Leaving HQ, Rompa felt a hundred years old. He needed to get his car back to the garage. He needed to get home to feed his cat. He needed a nap and a shower. But most of all, he needed a drink. Telling a mother her son would return from Amsterdam in a coffin made him realize how little time he spent with his own daughter and son. He hadn’t seen them for almost two weeks. Bless his girlfriend for insisting on taking them all to dinner that evening.
Author: Created by Ingipingi
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Rompa stood at one of the big windows on the top floor of Elandsgracht while he waited for his colleagues to arrive. The building in its simple functionality had been inaugurated as the Amsterdam Police Headquarters in 1941 when Nazi Germany occupied the Netherlands. Hardly the Dutch police’s finest hour. The squealing noise from a tram passing below pulled Rompa back to reality, and he spotted Sergeant Lucas Houtman approaching on his bicycle. With his blonde hair and height of 193 centimeters, he looked unmistakably like the prototype of a real Dutchman.
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Seated in the car, he lit a cigarette. The Zippo lighter in his hand shook, and the first drag made him cough. He put the car into gear and moved it out across the tram tracks. With the street to himself, he soon reached the Royal Palace at the Dam Square. He turned left at Raadhuisstraat and a few stop lights later the colossal Renaissance building of Westerkerk with the city’s highest tower emerged in front of him. Crossing the bridge at Keizersgracht and from a distance in the dim morning light, he saw the police car parked on the right blocking the entrance to Prinsengracht.
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He checked the Seiko on his left wrist. 05:10. With a forced deep breath, he relaxed his shoulders and shifted his body. Looking through the scope, he aimed at the head of a mannequin doll in the Dian Fashion window display on the corner of Bloemstraat. He felt ready.
