The Complete Game Trilogy: Game, Buzz, Bubble. Литагент HarperCollins USD

arms tight. She struggled and jerked, trying to get free, but Dejan evidently wasn’t about to let that happen.

      It was payback time, and instead of loosening his grip to give her a chance, he tightened it. Her feet were almost off the ground.

      ‘Come on, Normén,’ he snarled in her ear. ‘Show us what you can do!’

      Rebecca could feel her eyes starting to flutter. His grip was so tight that both her airway and blood-supply were being cut off. She tried to get free again, this time more frenetically, but Stefan was still holding her wrists tight, not appearing to notice that everything was on the point of spiralling out of control.

      Her field of vision was shrinking and she could feel herself on the verge of panic. She was stuck, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move; she was immobile and in another person’s power, someone who wished her harm. Exposed. Helpless. And all of a sudden she was no longer in a gym in Kronoberg but in a flat in one of the southern suburbs and the man holding her was no longer a colleague whose pride had been wounded.

      ‘I’m going to kill you, you little bitch,’ the man snarled in her ear, and she could tell from the tone of voice, the one that terrified her so, that he meant every word. This time she would die for sure!

      The panic she usually kept such a firm grip on welled up and filled her head, pumping adrenalin into her fading muscles and taking command of her body. And suddenly she felt a new burst of life.

      She let herself fall towards the floor like a sack, and when the grip on her neck relaxed a couple of millimetres she launched up with both feet and thrust backwards and upwards with such force that they all three almost toppled over.

      Rebecca felt the back of her head hit something hard, felt something break, and when she kicked out in front to strike a different target, the force of the kick altered their centre of gravity and then they collapsed onto the mat.

      For a moment everything went black, but her sight gradually came back.

      She was sitting on the floor with her back against the flattened Dejan with his legs on either side of her. A few metres in front of her Stefan was curled up, clutching his stomach. In a flash she was up on her feet, turning towards Dejan who was still lying down. His hands were over his face, but to judge by the trickles running between his fingers, more than that was needed to stem the flow of blood.

      ‘What the fuck, you crazy or what, Normén?’ he squeaked as he stared at her, sounding simultaneously suspicious and accusing.

      She didn’t quite know what to say.

      ‘I …’ she began uncertainly, but Peter Pain interrupted her.

      ‘Damn fine work, Normén, that’s the way to bring them down! Savic, you were asking for that so you’d better take yourself off to the nurse to get yourself patched up. Wikström, do you need to go too?’

      Stefan waved his hands dismissively as he got heavily to his feet.

      ‘Just lost my breath, nice hit, Normén.’ He nodded towards her.

      Rebecca blushed, feeling simultaneously guilty and pleased. Maybe Dejan’s nose was a bit unfortunate, but on the other hand he had been asking for it with his stupid macho posturing.

      She’d done her job, managed to get free on her own. She hadn’t been some helpless victim.

      Not like then.

      Absolutely not like then!

      She was different now, stronger, better, braver. A completely different person.

      When she eventually dared to glance up at Vahtola, she saw a faint smile on the other woman’s face.

      Birkagatan 32, be there at 18:00.

      It wasn’t exactly a difficult instruction, but this time he had at least prepared himself better. In spite of the heat he had dug out an old army jacket that someone, he couldn’t remember who, had left in his flat after a party ages ago. The jacket had loads of pockets which he stuffed with various useful things, and it had straps on the front which would be perfect for holding the phone.

      The clip of number twenty-seven had finally made him realize where the camera ought to be to get the best pictures. No more rubbish bouncing at waist-height like on the train or at NK, from now on nothing but head-shots.

      The viewers, or fans as he was calling them more and more often, had been impressed with the NK stunt.

      Even if he didn’t know who they were, he felt increasingly sure that they were his kind of people, solid guys that he’d be happy to share a chilled beer with if the opportunity arose.

      He’d actually tried to find a way to get into the community. He’d tried to find an entrance portal where you could sign up as a member and then play, watch and maybe even chat to the fans. Find out a bit more about who they were and why they liked him in particular.

      But he’d failed. The search terms he had used didn’t come up with any links that worked, so membership seemed to be by invitation only. Which was a bit crap, because seeing other players’ clips would have been fucking cool, not to mention the direct contact with the fans, but there wasn’t a lot he could do about it.

      The Game was more impartial this way, he reluctantly accepted that.

      After his second task he had strolled intentionally slowly along the quayside of Skeppsbron, walking backwards at least half the way so he could enjoy his handiwork as long as possible. By the time he got home to Maria Trappgränd the Game had already put up a professional montage. First his own shaky footage from the inside interspersed with external shots of the clock. Then a split screen with the countdown in the middle. His hand and the buttons on one side, the rotating clock on the other. Three, two, one, click, and time stopped above the centre of Stockholm.

      Five hundred lovely points, a personal message of congratulation from the Game Master and a load of new comments, as well as clambering a few notches up the high score list.

      To say it was cool didn’t even come close! He’d been forced to wank not once but twice before he could get to sleep.

      Up out of the underground at St Eriksplan, into Tomtebogatan and then right at the corner. As he approached the address he could feel his pulse rate go up. He decided to cross over Birkagatan to be able to observe his target in peace and quiet from a doorway almost opposite, and to have a well-deserved fag.

      There wasn’t anything odd about the address.

      A perfectly ordinary residential building built sometime in the early twentieth century or so, at a guess. Four rows of windows plus the skylights on the roof gave five floors in total. From the look of it, the ground floor seemed to be mostly shops and offices, and presumably the top floor was some sort of luxurious loft apartment.

      So what now?

      He pulled the phone from the strap on the left shoulder where, after much deliberation, he had decided to attach it, and swept it across the building, zooming in on the front doorway, then out to give the big picture again. When he was finished he noticed the little red light start to flash.

      Behind the telephone box next to the Co-op

      was all it said, and HP frowned unhappily as a minute or so later he fished out a plastic bag that had been stuffed behind the grey telecom engineers’ box on the other side of the street.

      Had he come all the way out to Birkastan to pick up a lousy package?

      What sort of shit assignment was this?

      But before he had time to look in the bag the light flashed again and when he had read through the third message of the evening he felt his heart starting to race with excitement again.

      This was more like it!

      He checked that the camera was working, then fastened the phone in its place.

      Then he tapped in the door-code he had just been given and heard the lock click.

      Lights, camera, action!