Category: Writing (page 2 of 3)

Posts about writing and/or selling books.

The impossible made possible

To ancient man, the oceans were not barriers, but pathways.

– Thor Heyerdahl

69 years ago, an anthropologist – who had been doomed to fail by an entire scientific world – banded together an unlikely crew consisting of a navigator and artist, a fridge selling engineer, a couple of telegraph operators and a Swede, and set sail from the port of Callao heading for Polynesia.

But what they were sailing was not a boat, it was a fleet constructed from balsa wood.

The original Kon Tiki

The original Kon Tiki

Everyone who heard about the adventure thought they sailed to their certain death. But 101 days later, they surfed over the Raroia-reef and showed the world that the impossible was possible.

There aren’t many places abroad that one can get a close encounter with Norwegian history. Norwegians are a rare breed, and we keep mostly to ourselves. Even when we were going to be imperialists, we happened upon some of the most remote pieces of land known to man, land that no one else cared about.

But the port of Callao, half a world away from Norway as the crow flies, is one of the places where Norwegians have not only made their mark. From the port of Callao, we changed world history. Perhaps Polynesia was not populated from the east, but that is only a footnote. Thor Heyerdahl showed the world that pre-Incan civilizations could sail, and that they have had contact with Polynesia has later been proven.

Me, at the port in Callao

Me, at the port in Callao

On the twenty eight of April, 1947, an adventure was started that made Norwegians large not only in their own eyes, but in the world’s. As I sit here watching the sea and thinking about the fact that the palm trees that grow behind me have probably been there since 1947, it strikes me that this place, which in some ways looks like any major port in the world, is a temple to something as un-norwegian as standing out. If the Law of Jante is yin, this place is its yang.

The law of Jante states in part: “You should not think you are better than us.”

A cannon in the port of Callao

A cannon in the port of Callao

Thor Heyerdahl not only thought, but knew he was better than the rest of the scientific world, and he proved it beyond a shadow of a doubt. If you as a Norwegian have been wondering about the reach of the Law of Jante, I now have the definitive answer: it extends to Callao.


Trouble in Trondheim was reviewed by Ida Elise Østberg of ByMarlida, and received three of five stars. I’m so grateful!

I hope this is not the last we see of Kurt Hammer, because he is a main character I would love to continue to follow throughout more adventures!

– Ida Elise Østberg

The book can be bought now on Amazon, Smashwords, Kobo, and B&N!

Book finally available!

My latest book, Trouble in Trondheim: Bikers and Gangsters, is now finally available in digital stores everywhere! It can be bought at Smashwords, Amazon, Kobo and Nook.


To celebrate, here’s another chapter!

Twenty-sixth of January, 2012

Olyas mother died suddenly. After her coffin was lowered into the earth and the families had departed, Olya was left to herself when she got home.

In her heart, she knew he would come home as he had done countless times before. When she heard the front door being opened just after midnight, it, none the less, presented itself as something of a bad dream.

«Olya, are you at home?! »

She lay with her eyes closed and hoped he wouldn’t come into the room. Was the door locked, was the door locked, was the door locked…

«Why don’t you answer, you cheeky little piece of shit?! »

She opened one eye and peered out from one edge of her quilt. He reeked of Stolichnaya.

«You’re drunk, papi, go and lie down. »

«What, are you talking back to your papi?! You fucking whore! »

He tore off her quilt, lifted her up by the scruff and threw her into the wall.

«It’s your fault that she’s dead, you know? She had heart trouble from taking care of you, you ungrateful … »

She assembled what little she had of powers and butted him headfirst. He staggered a bit before falling, hard. She ran as fast as she could through the hallway, into the kitchen and tore up the nearest kitchen drawer. Panic stricken, she grabbed a bread knife. Then she heard that he had come into the kitchen – with the knife in both hands she turned to face him, horrified.

«What are you going to do?! Come and take me, » he sneered.

