“For God’s sake, don’t wave the knife around. I’ll take it off
. . .” I raised my hand toward my beard and trusted myself
to my luck. I had practiced the move many times, and I was
quick enough. Petri’s menacing expression vanished when
he saw the Glock in my hand.
“Scissors beat paper, and guns beat blades. Fine with me to
chat, but I pose the questions. Santa’s not taking wish lists
Of course my gun was not loaded, but how would Petri
know that? He evidently hadn’t the slightest idea whose
sack I was bagging prey for.
“Drop the knife. Hands clasped behind your neck. On your
knees. Santa expects respect.”
Slowly Petri obeyed.
I kicked the knife to the side and demanded, “How’d a boy
with clean papers like you and Merja Salo-Virtanen get
mixed up with Jansson’s gang? Who joined first, Paula or
“So you don’t know the whole story?” A glimmer of hope
flickered in Petri’s eyes but dimmed when I held the gun
closer to his temple.