The van stopped behind a cart carrying people carrying farm tools. The oax driven cart was weird compared to the sprinter carrying Sven, Jonathan and the rest of the men.
The trip to Norrkoping had done its work on Jonathan. As he stepped out he stretched his legs to ease the tension on his knees.
Jonathan looked around, the city was everything he expected and then some. While Oksjo had a dozen houses, a dozen prefabricated ones, a stable and the mansion. Norrkoping was an entire city. They had passed three defensive lines with checkpoints to enter the city center.
The city center was big especially for a Swedish city. The main headquarter were the talks were to be held was on an artificial island about 1 square kilometer just in the middle of the city. It was connected to the rest of the cities with two small bridges not even twenty meters long. But they were filled with sandbag positions, barb wires and concrete barriers who forces anyone passing to zigzag.
Jonathan stared at one of the bridges and the island. A big industrial like building stood on it. He had heard that it was a factory ages ago, but it had been turned into a museum. Now the people of Norrkoping. Had recycled the older machines to put into use in the other parts of the cities. Mainly in a munition factory, powered by the river current.
A man walked through the bridge and shaked hands with Sven. They exchanged curtesies while Jonathan a few meters away reciprocated the odd look people gave him.
The folks in Norrkoping looked more like medieval serfs than the upper class professionals people who inhabited this city just a few years ago. They must have arrived at the end of the work day. The people reminded Jonathan of drawings from his old school books. They looked like Victorian era factory workers to farm hands and everything in between as they made their way through the streets.
He had heard that allot of people lived here, but it didn’t prepare him to the sight of the city being so busy at some points that they barely could drive. There were makeshift bunkers and soldiers, inspecting papers at nearly every crossroad making sure the people had access to the district they were moving in. It reminded Jonathan of those pictures of military checkpoints in occupied Palestine. Lines of people tirelessly waiting for access to the next district in unending queues.
“Jonathan!” Amir’s voice cut through his thoughts. Jonathan snapped back to attention and noticed Sven, along with Amir, Peter, Milan, Inge, and three men from the home guard, waiting in a small circle.
Jonathan quickly apologized and walked over. Sven pointed at the building behind them, overlooking the island and the river. “We’ll be staying here. I’ll give you some papers you can’t afford to lose. If you misplace them, good luck explaining who you are and getting back to us. They’ll detain you on sight without those. We’ve got the entire fifth floor to ourselves. Make sure to bring everything up there—don’t leave anything in the van unless you want it stolen and the window smashed. It’s 5 PM now, so we’ll meet back at 8 PM once I have more info about tomorrow.”
“A few more things: No long weapons are allowed around here. I managed to get us permission to carry our pistols, but keep them out of sight—no showing them off. I want at least two people in the loft at all times. But honestly, there’s no reason for anyone to be wandering around, so it’s best if you just stay put.” Amir, who was in charge of security, chimed in with a nod.
“Me, Christian and Fredrik will stay with Sven and Inge at all times. Jonathan you stick with Milan. You two stay out of trouble” Amir added.
Jonathan dropped his kitbag and backpack next to the sofa that would be his bed for the next few days. As he stared at the rest of the crew settling in, Amir who had the sofa in front of him was unloading his rifle before placing it under the cushion keeping it out of sight. Jonathan did the same, removing the magazine and making sure no round was chambered. The last thing he needed was it firing a shot if someone accidentally sat on it.
The loft was big and spacious even with nine people staying in it. Peter was busy on the island counter cutting up vegetables. Jonathan made his way to the terrace and looked down the streets. There were less people going around but there was still movement. He saw what looked like a line of soldier marching in line from the “island” and towards the city, led by someone who would look like an officer if it wasn’t for the beanie, aviator sunglasses and leather jacket. There was a line going down the street from one of the buildings across the street. People slowly entered, all with metal tins or wooden plates. Most entered and ate inside but a few exited with their food. He couldn’t make up what it was but he could bet it wasn’t of the same quality as Oksjo judging by the length of the queue.
Jonathan unbuttoned the top of his flannel shirt, trying to cool off. He noticed people down by the river, some lying around and others swimming, and couldn’t help but wish he could join them.