Unable to move, she could only stand to see that he approached with unsteady steps on the tattered kitchen rug on the floor. Finally, his face was less than a meter from hers.

The next thing that happened should be seen in light of her mother’s bruised and swollen eyes. Anyone who saw her knew, but no one said anything, not even at the funeral. All the years of beating, name-calling and shit stirring were discharged at the moment she drove the knife into him. A few seconds of silence followed before he whispered;

«Help me, Olya, help me! »

Her thoughts disappeared back to her mother again, she saw her lying in a pool of her own blood in the morning while he slept in in their bedroom. Her beautiful golden hair was sticky and disgusting; she had to help her into the bathroom, undress her, shower her and massage her. All without saying a word – «silence said more than any of us could have formulated by opening our mouths, » she thought.

Her five-year-old self went around him; her twenty-year-old self pulled up the carpet before closing the door behind her.


Among Moscow’s population is whispered a proverb: «Man has not felt cold on his body before he has experienced winter in Moscow. »

Midway between several meter-high snow banks on either side of Tverskaya Street, she was now facing what amounted to miles of shop facades. A few meters beyond the block she lived in some of them were still open, even with thirty degrees below zero outside. On a stand she noticed a newspaper front page with a picture of Putin and his wife. At the top she could read «Divorce» typed in screaming letterheads.

She picked up a copy of a newspaper and went into the little grocery store behind the stand.

«Olya, right? »

She nodded meekly to the bearded giant behind the counter, showed him the newspaper and left a ruble in front of him.

«Condolences! Greet your papi from Oleg, he must be absolutely horrified now … »

She smiled and muttered «Thank you, I will, » before she went out again. No sooner had she closed the door, before she stopped. How was it he had looked at her, the old pig? She tore off a piece of newsprint and wrote down her address. Then she paused for a few seconds, before she adding “30 minutes”. Finally, she went back in, handed him the note and disappeared again without saying a word.

Back in the apartment, she opened the kitchen window onto the side street and aimed at a rubbish container she had opened. Olya summoned superhuman strength, eased her father’s body onto the kitchen counter and pushed it out the window. The fall from the twenty-second floor was spectacular. If he wasn’t already dead, he was guaranteed to be as he landed headfirst far below. She let out an involuntary shout of joy as she slowly became filled with relief over the fact that that as someone found the now dismembered body below, she would be far away.

Soon, a knock could be heard emanating from the front door. No matter how much it filled her with disgust, she forced herself to down a glass of Stolichnaya before she went to open it. In the hallway she walked past a mirror: the dark curls she had from her father were bursting in all directions, but there was nothing she could do about it right now. Her verdigris almond eyes were her best feature, she knew, so she took a little eyeliner from the dresser before she applied a coat of lipstick to her voluptuous lips. The red color matched with the hair and eyes.

«You are one fourth Spanish, » her mother had said one day Olya came home from school. Somehow, she had always known it. «My papi was Spanish, » her mother said with a smile and winked at her. She’d never mentioned him before, but it explained the golden color of their skin. The night had been particularly hard, which was probably the reason she mentioned him now.

«Did he die … » before I was born? »

«He probably did. He lived in Málaga, you see. My mami brought me here just after I was born. She was homesick, but never forgot about papi. »

«Come, » her mother said and pulled her into their bedroom. She sat down onto the bed and patted beside her. «Here, » she said and handed her a faded picture from her wallet. To the left of her mother stood a man with almond eyes, a nose that was slightly too big for his face and an utterly charming smile parked in the middle of a forest of a beard. On his head he wore a sailor’s cap slightly askew.

«He could have been my papi, » said Olya. They smiled at each other for the first time in a long while. With the image of her grandpa fresh in mind, she went and opened the front door.

Oleg was even larger than she remembered. Before he could open his mouth she enunciated an insane sum. He opened his wallet, gave her cash and stepped over the threshold.

A few hours later she stood in one of the counters at Sheremetyevo airport.

