Free Two Soldiers by Anders Roslund Page A

disfigured body so many times before, the needle tracks, craters in his veins, but still couldn’t get used to it. Eighty-five percent of the skin was warped by burn scars, and Pereira couldn’t look away, couldn’t pretend to see anything else.
    “A woman, Pereira.”
    His groin only a couple of meters away, stirred, a couple of pelvic thrusts back and forth, as if this boy in the doorway was pointing at something with his hard-on.
    “Råby cock needs a woman. And I rolled off her. So what the fuck do you want, eh?”
    His legs, the skin, it was different.
    On one thigh an infected, oblong sore; on the other a new tattoo that started by the groin, every black, powerful line bulging out from the skin, letters that were difficult to read from where Pereira was standing right now.
    “These are my colleagues from the drug squad. We have a search warrant.”
    Gabriel looked at the piece of paper in the policeman’s hand.
    “You know what . . . this isn’t my apartment.”
    “We have the prosecutor’s permission to search the apartment where you stay on a regular basis .”
    “Forget it.”
    “I’d appreciate it if you moved to one side.”
    A hand grabbed for the piece of paper, it rustled slightly as he hit it.
    “You know you’re not going to find anything here, you bastard.”
    José Pereira knew that. He knew that this was the only place where they definitely didn’t keep anything. That wasn’t why he was standing here looking at an eighteen-year-old dick.
    They were on the move.
    It was his responsibility to find out where.
    “ I’m gonna get you, you fucking pigs .”
    A voice farther into the apartment, Big Ali’s voice, maybe he was punching the air in front of him again with his fists.
    “He’s shouting very loud. Unlawful threats. Not so smart.”
    Gabriel Milton’s organ had flagged somewhat and was no longer pointing at the three policemen.
    “Not my problem. Did you want anything apart from to get in?”
    “My colleagues . . .”
    “Do they suck you off?”
    “My colleagues have some questions about your visit to Aspsås prison the other day.”
    The eighteen-year-old smiled, at least, that’s what it looked like.
    “Maybe you misunderstood.”
    “Your girlfriend.”
    “What about her?”
    “She was there.”
    “And what the fuck’s that got to do with me?”
    “She—”
    “Did you see me in Aspsås or did you not see me in Aspsås?”
    “Your girlfriend was there. A few hours later, D1 Left was full of speed. We think there’s a connection. That you were the supplier, that you provided her with the drugs.”
    Gabriel Milton really did smile this time, it was obvious now when he looked at the two guys behind Pereira.
    “Do they give a good blow job?”
    Even broader grin.
    “Or is it you that sucks off them?”
    ———
    Four in prison. Four at large.
    Half in, half out, like all the others, like every other gang.
    They were following the same pattern, showing the same signs, treading the same path. Little boys who turned into reports and briefs and investigations, who, after a couple of years had gotten themselves a name and started to commit crimes together, were moved to a blue or green file on one of the Section Against Gang Crime desks to be monitored and reported on regularly, who a couple of years later were given a position at the bottom of the first long wall, the one for groups that were dangerous and violent, the position for staring faces that, in the police’s own ranking system, belonged to those who ruled, who right now were deemed to be the most dangerous, most violent, at the forefront of organized crime.
    José Pereira clutched the now slightly crinkled piece of paper hard, a search warrant from the public prosecutor.
    “So, we want to come in.”
    The eighteen-year-old smiled again, a partially erect penis that was thrust back and forth a couple of times, turned around, and closed the door.
    ———
    They were on the move.
    It was his