Three Seconds

the last few steps towards him, his brain wasn’t working, only his fear gave him the drive to survive. He pushed the guard away and aimed the revolver at the hating eyes and fired, one single bullet through the pupil, the lens, the vitreous, to the soft mass of the brain, where it stopped somewhere.
    Stefan took one more step, still sneering, he appeared to be unaffected, but a second later he fell heavily forward and Hoffmann had to move to avoid finding himself underneath him, then he bent down towards him, pressed the muzzle to his other eye, one more bullet.
    A person lay dead on the floor.
    The thumping banging that had drummed persistently and the echo of the shot … suddenly, suddenly everything was silent.
    A strange, breathless silence.
    ‘You can go in now.’
    He pointed to one of the younger men, but it was the older one, Jacobson, who answered.
    ‘Hoffmann, now let’s—’
    ‘I’m not going to die yet.’
    He looked at the three screws that he needed, but were in the way. Two were younger, shaking, close to break-down. The older one was fairly calm, the sort who would carry on trying to intercede, but also the sort who wouldn’t break down.
    ‘Go into the cell.’
    Metal on eyelids that were crying, darkness only a finger-twitch away.
    ‘Get in!’
    The young warden went into the empty cell and sat down on the edge of the iron bed.
    ‘Close! And lock!’
    Hoffmann tossed the keys to Jacobson; not a word this time, no attempt to communicate, no false contact intended to confuse, generate trust, emotion.
    ‘The body.’
    He kicked it, it was about maintaining power, keeping distance.
    ‘I want it outside Cell 6. But not too close, so that the door can still be opened.’
    ‘He’s too heavy.’
    ‘
Now
. Outside Cell 6.
OK?
’
    He moved the gun from his temple to his eye, to his temple from his eye.
    ‘Where do you think it will be when I pull the trigger?’
    Jacobson got hold of the soft arms that no longer had muscle reflex; the sinewy, elderly body pulled, dragged one hundred and twenty kilos of death along the hard linoleum floor and Hoffmann nodded when it was positioned just so the cell door could be opened.
    ‘Open it.’
    He didn’t recognise him, they had never met, but it was the voice that had passed his cell yesterday and called him Paula several times, one of Wojtek’s runners.
    ‘
You fucking stukatj.
’
    The same voice, shrill as he stormed out, when he stopped in his tracks.
    ‘
Jesus
…’
    He looked down at someone lying at his feet, stock-still, lungs that weren’t breathing.
    ‘
You fucking bastard
…’
    ‘Down on your knees!’
    Hoffmann pointed at him with the miniature gun.
    ‘Get down!’
    Hoffmann had expected threats, maybe contempt.
    But the man in front of him said nothing as he collapsed beside the motionless body and for a second Hoffmann stood still – he had been prepared to kill again, and was now standing in front of someone who obeyed.
    ‘What’s your name?’
    The young warden, when he felt the pressure of the muzzle, had closed his eyes and cried.
    ‘Jan. Janne.’
    ‘Janne. Get in there.’
    Another person in a prison uniform sitting on the edge of yet another empty iron bed when Jacobson locked the door to Cell 6.
    Hoffmann counted quickly. It felt like eternity, but he had only just begun. Eight, maybe nine minutes had passed since he opened the door to the toilet and raised the gun, no more. Two of the screws were lockedup, the third was in front of him and the fourth and the fifth would stay out in the yard for a while longer. But central security could choose at any moment to look at the cameras in this unit on their monitors, or screws from other units might pass. He had to hurry. He knew where he was going. He had been on his way there since he realised he was on his own, with a death threat, burnt by some of the few who knew his purpose and code name; on his way to the place he had chosen a long time ago in order not to die if what shouldn’t happen happened.
    They were standing close by. Just as close as they had to. Enough distance for him to be in full control but to avoid being overpowered, and the prisoner who still had no name was dangerous, he would kill if he could.
    ‘I want you to get that lamp there.’
    He held his outstretched arm towards a simple standard lamp that was lit in one of the corners of the wardens’ office and waited until Jacobson had put it on the floor in front of him.
    ‘Tie him up. With