«Do you have a ticket to Malaga for eight thousand rubles? »

«Hmm, not until well into the next month, at least … » but you can get to Trondheim, Norway for five thousand in a few hours! »

She thought about it. Norway was a rich country, wasn’t it? » Her papi had said so at one point, he had been fishing there with a buddy. Apparently, they had really big salmon there, too.

«All right, she said finally. I’m going to Norway! »

Finally done!

So, it finally happened. I finished Trouble in Trondheim: Bikers and Gangsters, and you can read the first 15% here. You can also preorder it from there, so you’ll get it on the 29th of March.

Soon, previews should be available from iTunes, Kobo and Nook also.

This is a monumental achievement for me, because it’s the longest novel I ever wrote. Right now I am immensely proud.

Review: The Hateful Eight

When you go to see a movie directed by Quentin Tarantino, there are two things you can be sure of: plenty of gratuitous violence, and Samuel L. «Motherfucking» Jackson. But that doesn’t mean you know what you’re going to get.

When I saw this movie, I didn’t know anything about it except it featured mr. Jackson and that it was shot on 70mm film. As a director and script writer, Tarantino is like a fine wine: he always tastes the same, but gives you new flavors with every sip.

So it is with this movie: quite unlike anything Tarantino has done before, this movie is a chamber play set in a stagecoach and (primarily) a haberdashery.

Mr. Jackson plays a bounty hunter lost in the snow, who happens upon another bounty hunter riding in a stagecoach (played by Kurt Russell, another Tarantino alumni). John Ruth (Russell) has a prisoner, Daisy Domergue (played by Jennifer Jason Leigh) who is destined for the gallows.

Samuel L. Jackson as Marquis Warren.

Samuel L. Jackson as Marquis Warren.

Marquis Warren (Jackson) and John Ruth have met previously, and Ruth is aware that Warren has been a pen pall of president Lincoln. Because of this, Warren decides to let the doomed bounty hunter into his carriage, and the unlikely threesome make their way towards a haberdashery in the mountains.

Before too long, they run into another man lost in the snow – Chris Mannix (played by Walton Goggins, yet another Tarantino alumni). He purports to be the new sherriff of Red Rocks, the town on the other side of the mountains, the stagecoach’s final destination. Ruth doubts this, but nevertheless lets Mannix into the warmth, lest he be responsible for killing the new sheriff.

As the party reaches Sweet Minnie’s haberdashery, where they seek shelter, it turns out that the owner has left to visit her mother and left the place in charge of a Mexican, a Brit who claims to be the hangman of Red Rocks, a mysterious cowboy (played by Michael Madsen, yet another Tarantino alumni) and a southern general.

Neither Mannix nor the old general are particularily fond of black people, and Ruth is sceptical of all the people in the haberdashery. Needless to say, the plot develops into a Agatha Christie-esque thriller. In the end, Tarantino has managed to kill off most of his cast in the most brutal way possible. I was left wondering how he was going to pull off a satisfactory ending, but I was not disappointed.

Speaking of cast; Tarantino has managed to assemble some of Hollywood’s greatest actors for this movie. Though many are alumni, their characters all feel original and fresh and are played with such ferocity and thrilling charm that it’s impossible not to be impressed.

For the score, Tarantino has hired Ennio Morricone, and he does a splendid job of recreating the feeling of the old wild west, while not repeating his collaboration with Sergio Leone.

The film is shot on 70mm film, the widest format available, and the shots, colors and contrasts are all amazing. Cinematographer Robert Richardson has done a great job of capturing the raw spirit of the nature of the american  west.

As with every Tarantino film, I didn’t know quite what to expect when I went into the cinema. But I was not disappointed. This movie should be watched by anyone who likes Tarantino’s work and everyone who likes film in general.

Postponed – again…

Unfortunately, I’ve had to postpone again. But this time the book really will be released on March 29th, I swear!

