stuff on the computer’s hard drive. Jorge was no hacker, but he understood this much: the five-oh always managed to dig shit up, even if you deleted it. So 7-Eleven was perfect—he could do his surfing on public waves.
The research for the day: places on the Web that sold jammers.
The Finn’d given him a few addresses he thought would work. Jorge was even prepared to head to Poland and pick up a jammer on the spot.
He gulped some Red Bull. A sweet artificial taste. Still good.
He needed the energy. The past couple of days: he’d worked 110 percent with the CIT plan. Never dropped the hit. Endless planning and shit to take care of. Constantly on his mind. The café had to run itself for a while—they gave Beatrice more responsibility.
He glanced away from the computer. The evening papers were screaming out the latest global headline: YOUR COUGH COULD BE A FATAL ILLNESS . That was standard news in those shit papers. Some headlines Jorge’d seen over the past few years: HEADACHES: A LETHAL AFFLICTION. STOMACHACHES ARE EXTREMELY SERIOUS. STUBBLE CAN BE AN INDICATION OF DEATH . According to those rags: Jorge should’vebeen deader than Michael Jackson and 2Pac combined ten years ago at least.
Still: today was the first day they weren’t going on about the attempted murder of Radovan the Cock Kranjic. Too bad—Jorge liked the fact that someone’d tried to pop that fucker.
Back to the plan. The keys to a successful hit, according to the Finn: advance planning, serious preparation, tight players. Jorge called it his
mandamientos
. Every part: a commandment. A foundation. A pillar. Every
mandamiento
: a law that CIT kings followed.
Detailed breakdown: advance planning, necessary for any pro. The Finn never let up about that: it was truer than all Scorsese films combined. Didn’t matter how ill your plans were—if you started scheming too short before the hit, you were gonna run into trouble. Without good lead time, the pigs’d be able to trace your tracks back in time. They were like fighting dogs: once their jaws clamped down, they didn’t release their grip. Cracked your excuses like an egg against a frying pan.
Jorge knew even more. Buddies who’d been busted told stories you couldn’t trust. They were always
soo
smart. But J-boy was smarter. He read up on things on his own. Got help from Tom Lehtimäki to order a bunch of court records. Courts all over Sweden sent fat stacks of paper to a P.O. box he’d rigged under a false name. The heli-robbery, the Akalla robbery, the Hallunda robbery. Jorge studied hard, sat with paper and pen in hand. Learned the mistakes others’d made. The clowns who’d fucked up—hadn’t had tight alibis, babbled like bitches in the police interrogations, hadn’t clocked that the cops might’ve had wiretaps, lived it up like billionaires in the days immediately following their hits. He understood how the police traced the steps you’d taken. How they questioned you on the spot when you were picked up. Pressured you in interrogations at the police station. Pulled fast ones on you in the courtrooms.
“We can see here that all of you put new SIM cards in your phones on the day before the event.”
“It has come to light that you purchased two magazines for an assault rifle two days before the event.”
“There is evidence that you were ten people in a studio apartment the week before the robbery. Why?”
Why?
That question should never even come up.
Planning: The Finn’s second rule. Honestly: most of the people who attempted hits weren’t exactly the sharpest tools in the shed. Classic: boys with top-shelf confidence overestimated themselves more than the Svens overestimated the national soccer team in the World Cup. The jackpot every
hombre
thought would come rattling in at some point in their lives. Flip the script and make Sweden shake. Seemed so easy to do something so hard. Tightly packed dollar bills in briefcases. No, that was a
fugazy
.
Actually: planning
The research for the day: places on the Web that sold jammers.
The Finn’d given him a few addresses he thought would work. Jorge was even prepared to head to Poland and pick up a jammer on the spot.
He gulped some Red Bull. A sweet artificial taste. Still good.
He needed the energy. The past couple of days: he’d worked 110 percent with the CIT plan. Never dropped the hit. Endless planning and shit to take care of. Constantly on his mind. The café had to run itself for a while—they gave Beatrice more responsibility.
He glanced away from the computer. The evening papers were screaming out the latest global headline: YOUR COUGH COULD BE A FATAL ILLNESS . That was standard news in those shit papers. Some headlines Jorge’d seen over the past few years: HEADACHES: A LETHAL AFFLICTION. STOMACHACHES ARE EXTREMELY SERIOUS. STUBBLE CAN BE AN INDICATION OF DEATH . According to those rags: Jorge should’vebeen deader than Michael Jackson and 2Pac combined ten years ago at least.
Still: today was the first day they weren’t going on about the attempted murder of Radovan the Cock Kranjic. Too bad—Jorge liked the fact that someone’d tried to pop that fucker.
Back to the plan. The keys to a successful hit, according to the Finn: advance planning, serious preparation, tight players. Jorge called it his
mandamientos
. Every part: a commandment. A foundation. A pillar. Every
mandamiento
: a law that CIT kings followed.
Detailed breakdown: advance planning, necessary for any pro. The Finn never let up about that: it was truer than all Scorsese films combined. Didn’t matter how ill your plans were—if you started scheming too short before the hit, you were gonna run into trouble. Without good lead time, the pigs’d be able to trace your tracks back in time. They were like fighting dogs: once their jaws clamped down, they didn’t release their grip. Cracked your excuses like an egg against a frying pan.
Jorge knew even more. Buddies who’d been busted told stories you couldn’t trust. They were always
soo
smart. But J-boy was smarter. He read up on things on his own. Got help from Tom Lehtimäki to order a bunch of court records. Courts all over Sweden sent fat stacks of paper to a P.O. box he’d rigged under a false name. The heli-robbery, the Akalla robbery, the Hallunda robbery. Jorge studied hard, sat with paper and pen in hand. Learned the mistakes others’d made. The clowns who’d fucked up—hadn’t had tight alibis, babbled like bitches in the police interrogations, hadn’t clocked that the cops might’ve had wiretaps, lived it up like billionaires in the days immediately following their hits. He understood how the police traced the steps you’d taken. How they questioned you on the spot when you were picked up. Pressured you in interrogations at the police station. Pulled fast ones on you in the courtrooms.
“We can see here that all of you put new SIM cards in your phones on the day before the event.”
“It has come to light that you purchased two magazines for an assault rifle two days before the event.”
“There is evidence that you were ten people in a studio apartment the week before the robbery. Why?”
Why?
That question should never even come up.
Planning: The Finn’s second rule. Honestly: most of the people who attempted hits weren’t exactly the sharpest tools in the shed. Classic: boys with top-shelf confidence overestimated themselves more than the Svens overestimated the national soccer team in the World Cup. The jackpot every
hombre
thought would come rattling in at some point in their lives. Flip the script and make Sweden shake. Seemed so easy to do something so hard. Tightly packed dollar bills in briefcases. No, that was a
fugazy
.
Actually: planning
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