through the parking garage.
And again.
The movement around her stopped.
Dad screamed, “I’ve been shot!”
After that everything happened so quickly. Stefanovic threw himself over him. Pressed Dad down onto the ground. A second later she was lying with Goran on top of her. She saw Milorad waving a gun around. Yelling at people to stay back.
Everyone was screaming.
She could feel Goran pulling her. The parking garage looked so small.
She saw Dad underneath Stefanovic.
She saw a puddle of blood, spreading.
She saw his hand, still on the concrete floor.
No.
NO
.
7
The first real recruit—Tom Lehtimäki said yes, of course. The dude was smart. Two, three million in cash, straight up. Or whatever his cut would be. RIP—right in pocket. Not even he could swing that much in such short time, no matter how many number-juggling tricks he had up his sleeve.
In the days that followed, Jorge spoke with Sergio, Robert Progat, and Javier—in that order.
They were all of the same opinion: Your Royal Highness Jorge Bernadotte, you’re Jesus, man. Obviously everyone wanted in.
OBVIOUSLY.
The team was taking shape. The group was growing. The pieces were falling into place.
Heat, Reservoir Dogs, Ocean’s Eleven
—this time it was for real.
At the same time: Stockholm’d just been hit with the scoop of the decade.
The news of the century. The highlight of the fucking millennium—someone’d tried to pop Radovan. The Yugo boss, to Jorge: his hate was so deep, it dug a ditch inside him. He’d attacked Mr. R’s interests before: the hit to Smådalarö, the shots in the brothel in Hallonbergen. And in his dreams: over and over again. One sweet day J-boy would crush the Yugo king for good. In other words: the attempt on Radovan’s life was big. Not just for Jorge. For the entire underworld. Everyone was gossiping, ruminating, speculating. Offering their opinions. A transfer of power was in the works, a new king was on his way up the hill. An opening for more players to take over the territory.
But still: he couldn’t focus on that right now. The smartest CIT in history, that’s what counted now. Jorge imagined the newspaper headlines he wanted to read after the fact:
No more cash in Stockholm’s ATMs—the robbers got their hands on a record sum. The coup that outdid all previous coups. The biggest CIT heist ever
.
The latest recruits: two Svens.
That was the Finn’s original order: “You need a few real Swedes too. To get tools, vehicles, and things like that. People who have more connections in the construction business than you do.”
Jorge didn’t protest. Tom Lehtimäki suggested names. They discussed back and forth. Who you could trust. Who was 100 percent.
Jorge had individual meetings with the two guys Tom suggested.
One of the dudes was named Jimmy. Tiler who reported zero but hauled in cash through off-the-books gigs and flipped construction machinery online. The guy: overly positive, super into it, totally on board.
The other dude: more calm. Talked like he already knew all there was to know. Still, gave off a good vibe—the guy didn’t seem dumb. Ran his own business. Worked with cars and boats. Drove a BMW X6. His name was Viktor.
Tom said Viktor was desperate for cash. The guy’s business was apparently sinking, even if he claimed the opposite. And he was loaded with private debt all the way up to his plucked eyebrows. Jorge saw possibilities: a dude who oughta be prepared to take care of the dirty work.
Jorge thanked Tom for the tips—these guys would be assets.
Jorge and Mahmud met the Finn one more time.
This time: somewhere completely different. The dude: nasty smart—if they’d been snitches, they wouldn’t have been able to tell the five-oh where they were meeting.
Jorge and Mahmud made up different names for him. The Architect, the Planner, the Brain.
They drove the Södra länken highway, the tunnel, straight out toward Nacka.
The regular car, the pickup. But
And again.
The movement around her stopped.
Dad screamed, “I’ve been shot!”
After that everything happened so quickly. Stefanovic threw himself over him. Pressed Dad down onto the ground. A second later she was lying with Goran on top of her. She saw Milorad waving a gun around. Yelling at people to stay back.
Everyone was screaming.
She could feel Goran pulling her. The parking garage looked so small.
She saw Dad underneath Stefanovic.
She saw a puddle of blood, spreading.
She saw his hand, still on the concrete floor.
No.
NO
.
7
The first real recruit—Tom Lehtimäki said yes, of course. The dude was smart. Two, three million in cash, straight up. Or whatever his cut would be. RIP—right in pocket. Not even he could swing that much in such short time, no matter how many number-juggling tricks he had up his sleeve.
In the days that followed, Jorge spoke with Sergio, Robert Progat, and Javier—in that order.
They were all of the same opinion: Your Royal Highness Jorge Bernadotte, you’re Jesus, man. Obviously everyone wanted in.
OBVIOUSLY.
The team was taking shape. The group was growing. The pieces were falling into place.
Heat, Reservoir Dogs, Ocean’s Eleven
—this time it was for real.
At the same time: Stockholm’d just been hit with the scoop of the decade.
The news of the century. The highlight of the fucking millennium—someone’d tried to pop Radovan. The Yugo boss, to Jorge: his hate was so deep, it dug a ditch inside him. He’d attacked Mr. R’s interests before: the hit to Smådalarö, the shots in the brothel in Hallonbergen. And in his dreams: over and over again. One sweet day J-boy would crush the Yugo king for good. In other words: the attempt on Radovan’s life was big. Not just for Jorge. For the entire underworld. Everyone was gossiping, ruminating, speculating. Offering their opinions. A transfer of power was in the works, a new king was on his way up the hill. An opening for more players to take over the territory.
But still: he couldn’t focus on that right now. The smartest CIT in history, that’s what counted now. Jorge imagined the newspaper headlines he wanted to read after the fact:
No more cash in Stockholm’s ATMs—the robbers got their hands on a record sum. The coup that outdid all previous coups. The biggest CIT heist ever
.
The latest recruits: two Svens.
That was the Finn’s original order: “You need a few real Swedes too. To get tools, vehicles, and things like that. People who have more connections in the construction business than you do.”
Jorge didn’t protest. Tom Lehtimäki suggested names. They discussed back and forth. Who you could trust. Who was 100 percent.
Jorge had individual meetings with the two guys Tom suggested.
One of the dudes was named Jimmy. Tiler who reported zero but hauled in cash through off-the-books gigs and flipped construction machinery online. The guy: overly positive, super into it, totally on board.
The other dude: more calm. Talked like he already knew all there was to know. Still, gave off a good vibe—the guy didn’t seem dumb. Ran his own business. Worked with cars and boats. Drove a BMW X6. His name was Viktor.
Tom said Viktor was desperate for cash. The guy’s business was apparently sinking, even if he claimed the opposite. And he was loaded with private debt all the way up to his plucked eyebrows. Jorge saw possibilities: a dude who oughta be prepared to take care of the dirty work.
Jorge thanked Tom for the tips—these guys would be assets.
Jorge and Mahmud met the Finn one more time.
This time: somewhere completely different. The dude: nasty smart—if they’d been snitches, they wouldn’t have been able to tell the five-oh where they were meeting.
Jorge and Mahmud made up different names for him. The Architect, the Planner, the Brain.
They drove the Södra länken highway, the tunnel, straight out toward Nacka.
The regular car, the pickup. But
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