I’m also going to have a public reading of the book in Trondheim, it seems. I’ve been in contact with Trondheim’s litterary circle, and the leader seemed positive. 😀

I might just post a new chapter soon to wet your appetite – until then, enjoy this funny GIF:

The Mask :D

The Mask 😀




Having to write this is a little sad, but also feels quite relieving. Today I decided to postpone the release of my book by a month.

I’ve known that it most likely had to happen for quite some time now, but today it happened. I knew that I wasn’t going to be able to deliver my manuscript two weeks before the release.

However, here are the good news: I now know what the ending will be like, and it will be epic. This novel is the single greatest piece of writing I’ve ever done, and I would like to finish it properly.

I might also add a chapter that will add more depth to the police investigations in the book, if I have the time. Please bare with me!

On a completely unrelated note: Rest in Peace, Alan Rickman. You were magic.



I decided that I will publish my latest book, Trouble in Trondheim: Bikers and Gangsters, through Smashwords (and Amazon, for Kindle).

Smashwords will publish authors’ books to all the largest retailers, including Apple’s iBooks, Barnes and Nobles’ Nook and Kobo.

They will also help you as an author with marketing, through an affiliate program where you can get paid to market other people’s books!

As if that wasn’t enough, you can launch your book as a preorder in multiple stores. Right now, my book is available on the iBooks store, but will eventually be available on Nook and many others. I will update the book’s page with links as they become available.

Release of Freedom

My first book, a collection of short stories, was originally published through Lulu, and has been unavailable for a long period of time.

However, I just decided to re-release it on Amazon’s Kindle Marketplace. As of tomorrow, it will be available for free for five days. I hope everyone with a Kindle reading this will get it, and vote. Everyone else: You can also get it on any Apple and/or Android device, thanks to Amazon’s Kindle app! 😀

Please write a review and vote. It means the world to me, thank you.


To celebrate, here is one of the short stories of the book.

Short story 10

Police chief Karl Frantzen was growing impatient. He stood planted in the family skiff, peering into the marina, where his daughter Eve came first, lifting a couple of beach chairs; followed by his wife, carrying their youngest son. “Are you coming,” he hollered with his powerful voice in a broad Kristiansand accent.

“Yes, yes!”

Eve sighed. “Why is it always me that has to lift the heavy stuff,” she thought to herself. Originally she’d planned to be alone this holiday, instead of going out to the cabin as they always did. But the thought of meeting Mark again made her warm inside.
Mark was an only child living with his parents in Oslo. Eve’s parents had lived there when she was little, but for as long as she could remember, she’d lived in Kristiansand.

“Was that it?”

Karl looked around the boat when Eve had eased the beach chairs on board.

“Yes, that was it. Come on, Mark and the others are probably waiting for us already!”

“Well, well, we best get going then.”

Eve had already gone to the front of the boat, throwing the mooring. Fifteen minutes later the skiff was chugging from the marina at Lund to the port of Kristiansand, where the Karlsen family was lined with all their rucksacks. The first person on land was Eve; she took the mooring, throwing herself in Markus’s arms immediately.

“Hey, good to see you again!”

They smiled at each other. Eve realized that she had missed the smell of his coal—black hair, which smelled faintly of orange, his slightly crooked mouth that seemed skewed when he smiled, and the sight of the dark brown of his eyes.
Soon all had come on board in the newly—stained skiff that slowly chugged out into the southern archipelago.

“My arms are freezing, look! Oh, how lovely it is to be out at sea!”

Eve stretched out her arm towards Mark, he touched it, nodding. She had goose bumps.

“What are you thinking? You’re so quiet.”

She was looking intently at him, as he was turning his head slowly away from the small window overlooking the ocean, and peering at her.
“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s so outrageously hot lately, I’ve felt as if the temperature’s been rising with every passing day.”

“Mark, Eve! Won’t you come up on deck? We have fresh shrimp and white wine here; you can get a glass each!”

“Not now Dad!”