He headed back to his kit bag and pulled out a glasses case that he used to protect something special. Carefully, he opened it, making sure the necklace inside didn’t slip out. He stared at it for a moment, checking for any damage. The necklace didn’t look cheap, and he couldn’t tell if the crystal was naturally red or just tinted that way.
He’d found it in the pocket of one of the first Swedes who welcomed him to the beach near Malm?. He’d been carrying it with him ever since, but he still wasn’t sure if he’d give it to Skadi.
He slipped the necklace back into the case and tucked it into his pants pocket. The Multicam pattern on his pants was barely visible, worn down by dirt and countless hand washes. He checked his pistol, securing it in the holster on his belt before covering it with his flannel shirt.
“I’m going for a walk” Jonathan said, his mind racing, imagining twenty different scenarios at once.
"Make sure you're back by 8," Amir said, his voice steady as he stood in front of the bathroom mirror, carefully shaving. His wavy black hair, threaded with streaks of white, framed his face with effortless charm. There was a quiet grace to his movements, and whether he was speaking or silently focused on the task at hand, he had a way of making people feel at ease—a calm reassurance that words could never quite convey.
“It’d be king of the world if I looked like you, you know that?” Jonathan said, pulling a fresh pack of homemade cigarettes from his backpack with a casual grin.
“Should’ve been Lebanese then,” Amir quipped, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. From the corner of his eye, he caught Jonathan slipping two packs into his pants side pocket, the subtle gesture looking less like preparation for a smoke and more like he was gearing up to bribe someone.
Outside, the streets were packed again; it seemed most people had finished their early dinners.
As Jonathan approached the first checkpoint, he reminded himself of the privilege he had in this place. Skirting the long line, he made his way to the guard stationed by the service door. The guy had an older AK5 slung casually. The soldiers he had fought alongside in Lysekil seemed worlds apart from the guards here. These ones looked like they were just in it for the small perks, not the hard work. The guard had one foot propped up on the magazine of his rifle, which stood upright with its stock on the ground.
“Yo, where’s the hospital?” Jonathan asked, catching the guard off guard.
“How about you stand in line before I give you a real reason to go to the hospital?” the guard shot back, clearly annoyed by Jonathan’s boldness.
“Yeah, I forgot,” Jonathan said, pulling out the badge that hung around his neck, hidden under his flannel shirt. The guard’s eyes darted from the badge to Jonathan’s face. It was a rough-looking badge with a blue outline, marking Jonathan’s status. His first and last name, settlement of origin were printed on it, along with a physical description and height and multiple stamps from Oksjo and Norrkoping. The guard read the attached description of Jonathan: “Dark hair, Brown eyes. 1m80. Scar above his eye and on his left hand.” He took a long look at Jonathan before his demeanor shifted.
"You take the right at the third crossroad. Corner of Tunnbindaregatan and Bredgatan," the guard instructed, standing upright and gripping his rifle properly before opening the service gate.
"Good man!" Jonathan replied with a grin, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and offering two to the guard. The guard surprised by the gesture smiled, accepting the offer.
"Jon, let him through!" the guard called out with a grin, signaling to his colleague.
Jonathan took a long drag from his cigarette as he walked, his eyes catching on a body hanging by its neck from a crane, swaying gently in the wind. He tried to recall when he first picked up the habit of smoking as he read the word "rapist" scrawled on the board hanging around the man's neck.
The figure hanging to the left was grotesquely bloated, its swollen face straining against the noose. A sign on this one read, "I ate my neighbor's dog."
Jonathan almost chuckled, wondering if each board was customized for the crime or if there was a warehouse somewhere stocked with pre-made signs, ready for any offense.
Jonathan knocked on the glass door, waiting to be let in. He could see people inside who had noticed him but made no move to open the door. After a few moments, an older African woman in nurse scrubs shuffled past two half-asleep guards slouched on a bench. Calling this place a hospital was generous—it had "clinic" written on the sign, and from the faded posters, Jonathan guessed it had been some sort of palliative care facility before everything went downhill. He hoped that wasn’t why she had ended up here.
