Jens lapidus stockholm noir thriller
Genre. Crime fiction. Subject. Crime, thriller, mystery, noir. Notable works. Easy Money. Website. Jens Jacob Lapidus (Swedish: [ˈjɛnːs laˈpǐːdɵs]; born 24 May ) is a Swedish criminal defense lawyer and author known for his books about the Stockholm underworld. With the same raw energy and verve he displayed in Easy Money , Jens Lapidus delivers an electrifying tale of Stockholm's vicious underworld.
Follow the author
Mahmud is fresh out of jail, but he's forced to work for a brutal mob boss to pay off his debts to a drug lord. Niklas, a mercenary and weapons expert with an appetite for vigilante justice, is back in Sweden and plans to keep a low profile.
But the discovery of a murdered man in his mother's building severely threatens those plans. Thomas, the volatile detective on the case, finding his efforts suspiciously stymied and the evidence tampered with, goes off the grid in search of the truth. But as the paths of these three men intertwine and the identity of the murdered man is revealed, crimes and secrets bigger, deeper, and darker than a mere murder will come to light.
Chapter 7 Abbou —Mahmud was impressed. Muscle man. Pussy pariah. Million Project myth. But he felt like a newbie in this situation. They were sitting in the most expensive ringside seats. You had to be someone in fighter Sweden to even be allowed to buy seats like this. Things had to be nice when the Yugo boss himself graced the scene. A couple of big fights were being decided tonight. The odds were high, in other words: thick rolls involved.
Course the boss wanted to see up close when the boys in the ring had their foreheads smashed in and the dough was rising like crazy. The name K1 stood for the four Ks: karate, kung fu, kickboxing, and knockdown karate that all went head to head with the same rules. But in reality, most styles were allowed. Ruthless animals who were used to owning the ring at their home gyms had to limp off the mat, beaten to bits.
Bare-chested fighters pummeled each other so hard you could feel it all the way up in the nosebleed seats. Eastern European giants tore through Swedish immigrant boys one by one: kneed chins, dislocated arms, elbowed noses. The audience howled. The fighters roared. The judges tried to break up punch sequences that would floor a rhino. Fought for the titles — and for who would advance to the big K1 competitions in Tokyo.
Mahmud caught a glimpse of Radovan, eight seats away in the same row. Fired up like everyone else. At the same time: Il Padre maintained his calm, his dignity—a boss never breaks a visible sweat. The Yugo brand equaled dignity, which equaled respect. People were lining up outside to buy returned tickets. Security was worse than at the airport. He had to pass through metal detectors, put his belt, keys, and cell phone through.
Follow the author
They ran a manual metal detector over him. Groped his balls like fags. No one was seated around him yet. It was way too early. The Serbs let him wait. Almost a week since the nightmare in the woods. The wound on his cheek would probably heal fine. But, really, he knew—there was only one way. A man who lets someone walk all over him is not a man. But how the fuck would a vendetta go down?