Free Two Soldiers by Anders Roslund Page B

responsibility to find out where.
    ———
    He clutched the search warrant in one hand and pushed open the orange, unlocked door and stormed into the empty hall, which was where he heard the voice again, Big Ali’s voice from what he presumed was the kitchen, the hulking body holding the harness and collar of a black-and-white, almost square, dog, which he released and then shouted something as it moved silently through the sitting room, past the TV, past the sofa, toward the hall and the front door and the colleague who was already farther in. José Pereira had never shot a dog before. The first shot hit the dog mid-jump, right-hand back leg, as the beast launched itself, jaws wide, at an unprotected neck and the unprepared and civvy-clad drugs officer put up his left arm in defense, sharp teeth straight through the black sleeve of his jacket and the skin of his forearm, muscles, sinews. The dog didn’t even notice. The adrenalin smothered the pain and it continued to pull and tear when the policeman fell to the floor. Pereira shot at it again and his colleague behind him fired as well, both aiming at a point just behind the ear, the most effective way to kill a dog, and despite the powerful body moving all the time, despite the risk of hitting the man now lying in agony on the floor, they continued to fire—eight, nine, ten times. The animal gradually loosened its grip, fell heavily to the floor, then José Pereira took a step forward and fired another two shots into the lifeless body.
    “You stay fucking still.”
    His colleague had slipped past him and gone into the apartment, his gun pointing into the sitting room at the one they called Big Ali, who was screaming fucking pig cunts and punching the air.
    José Pereira aimed his gun at the one standing closest, in front of him. It was Gabriel Milton.
    “Fucking get down on the floor.”
    The naked body looked at him with a sneer as he lay down on the linoleum floor. Twelve shots had been fired only meters away. Theman next to him had a mauled arm and was still screaming. It was as if the young face didn’t register any of it. He wasn’t frightened. He wasn’t upset. And when he lay as he did now—on his stomach with his right leg out for comfort—the tattoo that had been difficult to read became clear. It started on the hip and went the whole way down the thigh to the knee; José Pereira had never seen the legend before, fourteen letters in the hall light, GHETTO SOLDIERS , across the burn scars.
    They were on the move and now he knew where.

He was still tired.
    Eight grams the first day, eight grams the second day, and he’d forgotten to count on the third. It was a couple of days ago now, but it was still in his body, spasms around the eyes, mouth smacking, chin that went back and forth of its own accord that gave him this weird look, but most of all the fucking sweat on his forehead and temples and scalp. He leaned closer to the mirror above the sink, he looked like fucking Smackhead.
    It would last a while yet, he knew that. The voices were the worst. He had to be able to deal with them outside the cell, they were always there when he’d done two nights in a row, so real and they talked shit about him, almost as if they really existed and he couldn’t pretend they weren’t there even though they talked about things he didn’t want anyone to know.
    Leon adjusted the bedside lamp, it had to be on full.
    He had written a bit, tidied, masturbated, made his bed, taken down the curtain rail, unscrewed the wardrobe, screwed the wardrobe back together again, put back the curtain rail, written a bit more, jerked off again, tidied, made his bed. In every cell, D1 Left, the same. The whole unit was wired, awake twenty-four seven, refusing to work, inmates who locked themselves in.
    He had dished it out for free and the suspicious looks and questions had disappeared after the first gram, they had consumed it until it was gone in the way that druggies in prison