The Rabbit Hunter. Ларс Кеплер
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lets go of the chair and walks straight into the big kitchen, her eyes darting across the white floorboards and stainless steel countertops.
He follows with measured steps.
She remembers being chased as part of a game when she was little: the feeling of impotence when she realised her pursuer was so close that there was no chance of escape.
Sofia leans against the countertop for support and manages to knock a pair of glasses and an unusual-looking bracelet to the floor.
She doesn’t know what to do. She looks over at the closed patio doors, then goes over to the island unit which has two sparkling saucepans standing on top of it, and yanks the drawers open with shaking hands, panting hard. She finds herself staring at a row of knives.
The man comes into the kitchen and she picks up one of the knives and turns to face him, backing away slowly. He stares at her, clutching a soot-stained poker from the fireplace in both hands.
She holds the broad-bladed kitchen knife up at him, but realises immediately that she doesn’t stand a chance.
He could easily kill her. His weapon is much heavier.
The alarm is still shrieking. The soles of her feet are stinging from where she’s cut them, and her injured hand feels numb.
‘Please, stop,’ she gasps, backing into the island unit. ‘Let’s go back to bed, I promise, I won’t give you any trouble.’
She shows him the knife, then puts it down on the stainless steel countertop and tries to smile at him.
‘I’m still going to hit you,’ he says.
‘You don’t have to do that,’ she pleads. She feels like she’s losing control of her face.
‘I’m going to hurt you badly,’ he says, raising the improvised weapon above his head.
‘Please, I give up, I—’
‘You only have yourself to blame,’ he interrupts, then unexpectedly lets go of the poker.
It falls heavily to the floor with a clatter, then lies still. Ash flies up from the prongs.
The man smiles in surprise, then looks down at the circle of blood spreading out from his chest.
‘What the hell?’ he whispers. He fumbles for support with one hand, but misses the countertop and staggers.
Another bloodstain appears in the middle of his white shirt. The red wounds on his body blossom like stigmata.
The man presses one hand to his chest and starts to stumble towards the dining room, but stops and turns his blood-smeared palm over. He looks like a frightened child. He tries to say something before sinking to his knees.
Blood squirts out onto the floor in front of him.
The alarm is still blaring.
Sofia sees a man with a very oddly-shaped head over by the pale curtains.
He is standing with his feet wide apart, and he’s holding a pistol with both hands.
His face is completely covered by a black balaclava apart for his mouth and eyes. What look like strands of hair or stiff scraps of fabric hang down one cheek.
Wille presses his hand to his chest again, but the blood seeps through his fingers and down his arm.
Sofia turns unsteadily and looks straight at the man with the gun. Without taking his eyes from Wille, he takes one hand off the pistol and quickly snatches up the two spent shells from the floor.
He runs forward, passing her as if she doesn’t exist. He kicks the poker away with his military boot, grabs Wille by the hair, yanks his head back, and presses the barrel of the pistol against his right eye.
This is an execution, Sofia thinks, and walks towards the living room as if in a dream. She hits her hip against the edge of the counter, and slides her hand along it. As she passes the two men, a shiver runs down her spine and she starts to run but slips in the blood. Her feet slide away from her, and she falls back and hits her head hard on the floor.
Her vision blurs and goes black for a moment, then she opens her eyes again.
She sees that he hasn’t pulled the trigger yet, the barrel is still pressing softly against Wille’s closed eyelid.
The back of Sofia’s head is burning and throbbing.
Her vision is unfocused, everything is spinning. What she had thought were rough leather strips hanging down the man’s cheek now look more like wet feathers or matted hair.
She shuts her eyes as dizziness clutches at her, then hears voices above the loud wail of the alarm.
‘Wait, wait,’ Wille pleads, breathing fast. ‘You think you know what’s going on, but you don’t.’
‘I know that Ratjen opened the door and now …’
‘Who’s Ratjen?’ Wille gasps.
‘And now hell is going to devour you all,’ the masked man concludes.
They stop talking and Sofia opens her eyes again. A peculiar slow motion seems to have taken hold of the house. The masked man looks at his watch, then whispers something to Wille.
He doesn’t answer, but looks like he understands. Blood is welling from his stomach, pouring down to his crotch. It forms a puddle on the floor.
Sofia sees that his glasses are lying beside her on the floor, next to the object she initially thought was a bracelet.
Now she realises that it’s a personal alarm.
A small steel gadget with two buttons, attached to a watch-strap.
The masked man is standing perfectly still, looking at his victim.
Sofia carefully moves her hand sideways towards the alarm, tucks it against her body and presses the buttons several times.
Nothing happens.
The man lets go of Wille’s hair but continues to press the barrel of the pistol to his right eye. He waits a few seconds, then squeezes the trigger.
There’s a loud click as the bolt hits home. Wille’s head is thrown back and blood cascades from his skull. Fragments of bone and grey matter spray across the kitchen floor, all the way to the dining room.
Sofia feels warm drops spatter her lips as she sees the empty cartridge fall and bounce across the floor.
A cloud of grey powder hangs in the air, and the dead body falls like a sack of wet clothes to the floor and lies there motionless.
The masked man bends over to pick up the shell and his watch slips down towards the back of his hand.
He stands with his legs on either side of the dead body, leans forward and presses the barrel of the pistol to the corpse’s other eye. Then he flicks his head to shake what looks like matted hair away from his face before squeezing the trigger again.
Her work phone’s ringtone becomes part of a dream about a stream running through dense vegetation. A moment later Saga Bauer is wrenched from sleep and gets out of bed so fast that she drags the covers onto the floor.
She hurries over to the gun-cabinet in her underwear as she dials the number she knows by heart. The glow of the streetlights filters through the slats of the blind, illuminating her sinuous legs and naked back.
She quickly unlocks the heavy steel door and listens to the instructions on the phone as she pulls out a black bag, and tucks a holstered Glock 21, along with five spare magazines, into it.
Saga Bauer works as an operative with the Security Police, specialising in counter-terrorism.
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