The nurse fumbled with a keyring heavy with at least a dozen keys, finally managing to unlock the door.
"Can I help you?" she asked, cracking the door open just halfway.
"Yeah, I’m here to visit someone," Jonathan replied.
"And who might that be?"
"Skadi. I don’t know her last name—Norwegian girl, one of your soldiers."
The woman nodded slightly. "She’s upstairs, but visiting hours ended half an hour ago."
The idea of “visiting hours” in such a world frustrated Jonathan. "Can you make an exception, please?" Jonathan asked.
"I’m sorry, boy, rules are rules. You’re not family, so I can’t let you in at all. Come back tomorrow at 9, and we’ll send someone up to ask if she wants to see you," the nurse said, her tone firm but not unkind.
“Thanks.” Jonathan answered degeated. Any other time or place he would have been more persistent. But he couldn’t start trouble. The lady closed the door before walking back to her seat.
Rain pattered against the window as Jonathan jolted awake from someone shaking his shoulder. He instinctively reached for his pistol before recognizing Milan’s shadowy form in the dim light from the building across the river.
“Get dressed, follow me,” Milan said, his tone soft but authoritative.
“Where to?” Jonathan mumbled, rubbing his eyes and glancing at his watch. Being woken up by Milan at a quarter to eleven to head outside was far from reassuring.
“You don’t want to spend your Friday night inside. Not in this city,” Milan said quietly, careful not to wake anyone else.
As they approached the warehouse gate, the music grew louder and louder. Jonathan had just checked his pistol a few moments earlier, using the shadows for cover to remain unseen.
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The three guards at the gate gave Milan a nod of recognition. They looked more like Russian mobsters than the Swedish soldiers Jonathan had seen earlier. One of the guards, holding an AK, opened the door.
The blue light from the strobe blinded Jonathan momentarily until his eyes adjusted. The music hit his eardrums as forcefully as his machine gun would have. Inside, the place was packed. Most of the crowd was young, many topless, dancing in a trance-like frenzy. Jonathan weaved through the sea of people, doing his best to keep up with Milan and not lose sight of him. Despite his focus, he tried his best to focus while his mind was dragging him back kicking and screaming to the wild nights he had spent raving in Denmark.
Milan pushed his way through the crowd to the makeshift bar. A girl with a black crew cut and facial piercings navigated her way from across the bar to stand in front of him and Jonathan.
“Two,” Milan said, holding up two fingers. He pulled a single 5.56 round from his magazine, which Jonathan had noticed he was carrying around without a rifle earlier.
The girl moved to a beer vat and filled two plastic cups with a brownish beer. She handed one to Jonathan, her tone matter-of-fact.
“Lose the plastic cups, and you’ll either get a beating or end up spending two days behind the bar,” she warned, noticing Jonathan’s confused look and realizing he was new to this scene.
Milan pushed his way through the crowd to the makeshift bar. A girl with a black crew cut and facial piercings navigated her way from across the bar to stand in front of him and Jonathan.
“Two,” Milan said, holding up two fingers. He pulled two 5.56 round from his magazine, which Jonathan had noticed he was carrying around without a rifle earlier.
The girl moved to a beer vat and filled two plastic cups with a brownish beer. She handed one to Jonathan, her tone matter-of-fact.
“Lose the plastic cups, and you’ll either get a beating or end up spending two days behind the bar washing glasses,” she warned, noticing Jonathan’s confused look and realizing he was new to this scene.
“Not that I don’t enjoy this, but why did you bring me here.” Jonathan said before taking a sip from the sour ale. He knew he couldn’t count on Tuborg being around, but this makeshift beer would have to do.
“Got to meet someone, they know we’re here. I need you to be my extra set of eyes. I don’t need your mouth so be quiet and don’t say anything.” Milan said as he swallowed his ale with ease.
As if on queue. A girl who was dancing a few meters next to them turned around, her demeanor changing from a topless raving teenager to a professional as she approached.
“Asher and Karim will have you now,” she said, her voice cutting through the music effortlessly.