Eve stood up. “I’m going up,” she said. “I’m tired of sitting here, we’re almost there.”
Mark continued staring out the window. “Maybe I’ll come up in a bit.”
Up on the deck of newly—stained skiff, the Frantzen and Karlsen families were seated around a small table eating shrimp. Eve’s father, a bearded, bespectacled man with clout and pipe was sitting with one hand on the wheel while picking up shrimp with the other.

“Hi Eve; won’t Mark come up?”

Eve’s mother looked at her in amazement.

“No, I think he wanted to be at peace.”

“He’s probably just tired,” replied Mark’s mother.
Eve sat on a small stool that stood close to her, picking up a shrimp and peering out at the sea. Along with the skiff’s chugging ever further out at sea, they were still surrounded by plenty of islets, reefs and islands of varying sizes. Here and there they passed by other boats, some with families looking like they were going on vacation, like themselves, others with a pair of lonely fishermen aboard.
Usually, she loved this life. She loved being on the southern coast, sunbathing, reading books, listening to the radio, and not having to worry about school; thus far, nothing could contradict that, but she couldn’t help feeling at an undercurrent of uncertainty.
In her mind she suspected that it had something to do with Mark, who was usually very excited to see her again, and now most of all seemed as if he wanted to be alone, immersed in his own thoughts. And then there was the heat; God, what a heat. It’d been supernaturally hot all month, but for the past two days the heat had been almost unbearable.
She turned to her father, who was delightedly puffing on his pipe and alternating between staring at the map that was taped to the wall next to him and watching out for oncoming traffic and unforeseen reefs.

“Are we almost there?”

“Soon, Eve; I guess we have half an hour left, approximately. It will be nice to get out to the cabin again, right?”


The adults weren’t concerned about the heat at all, what they talked about was the Watergate scandal in the United States.
Eve concluded that they must’ve noticed it, but thought that it was normal, or had simply decided not to worry because they thought they could do nothing about it. And per se, they were right; aside from traveling out to the cabin, of course.
Eve’s mother was sitting with Little John on her lap, babbling; only partially involved in the conversation with the others. Little John was two years old; everyone called him Little John, as he was named after Eve’s grandfather.
When Eve had gone to the front of the boat to get ready to moor, Mark finally came up from below deck. “I’ll have the top bunk,” he shouted. “Fat chance,” Eve cried back, throwing herself to land, bringing the mooring with her, before hurriedly tying a quick reef knot, running as fast as she could after Mark, who was already a few yards ahead of her.
The sun was burning her face, but she paid it no mind. All her senses were too busy recognizing smells, sounds and visual stimuli as she ran through the warm grass.
The cabin was located on a small hill opposite the pier. As Eve had come at the very top of the hill Mark was already unlocking the cabin. Sprinting all she could, she threw herself under Mark’s arm just as he opened the door, ran through the living room and into the bedroom she and Mark would be sleeping in.
“Gotcha,” she cried triumphantly as Mark entered the room with a view of the sea just a few seconds later. “That was cheating,” he said, “but I’ll be kind and won’t cavil”.

“Haha, you must learn that it pays to not open the door.”

“I’ve fallen for that before, haven’t I?”

“You certainly did last year,” Eve replied, laughing.

“Could you open the window, by the way?”

Mark nodded in recognition.

“It feels like I’m about to melt!”

Mark’s father appeared outside the window, carrying bags.

“Come on down to the boat, both of you — you need to help with carrying stuff!”

“Yes, yes,” Mark cried, irritated. He reluctantly went out of the room, signaling to Eve that she should follow.

“Just go ahead, I’m coming,” she cried from the top bunk. With a yawn, Eve closed her eyes and fell asleep on the pillow behind her.


From inside the room, she could hear her name being called out. She jumped up from the bed, jumped down on the floor and went into the living room.

“Will you join us for a game of Monopoly?”

Her mother and father looked at her; Mark’s parents were placing pieces with their backs facing her.

“Not right now, do you know where Mark is?”

“He went out a few minutes ago, said he wasn’t able to play Monopoly right now.”

