years later, he hit back. But that episode was minor compared to the stories of other inmates.
If he was wronged, he always took vengeance—maybe sooner, maybe later, but without question. He saw no alternatives, though he didn’t tell the shrink that.
The psychologist had done her homework. She knew Larsson had gone to the Helsinki School of Economics and wondered why he had become a career criminal when he had the opportunity for honorable work.
Larsson had ended the conversation then and there, and had asked the guard to escort him back to his cell. Honorable work. What was honorable about raking in five grand a month as the VP of some company? He didn’t want to be like his father. Damned middle-class dreams of a house and car. Larsson was interested in money and power, both of which he obtained through violence.
Of course, her next question would have been what it feels like to commit a crime. That was just a stupid question. It didn’t feel like anything. Was it supposed to feel like something? It just happened—nothing special about it. He could have proved it with a few left hooks, but that would just have lengthened his sentence.
Larsson had never regretted the choices he had made. His fellow business students had been good customers of his small-time marijuana operation. At its peak, he had earned about twenty grand a month. Larsson had hunted down the guy who had ratted him out to Narcotics. His first stretch in prison lasted a year. After that, Tomi had paid for his betrayal in cash, and received two broken arms as a bonus. Say you fell on your rollerblades, Larsson had barked as he left Tomi groaning on the floor of his apartment.
The rat hadn’t dared to go to the cops again.
Maybe he should pay another visit to Tomi, just out of principle. Maybe the guy would have a wife, two kids, a house and a nice car. He could repo the car as additional compensation for the old offense. Interest was always accruing. At least it would be fun to see the look on Tomi’s face when he rang the doorbell.
Tomi was sound evidence that nobody could be trusted. The guy had bought some weed and got busted soon after. Of course, the chump squealed on the spot. The Skulls were different, though. Trust was sacred within the brotherhood.
Larsson laughed. Just look at Niko Andersson. The guy was fat, ugly and stupid. Years ago, when he was standing trial for a bank robbery, the prosecutor had asked him why he had robbed the bank. Niko said simply, “Because that’s where the money was.” The prosecutor had no further questions.
Niko would never betray him, nor would any of the Skulls’ men. They wouldn’t dare. Tomorrow he’d see his brothers again.
* * *
The ship’s hull was neon green, with a giant ribbon pattern woven through the middle. It reminded Suhonen of the flames that biker gangs used to decorate their leathers. As it neared the wharf, the dull yellow floodlights of the West Harbor softened the bright paintwork on the ship.
The undercover cop had heard from Estonia that the woman had boarded the ship alone. She had been wearing a dark red coat, a skirt and black leather boots.
Suhonen and Toukola ducked out of the walkway into a small control room, which was equipped with numerous CCTV monitors that displayed security footage from the passenger gangway. The room was also fitted with tinted glass, through which they could observe the passengers leaving the ship. The control room was situated so that travelers approached straight toward the window, and then curved left to the Customs checkpoint.
Toukola was a small forty-year-old man whose quick movements evoked those of a weasel. Suhonen had heard that Toukola played bass in the Narcotics department’s band. The man’s brown hair just touched his shoulders and he was wearing a black track jacket and jeans.
Suhonen and
If he was wronged, he always took vengeance—maybe sooner, maybe later, but without question. He saw no alternatives, though he didn’t tell the shrink that.
The psychologist had done her homework. She knew Larsson had gone to the Helsinki School of Economics and wondered why he had become a career criminal when he had the opportunity for honorable work.
Larsson had ended the conversation then and there, and had asked the guard to escort him back to his cell. Honorable work. What was honorable about raking in five grand a month as the VP of some company? He didn’t want to be like his father. Damned middle-class dreams of a house and car. Larsson was interested in money and power, both of which he obtained through violence.
Of course, her next question would have been what it feels like to commit a crime. That was just a stupid question. It didn’t feel like anything. Was it supposed to feel like something? It just happened—nothing special about it. He could have proved it with a few left hooks, but that would just have lengthened his sentence.
Larsson had never regretted the choices he had made. His fellow business students had been good customers of his small-time marijuana operation. At its peak, he had earned about twenty grand a month. Larsson had hunted down the guy who had ratted him out to Narcotics. His first stretch in prison lasted a year. After that, Tomi had paid for his betrayal in cash, and received two broken arms as a bonus. Say you fell on your rollerblades, Larsson had barked as he left Tomi groaning on the floor of his apartment.
The rat hadn’t dared to go to the cops again.
Maybe he should pay another visit to Tomi, just out of principle. Maybe the guy would have a wife, two kids, a house and a nice car. He could repo the car as additional compensation for the old offense. Interest was always accruing. At least it would be fun to see the look on Tomi’s face when he rang the doorbell.
Tomi was sound evidence that nobody could be trusted. The guy had bought some weed and got busted soon after. Of course, the chump squealed on the spot. The Skulls were different, though. Trust was sacred within the brotherhood.
Larsson laughed. Just look at Niko Andersson. The guy was fat, ugly and stupid. Years ago, when he was standing trial for a bank robbery, the prosecutor had asked him why he had robbed the bank. Niko said simply, “Because that’s where the money was.” The prosecutor had no further questions.
Niko would never betray him, nor would any of the Skulls’ men. They wouldn’t dare. Tomorrow he’d see his brothers again.
* * *
The ship’s hull was neon green, with a giant ribbon pattern woven through the middle. It reminded Suhonen of the flames that biker gangs used to decorate their leathers. As it neared the wharf, the dull yellow floodlights of the West Harbor softened the bright paintwork on the ship.
The undercover cop had heard from Estonia that the woman had boarded the ship alone. She had been wearing a dark red coat, a skirt and black leather boots.
Suhonen and Toukola ducked out of the walkway into a small control room, which was equipped with numerous CCTV monitors that displayed security footage from the passenger gangway. The room was also fitted with tinted glass, through which they could observe the passengers leaving the ship. The control room was situated so that travelers approached straight toward the window, and then curved left to the Customs checkpoint.
Toukola was a small forty-year-old man whose quick movements evoked those of a weasel. Suhonen had heard that Toukola played bass in the Narcotics department’s band. The man’s brown hair just touched his shoulders and he was wearing a black track jacket and jeans.
Suhonen and
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