“Finish your beer, leave the cup,” Milan instructed, urging Jonathan to drink up. Without waiting, Milan started moving quickly, Jonathan struggling to keep pace as they followed the girl through the throng of bodies.
The rhythmic, trance-like music, the smell of sweat, and the oppressive warmth were almost too much for Jonathan to handle. The crowd seemed indifferent to him one moment, then suddenly focused on him the next. Anxious, he navigated through the sea of dancing bodies, nearly reaching for his pistol when he mistook one of the dancers for a lunatic. Faces around him were a blur—he couldn’t tell if they were looking at him or staring right past him. Sweat, not just from the heat, trickled down his face as he desperately tried to keep up with Milan.
The girl opened a door, her way mechanical and focused as she entered, said something to the people inside before making her way back outside, her demeanor changing again back to a careless partying teenager as she passed Jonathan.
Milan and Jonathan entered. Three men were sitting around a table with a deck of cards. All wore high end military equipment, their assault rifles a far cry from the old ak5’s the guards carried around in this city. One of them even had a modern Kalashnikov. Its wooden fixture replaced by black polymer, rails, lazers and a thermal scope on top.
Those men were a league of their own, Jonathan nervously removed his badge from under his flannel shirt, exposing it to the room. The three men and Milan gave him a stern look before bursting in laughter.
Jonathan’s heart raced as the men laughed, their amusement clear at the sight of his semi-official badge. It was evident that in this underworld, his badge held no weight. Milan, unfazed by the reaction, stepped forward and began shaking hands with the three men, his demeanor shifting to one of casual confidence.
“Gentlemen,” Milan said smoothly, his demeanor relaxed as he greeted the men. “Good to see you all.”
The men responded with firm handshakes and nods, their earlier laughter fading. Milan gave Jonathan a nod. “This is Jonathan.”
“Back from cow country so soon, eh, Milan?” one of the men remarked, his thick accent and distinctively Arab features, along with a few tattoos Jonathan couldn’t decipher, making him stand out.
“I missed the smog,” Milan replied, handing over his revolver. The man accepted it with a smile and quickly checked his pocket.Another man, a large, muscular figure with a Slavic appearance, began frisking Jonathan. Speaking in what Jonathan recognized as Russian, the man removed Jonathan’s pistol from its holster.
“Everything’s good, Jonathan,” Milan said, trying to offer some reassurance.
“They’ll will see you now. Stay after you’re done so we can catch up,” the Arabic man said with a smile, as one of his colleagues guided Jonathan and Milan up the metal stairs.
The metal staircase, with its cold, industrial feel, wound upward through the cavernous warehouse, each step clanging underfoot. The space was dimly lit, casting long shadows that danced on the walls as Jonathan and Milan ascended. Below them, the thumping bass of the rave pulsed through the building, flashes of colorful lights and the chaotic energy of the crowd filtering up to where they walked.
They followed the guard along the metal platform until they reached an office overlooking the warehouse floor. The guard knocked, and after a brief pause, someone opened the door and motioned for Jonathan and Milan to enter.
The man who greeted them appeared to be in his early thirties, with Arabic features and a shirt that Jonathan could have sworn belonged to Storstockholms Lokaltrafik, the public transportation company. Behind a desk, another man stood, holding a radio headset. He acknowledged Milan and Jonathan with a quick nod, signaling them to take a seat across from him as he wrapped up his conversation.
This man was around the same age as the first, with short, curly hair and olive skin, slightly lighter in tone. His demeanor was calm but focused as he concluded his communication.
Karim, the man who had escorted them up, brought out a metal teapot and two sets of clean, Arabic-style glasses. Without offering them a choice, he poured the tea with practiced skill, raising the pot high as he filled the glasses, allowing the liquid to aerate and enhance its flavor. The warm drink was placed in front of them, a subtle gesture of hospitality that contrasted sharply with the tension in the room.
“Thank you, Karim,” the man behind the desk said, his voice carrying a calm authority. He finally took a seat himself, resting his hands on the table as he studied Jonathan and Milan, his expression unreadable.
“That guy is not Polish,” Asher said, his tone serious but with a hint of friendliness.