“Is it OK with you if I go and look for him?”

“Of course, just don’t go into the woods alone without a flashlight!”

She closed the door behind her, peering out into the darkness and began walking towards the sea. The feeling of grass under her feet was making her mildly euphoric, almost ecstatic. Mark was down by the pier, looking up at the starry sky. She quietly went and lay down beside him, without saying a word.
“Have you noticed something,” said Mark, without looking at her.
“No, but I’m doing it now,” she replied immediately with her eyes fixed on a red dot that had seemed like a mere trifle last night. By now, it had grown at least twice as big, looking as if it was fluttering along with the heat waves positively knocking against them.
“I wonder what it is,” she said, looking at him.

“I don’t know, but I don’t like it. Whatever it is, it gives me a bad feeling. Do you remember the way we used to sit here on the dock for hours and catch crabs when we were littler?”

He turned as he spoke, staring at her, smiling.

“Yes, I do. It was great fun; I remember that I always tried to get larger and larger crabs, for I wanted to catch one that I could eat!”



Eve stood up. “I want to swim,” she said, taking Mark’s hand.

“Now? It’s eleven o’clock at night!”

“Yes, now. Did you think I meant tomorrow? It’s ridiculously hot out.”

Mark looked at her in amazement, but got up. He’d barely reached his feet before Eve pushed him into the water.


“Haha, you won’t have to change, your clothes will be dry in the morning when you wake up.”

Before any of them had time to think about it, Eve jumped into the water. The clothes made it difficult to move, but at least she had no shoes on. She opened her eyes; they burned a little; orienting herself, she found Mark’s legs, pulling him under, close. Holding his thin, almost frail body, she hesitated a moment before kissing him. Mark’s dark brown eyes were closed, and she could feel his tongue touching hers. Soon he opened his eyes, gave her a long and hard stare, before kicking his legs, pulling her to the surface and taking hold of her, pulling her even closer to him. The water lit by the dim glowing moon made her blonde, curly hair her twinkle as if coated with silver, complimenting her light skin. The smell of salt water, Marks’s dulcet body odors and pollen from the trees on land filled Eve’s stomach with butterflies. Soon, they both lay in the dry grass, embracing each other. “Touch me,” she whispered.
As they started walking toward the cabin, it was with the knowledge that what had just happened would never again happen for any of them.
Within the cabin, everyone had gone to sleep, and the total silence that prevailed created a sense of vacuum packed loneliness, enveloped in a pitch dark warm night. Exhausted, they fell asleep on the couch, counting each other’s heartbeats.



Eve woke up suddenly to sounds reminiscent of hissing and milling around the cabin.
She looked around, realizing that Mark still lay in the crook of her elbow. A quick glance out the living room window revealed a landscape on fire. The flames were licking up the tree trunks with seemingly unstoppable force, and the wind from the sea didn’t seem to make things better.
Mark was fast asleep, but she shook and struggled until he finally woke up.

“Mark, it’s burning!”

“Huh? Are you kidding me?”

“No, my God, look out!”

One look was enough — Mark threw himself off the couch, across the floor and into his parents’ bedroom.
Soon both families stood out in front of the cottage, with no clue what was happening. The landscape around them was riddled with rocks in all shapes and sizes; many of them still red hot.
Mark looked up; the sky above them was darkened by ash, the dot from the previous evening now occupying most of the sky. Mark kissed Eve as intensely as he could.

The others hugged each other, staring for a moment on the glowing sky, closing their eyes until they were surrounded by a deafening roar.

First chapter of Trouble in Trondheim

I’ve had a recent influx of likes for my Facebook page, and to celebrate I’m posting the first chapter from my forthcoming book, Trouble in Trondheim. It will be released on Amazon within the next few months. Watch this space!


Chapter 1

Everything started at Trolla Brug in Trondheim. Outside the old, run down shipyard stood three trailers with Russian license plates. Each of them had a tail of people throwing bags containing heroin to each other in the rain.

