayed here, no longer dumped after a shooting.