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!
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.
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!
— 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.