Kurt Hammer stood on one of the trailers, relieved that ten tons of heroin were soon out of the cars. Out of the shipyard walked Padda, a bald man with a considerable frame and a flat face, which made up one half of the leadership in Trondheim Hells Angels.

— Lars?

Kurt looked questioningly at the bald face, planted between two enormous shoulders.

— You’re free to go, I’ll take it from here. The guys have done well, the trailers are almost empty!

— Sure?

— Unless you want to help us split the shit into bags?

— No thanks, I’ll pass on that, at least until tomorrow!

Kurt threw the bag in his hands to the russian behind him, before jumping down from the trailer and onto his Triumph Thunderbird. It originated from a police seizure, and this past month had barely seen him outdoors without it.
The drive to Ila took him all of six minutes, and three minutes later in front of Thon Hotell Prinsen he thought about making a detour to the police station to hand in his pistol and machinegun – the thought of seeing his fiancé Marte and hid newly born daughter again made him quickly ditch the idea.

He sped on past the old grey brick building with red details that was Prinsen cinema. When he passed Studentersamfundets red facade he was bombarded with raindrops the size of golf balls. Finally, outside his flat in Volveveien 11A at Nardo, water and sweat dripped off his entire body. The four room flat looked like a wooden square, painted white, with a small quadratic shed in front of it, which also served as a storage place for garbage containers. Coupled with the first flat was another flat, this one oblong and painted black, also with its own shed in front.

He jumped off the bike and gave it a clap on its seat, before walking across the gravel and putting his hand on the doorknob. Closed – perhaps she was sleeping in?
He found the key under the mat on which he stood before putting it in the keyhole and turning the lock.

— Hello, Marte? I’m home!

No one answered. Instinctively he went out the door again and picked up his gun from the bag on the bike.
Inside he could feel a cold breeze emanating from the kitchen. The living room window turned out to be shattered, but beyond that, he could find no signs of anything out of the ordinary. He couldn’t find any footprints. That should be impossible in this weather. The people who had broken in must have removed their shoes, he reasoned. With his pistol still in both hands, he entered the bedroom.

At once, all doubts about the unknown perpetrator’s identity faded. In the black double bed Fjell from Ikea, Marte lay chained with two handcuffs. Her long, curly tresses wound neatly down past her shoulders. A gaping grimace had melted itself onto her face as a sort of cruel last goodbye. A bullet hole had manifested itself in her forehead, another in her stomach. The duvet was steeped in blood. He could barely watch the cot in the other side of the room. What was there wasn’t so much the remains of a human being as a cadaver.

He turned on his heel and went back to his bike. Rationally speaking, he should have dialed 112 – rational thinking had just passed into another dimension.
He drove from Nardo to Trolla Brug in a blind, violent rage with an average speed of 80 kilometers an hour. When he arrived, the trailers were already gone, but he found most of the bikes still parked outside. The last thing he did before going in was to put on the bulletproof vest safely placed in his bike’s bag. Inside the warehouse stood Padda, Martin, Ramberg, Flisa and several others. Some were opening bags; others were splitting the heroin into small zip lock bags. “If my colleagues had been here, they’d have laughed at the entire operation – how extremely careless,” he thought.
However, they weren’t here, it was just him and his machinegun. It turned into a real battle – heroin and blood squirted everywhere, like paint onto the misty grey relief outside.

Half an hour later it was all finished – twenty or so bodies were scattered on the grey concrete floor, on wooden tables and behind boxes.

Without a word, he hoisted himself up from a crouching position, went outside, positioned himself on the bike and drove home.
A few hours later, he turned on the television in Volveveien 11A.

— Trolla Brug has seen what looks to be a gang war. Trolla Brug is the headquarters of Hells Angels in Trondheim. Seventeen people were murdered and three people severely injured in what police describes as the worst shootout in the history of Trondheim.

Kurt Hammer opened another bottle of Jack Daniels and waited for the sirens.

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