A Glock, brand new and still in the box, could be had for ten, twelve thousand kronor. An AK-47, which cost about two hundred euros at the beginning of the supply chain in the Balkans, went for twenty-five thousand kronor by the time it reached Stockholm. Maybe some idiot might agree to pay thirty thousand, supply and demand, the more desperate you are, the more expensive it will be. But these were bargains in comparison to what he was about to dig out of the ground.

So many more weapons in circulation now than when he was in the game—and so many more shootings. Still, bystanders rarely ended up with a bullet in their brains; criminals shot at each other, robbed each other, drug dealers trying to take over each other’s territories. While the politicians just kept talking about getting tougher on crime. But long sentences didn’t make a difference. People got a hold of weapons because they needed them. A matter of life or death. And life in prison was still better than no life at all.

Now.

The tip of the spade hit plastic wrapped around wood.

Piet Hoffmann got down on his knees, cleared the last of the dirt with his hands, and lifted out the box. Oblong, heavy. His gloves still on, he pulled off the lid, looking for the FN BRG-15, a weapon that didn’t exist.

Dear God.

There it was. It was real.

The most powerful machine gun ever made and some faceless arms dealer was trying to use Piet Hoffmann to corner the Swedish weapons market with it.

Start a war. Change the balance of terror. Force every gang, every mafia, to arm themselves in the same way as their enemies.

He loaded the wooden box onto his cart and then cleared away the dirt and gravel that covered the next box, the tripod, and then the ammunition. He was just starting to head back down the narrow forest path when the phone rang. So they were watching him, even out here.

“You found it.”

That distorted voice. It almost sounded pleased.

“I want you to get started. Immediately. Our agreement is a go. We’re near your family to make sure . . . well, nothing happens to them. Until you do what we ask. When you’ve taken out a criminal organization with the weapon you just dug up, when you’ve launched our ad campaign, then we’ll leave your family alone and hand over the original documents, which describe your years as a snitch. And you’ll never hear from us again.”

He had to answer. He had to buy time. Without revealing his new voice.

“Bad connection. Call in fifteen minutes.”