The Rabbit Hunter has less than one kilo of resistance in the trigger. It’s so weak that it almost isn’t there.
First you haven’t fired the rifle, then you have.
It comes as no surprise, but the action has no defined edges.
Now he can see black-clad, heavily armed police officers talking into their radios. An Alsatian dog is lying down on one of the gravel paths between the graves, panting.
Teddy Johnson looks around, puts the phone back in his inside pocket and fastens the top button of his jacket.
The thin crosshairs rest gently on the back of his suntanned neck, then move slowly down to the small of his back. The Rabbit Hunter’s intention is to hit Teddy Johnson’s spinal column just above his pelvis.
A branch from a tree moves across his line of fire and he waits three heartbeats before putting his finger on the trigger.
He squeezes it gently, feels the jolt in his shoulder and sees Teddy Johnson collapse to the ground.
Blood pumps out across the steps.
The bodyguards draw their pistols and try to figure out where the shot came from, and if there’s anywhere they can take cover, any safe place in the vicinity.
The Rabbit Hunter breathes calmly as he catches a glimpse of the shot man’s face, its look of terror. He can’t feel his lower body at all now, and is gasping for breath.
The bodyguards try to protect him, standing in the way of any further bullets, but they don’t know where the sniper is.
The crosshairs move down Johnson’s right arm. The trigger squeezes and his hand jerks as it is transformed into a ragged, bloody lump.
The bodyguards drag Teddy Johnson to the other end of the steps, leaving a dark-red stain across the stone.
People are panicking, running around and screaming as they try to get away. The stairs are empty now.
The American politician lies there, contorted with pain and mortal dread.
The Rabbit Hunter will let him live for nineteen minutes.
While he waits he strokes one of the rabbits’ ears with his fingers, feeling its thin cartilage move beneath his hand as the soft fur brushes his cheek.
Without losing sight of his target the Rabbit Hunter changes magazines, inserting heavier, soft-tipped ammunition, then he watches Teddy Johnson suffer, his drawn-out death-throes.
The first ambulances are already on their way into D?belns Street.
The police are trying to organise the hunt for the sniper, but they still have no idea where the shots are coming from. Someone stares at the splatter pattern from the first shot and points in his direction, towards the roof of the nearby fire-station.
Three police helicopters hover above the blocks surrounding the church.
The paramedics have reached Teddy Johnson. They’re trying to talk to him, then they lift him onto a stretcher.
The Rabbit Hunter looks at the time again. Four minutes left. He needs to delay the rescue operation.
Calmly he turns the gun towards the steps leading down towards the French School, moving the crosshairs from a frightened man with fat cheeks to a middle-aged woman with a depressing hairstyle and a press badge dangling from her neck.
He only shoots her in the ankle, but the ammunition is so powerful that her foot is torn off and bounces down the steps towards the pavement. The blast sends her tumbling over, and she collapses onto her side.
The ambulances back away and panic-stricken people crouch down as they run away from the woman. An old man falls down and hits his face on the dusty path, but no one stops to help him.
The officers from the Security Police are trying to understand what’s going on, trying to save the life of the American politician as they beckon paramedics. Another ambulance turns into Johannes Street.
Breathing calmly, the Rabbit Hunter looks at the time.
Forty seconds left.
Teddy Johnson’s face is pale and sweaty. He has an oxygen-mask over his nose and mouth, and his eyes are blinking rapidly in panic.
The paramedics wheel the stretcher along the path towards Johannes Street. The crosshairs follow him, quivering over his ear.
They push the stretcher onto the pavement and the Rabbit Hunter fixes the sights on Teddy Johnson’s ear again, squeezes the trigger and feels the jolt from the recoil in his shoulder.
The man’s head explodes. Bone and tissue spray across the street. The paramedics go on pushing the stretcher for a few seconds before they stop and stare at the American VIP. The oxygen-mask is dangling from its tube by the side of the stretcher, and there is nothing where his face used to be but a small fragment of the back of his skull.
65
It took Rex three hours to get out of the church. The police ushered the funeral guests out one at a time through a gap in the security barrier, down D?belns Street. They conducted careful identity checks on everyone, took brief witness statements, and offered information about support groups.
He saw Edith among the reporters who had gathered outside the cordon and tried without success to catch her eye.
No one seemed to know what had happened, and the police were refusing to talk.
The Foreign Minister’s immediate family and the most important politicians had been allowed to leave the church before everyone else. Rex was still stuck in the crowd in the central aisle when he heard screaming and people started fleeing back into the church.
Forty minutes later the police came in and announced that they had the situation under control.
The fire department started washing the blood from the broad flight of stairs as tearful people milled around trying to find family members.
Rex managed to call Sammy and DJ and they arranged to meet back at the flat, where they would try to figure out what had happened. There were rumours of a terrorist attack, and the media were reporting a serious incident with an unknown number of casualties.
Rex removes the tray of scones and pours the steaming tea while the other two sit at the kitchen table trying to find out more on the Internet.
‘It looks like that American politician was killed,’ Sammy says.
‘What a mess,’ DJ says, setting out the butter and jam next to the cups and saucers.
‘This is completely fucking insane,’ Rex says.
‘I tried to get out the same way we got in,’ Sammy says. ‘David Bagares Street, but it was closed off.’
‘I know,’ DJ says. ‘I tried the steps next to Drottninghuset.’
‘Whereabouts were you sitting?’ Rex says, carrying over the plate of scones.
‘We both ended up on the balcony.’
‘I was right by the aisle,’ Rex says.
‘We saw you, Dad. You were sitting like this the whole time,’ his son says, shutting his eyes and opening his mouth.
‘I was enjoying the music,’ Rex says feebly.
‘So obviously you noticed us trying to flick little rolled-up pieces of paper in your mouth?’
‘You did?’
‘I’m pretty sure I won,’ Sammy smiles, running his hand through his hair in exactly the same way Rex always does.
A plaster is hanging off Sammy’s lower arm, and Rex catches a glimpse of a row of cigarette burns.
DJ holds his phone up and Rex looks at the picture of Teddy Johnson’s suntanned face, plump frame, and the look of arrogance in his bright blue eyes.
‘They’re saying that there are no links to any known terrorist organisations,’ Sammy says.
‘So did they catch the guy?’ DJ asks.
‘I don’t know. It doesn’t say …’
‘What is it with this summer?’ Rex says heavily. ‘It feels like the whole world is falling apart. Orlando, Munich, Nice …’
He falls silent when the doorbell rings, then mutters that he really doesn’t want to deal with any reporters right now, and leaves the kitchen. As he goes down the stairs the bell rings again. He reaches the door and opens it.
Outside stands a man with shoulder-length red hair and a sweaty face. He’s wearing a tight leather jacket with shoulder pads and a wide belt.
‘Hi,’ he says, smiling so broadly that the lines around his mouth and eyes scrunch together.
‘Hi,’ Rex says uncertainly.
‘Janus Mickelsen, Security Police,’ the man says, holding up his ID. ‘Do you have a minute?’