“No, that guy’s back in Oksj?,” Milan replied, taking a sip of the tea. He winced slightly, having underestimated its warmth. “The kid’s good, though,” he added, his eyes flicking toward Jonathan.
Asher turned his attention to Jonathan, switching effortlessly to clear Danish. “You’re from Copenhagen, right?”
“Yes, around there,” Jonathan answered, slightly taken aback. For a brief moment, it felt as if he’d forgotten how to speak his mother tongue.
“Be precise,” Asher pressed, studying Jonathan’s face closely.
“Hellerup,” Jonathan answered, a hint of defiance in his tone. “Grew up there. Lived in Friheden with my uncle, his beautiful wife, and their dog. Then in Frederiksberg on my own, with a transgender foreign exchange student and some rugby jock.” His tone turned nearly mocking, but Milan shot him a cold, hard stare, a silent warning to watch his words.
Asher’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes seemed to sharpen, taking in the nuances of Jonathan’s response. He leaned back slightly in his chair, considering the young man in front of him. "Quite the mix," he finally said, his voice carrying a touch of amusement.
“Don’t worry, I’m not here to practice my Danish with you,” Asher added with a smirk, handing out cigarettes to the others before lighting one for himself.
“How’s your Danish so good?” Jonathan couldn’t help but ask, despite Milan shooting him another long, warning glare.
Asher smiled, taking a drag from his cigarette. “Ex-wife is Danish, I lived there for five years” he explained casually. “I speak Swedish, Hebrew, English, Russian, and a bit of Turkish as well. Karim over there won’t teach me Moroccan,” he added, leaning back further in his chair, his tone relaxed.
“Tell me, Karim, why won’t you teach me Moroccan?” Asher asked in a playful tone, though there was an underlying edge that seemed to make Milan visibly tense.
Karim, who had been quietly observing the exchange, just shrugged with a faint smile but didn’t respond.
Asher turned back to Milan, his demeanor shifting to something more businesslike. “Anyway, about tomorrow’s meeting, Milan. Sven knows the marching order, I hope?” Asher leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, his eyes locking onto Milan’s with a seriousness that left no room for misinterpretation.
“He’s even more convinced than I am,” Milan said, trying to reassure Asher. “Didn’t even need to talk to the committee—he handled them on his own without giving any details. No one knows of this.”
Asher took another slow drag from his cigarette, his gaze steady. “He knows about our extra demand?” he asked, his tone calm but with an unmistakable edge.
Milan hesitated for just a moment, choosing his words carefully. “He’s...” He trailed off, clearly weighing how to respond.
“He is?” Asher pressed, his eyes narrowing slightly as he fixed his gaze on Milan, searching for any sign of uncertainty or hesitation.
Milan straightened up, meeting Asher’s intense scrutiny. “He’s aware,” he finally said, his voice steady. “And he’s on board. No doubts.”
Jonathan struggled to suppress his curiosity, every fiber of his being urging him to dig for more information. But seeing Milan’s transformation—from a confident businessman to someone who now seemed like a scared school kid—was unsettling. It was clear that Asher and Karim weren’t to be trifled with. They looked like the kind of B-movie gangsters who wouldn’t hesitate to break kneecaps and toss someone into the trunk of a BMW. Jonathan decided it was best to keep his mouth shut and focus on his tea.
“You were the one who took down those tanks and shot your way out of that mall full of freaks, right?” Karim asked, his tone surprisingly calm.
Jonathan didn’t reply, but the question hung in the air like smoke, heavy and laced with unspoken danger.
“That and more,” Asher cut in, his voice carrying a mix of admiration and menace. “The guy’s left a trail of bodies from Copenhagen all the way here. Shame your Polish friend isn’t around too, or the rest of that ‘Adventure movie’ crew,” he added with a smirk. “But that Amir guy is more than reliable. You and him will get the job done.”
Asher’s words, though framed in a friendly tone, had an underlying threat that wasn’t lost on Jonathan. He forced himself to take another sip of tea, the warmth doing little to ease the cold knot forming in his stomach.
“The guys we sent to help you with Lysekil talked about you like you were David—” Asher began, making an exaggerated hand gesture as he searched for the name.
