“Erik, I’ve been working late. At night, when my biker friends are getting beauty sleep, I’ve been going to a garage in Alby and working on the biggest mine this country has ever seen. Two meters wide. It took a lot of Dynamex B—if you only knew how easy it was to get it from construction sites. Then ship plate and fifty boxes of M12 nuts. It’s parked outside their club right now, loaded into a truck with a billboard for a strip club. Hidden INSIDE the billboard itself. Best camouflage imaginable. I rented the truck and parked it fifty meters from the biker gang’s headquarters. The idiots even talk about it, think it’s so fucking funny to see a naked lady on the ad whenever they step outside. I can trigger the bomb whenever I want with just a little detcord, an electric lighter, and a couple of cell phones. It would tear the fucking clubhouse to shreds—nobody would survive it.”

“What . . . what the hell are you talking about?”

“If the police can’t protect their employees, then their employees are gonna have to protect themselves.”

“Have you . . . have you completely lost your goddamn . . . JESUS CHRIST, YOU CAN’T while you’re working for us, for THE POLICE, you can’t build a goddamn weapon of mass destruction! You’d start a fucking gang war! You have to abort this immediately. RIGHT NOW! Take that shit away!”

“I’ll take it away. When me and my family are safe. When you’ve extracted me.”

Six years ago. And every word from that meeting had been recorded and subsequently transcribed by his handler, just like always.