“David Hoggins,” Karim interjected as he looked down below to the hall.
“Exactly, David Hoggins, that’s what Oscar said!”” Asher continued, nodding. “Also, apparently you got close to that Norwegian girl? She’s got what, four years left in her contract? If you handle this right, we’ll even add her to the deal. She can go free, whether she wants to follow you back to cow country or not.”
Jonathan fought to maintain his composure. If he’d had his pistol, he’d have been preparing it for whatever might happen next.
“Milan will fill you in on what needs to be done,” Asher said, his tone growing more clipped. “Playing mercenary isn’t just about killing freaks, fascists, or whoever you don’t get along with. It’s time you actually get your hands dirty instead of play-acting in some gun ho Little House on the Prairie fantasy.”
Asher’s frustration was evident, and his anger seemed to rise as he spoke. “Now, piss off. I’ve got work to do. If you want alcohol or girls tonight, tell the guys downstairs it’s on my tab.” He dismissed them with a wave of his hand, closing the conversation.
Jonathan watched as Asher’s irritation lingered. He and Milan made their way back down the metal stairs, the guards downstairs noting how pale they both looked even in the darkness of the dimly lit warehouse. No pleasantries with them were exchanged as they made their way out.
Jonathan’s watch beeped, pulling him out of the haze of mental exhaustion. It was 3 a.m., and the small cafeteria across the street from their place had a few patrons. Two quiet groups of guards were scattered around, either wrapping up their shifts or just starting their day. They looked worn out, a sharp contrast to Jonathan and Milan, who seemed like they’d just been hit with a ton of bricks.
Milan’s hand shook as he downed a glass of vodka, the stress evident in his eyes. After one hour of arguing and yelling with Jonathan and Amir he was at his limit aswell. After Milan’s brief explanation of who they were, no one said much more. Asher and Karim’s prison break during the collapse of society spoke volumes about their street cred. Norrk?ping had dug itself deep by relying on these guys for funds while trying to rebuild. Getting entangled with a mob of hundreds, all heavily armed and always a step ahead, was a bigger concern than clean water or dealing with the lunatics. And now Jonathan and Amir learned that Oksjo had also fallen in the trap. The anger of Milan and Sven hiding this from them was as big as the ulcer they got from realizing they owed those men allot.
“Fucking moron!” Jonathan blurted out, his voice sharp and cutting through the tense air as the reality of the situation hit him. Heads turned—soldiers paused mid-bite, the clatter of kitchen utensils stilled. A string of rapid Danish curses tumbled from his lips, leaving everyone in the room startled, except for Amir and Milan. Milan, still pale, focused on pouring himself another drink, his trembling hands betraying his nerves. Amir, meanwhile, ran a hand through his hair, which somehow felt as though it was greying with every passing second.
“Hassshhhh!” Jonathan roared, burying his face in his hands, overwhelmed by frustration and the mess they were stuck in.
“How much do we owe them?” Jonathan demanded, his voice edged with frustration. Milan, still gripping his glass like it was a lifeline, didn’t respond right away.
Jonathan’s patience snapped. He grabbed the empty bottle from the table and hurled it across the cafeteria, shattering it against the wall. “How much?” he shouted again, his face flushed with anger.
“Hey, fucking calm down!” one of the guards yelled from across the room, clearly unsettled by the outburst.
Milan, clearly shaken, tried to regain his composure. “If we do this, we’re good,” he said, attempting to soothe the situation as the few kitchen staff caught on to what was happening.
Jonathan’s anger was tangible, radiating off him like heat. He let out a low, guttural roar, his fists clenching at his sides as he fought the urge to lash out. The bitter realization that a portion of Oksj?’s wealth had been built on the debt Milan had recklessly piled onto them gnawed at him, fueling his fury. The thought of putting a round in Milan’s face flickered in his mind, dark and tempting, but he forced it back. The weight of Oksj?’s safety—of his friends, their futures, and everyone who depended on them—pressed heavily on his shoulders, shared only with Amir. That burden felt impossibly heavy now, threatening to crush the composure he desperately tried to maintain.
