What you’re about to read is a true story. Unlike in the United States of America, Danish law doesn’t have a statute of limitations. For that reason, several names and specific details and stories needed to be changed and/or altered to ensure no one written about could potentially be brought up on any charges in the future and to protect all involved parties legally. This is why you may read a quote or a statement that isn’t directly attributed to any one individual. This is done to ensure nothing in these pages can potentially be used to bring anyone mentioned in these pages to justice for old crimes or offenses abroad.
This memoir was first originally co-written by journalist Olav Hergel and Sleiman and translated to English from Danish, then edited for the North American market, which is largely unfamiliar with Sleiman, and his unique story of struggle, survival, and perseverance.
Click-clack.
I knew the sound well. It was the sound of a gun being cocked and loaded.
I turned around and saw the man holding the gun. Behind him stood twenty other members of the gang Black Cobra. They had appeared out of nowhere from the heart of the Askerød housing project and were now standing in a parking lot in Hundige. They stared at one another for what felt like a lifetime.
I never thought I would have the chance to look my killer in the eye. I always figured that when my time was up, they would just shoot me in the back or kill me in my sleep. I took a step back. Everything was silent. Completely and utterly silent.
All I had to do was reach the fence that was only ten feet behind me, climb it, and then I could call my own people for reinforcements. They were chilling at the clubhouse, and they were armed. I recalled something a police officer had once told me: if someone tries to shoot you, run in a serpentine formation, never in a straight line. I opted to not run. Instead, I took another step back.
A shot rang out. It felt like a sudden gut punch, but I didn’t fall. Black Cobra had come to Askerød specifically to hunt me down, and even though I desperately needed to reach the fence right behind me, I wasn’t about to commit the sin of turning my back on my enemy in my own hometown. I instead took another step back.
A second shot rang out. This time, I felt it hit my face, chin, and throat simultaneously. I next felt the blood gushing out, but I still remained standing. This man clearly wanted to kill me, and it was starting to look like I had zero chance for survival if I couldn’t make it to the fence and contact my crew. When I finally turned to make a break for it, a third shot rang out. The bullet went straight through my upper thigh, and I felt it swimming through my body. To my credit, I somehow remained standing, and I was just one more step away from the fence.
As I lunged for the fence and freedom, a fourth bullet hit me in my leg. This time, my knees buckled under me, and I finally fell. It was then that everything went quiet. This was not how I had envisioned my death would go down. Then I suddenly heard a familiar voice break the silence.
“Run!” my childhood friend Samir shouted to the others. I heard the sound of several footsteps running away from the scene.
Barely conscious, I grabbed my phone and called my sister. Just then, my boys Abbas and Nazir came running toward me, and I felt a painful suspicion creep into my mind. They belonged to my crew, but they had come to my aid too fast. Almost as if they had known I was going to be ambushed here all along.
Shortly afterward, my boy Rashid showed up. He was my once trusted friend and protégé, but how could Rashid possibly be here already? Had he and the others known what was about to go down? Had they known and done nothing to try and prevent it?
For years, I had given everything to this gang, including going to jail for them. Even today, I had attacked The Mexican for the sake of my people, but now, I was the one who had almost been assassinated in an ambush and possibly betrayed by my own friends. Was this what I had fought for all of these years? All my life, I had longed to be loved and respected by everyone. After years of fighting and being willing to die for my people, had I suddenly ended up as the guy nobody was willing to fight and die for in return?
I looked directly at Rashid and asked, “Who called you? How’d you even know I was shot? How’d you know where to find me?”
“Well, your family. Everybody knows that you’ve been shot,” Rashid told me.
“How? I only told my sister I was coming here and I know she didn’t call you.”
Rashid was visibly shocked at my response. We haven’t spoken since.
A crowd started to gather around. All eyes were on me at that moment. Although I was suffering from multiple bullet wounds and could barely stand, I couldn’t afford to appear weak, considering the circumstances, and give those who had conspired to kill me the satisfaction. I grabbed my cigarettes from the inside pocket of my jacket and tapped one out of the pack. I lit it up, took a drag, and managed to sit up slightly.
An older man from the community leaned over to me and spoke in a voice that contained neither pity nor compassion.
“Are you happy now, Sleiman? Is this what you wanted? Are you satisfied?”
I looked him right in the eye and blew smoke in his face. “I’m really happy now. This is what I always wanted.”
“This is what you wanted?”
“Yeah, but they couldn’t finish the job, could they? Does that make you sad that I’m not dead?”
He walked away, but I knew that there was truth in his scathing sarcasm and the fact that he felt a sense of justice in his lack of sympathy. I realized this as I lay outside the clubhouse I had helped build for my friends, in the middle of the housing complex I had helped turn into a ghetto. I had just been lured into an ambush, shot multiple times, and likely betrayed by my own crew. Blood streamed down my face, neck, and legs and seeped through my jacket. I knew that somewhere deep down in the depths of my soul that every single drop of blood I lost tonight was well-deserved.
I had gone after my childhood friend Samir, I had gone after The Mexican, I had gone after The Serb. I pushed and pushed and pushed the boundaries and stepped over every line imaginable. Day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year, I waged war, took revenge, and terrorized my adversaries. I was the one who had started the war in Hundige in the first place. In a way, I was relieved. Relieved to have survived. Relieved to have proven my loyalty to my brothers. No one on Earth would be able to question my loyalty now.
My own brothers had accused me of being too close to Black Cobra, but it was Black Cobra who had just shot me four times. I used to think that I had gotten off too easily. During the gang war, which had raged for seven years now, I had never been shot, and I knew a lot of people resented me for it. Now I was finally the one who had taken a bullet for the crew. I no longer needed to prove himself to anyone. Not a single soul in Askerød could say that I hadn’t paid the price. No one could possibly suspect me of being a traitor or a snitch.
When the ambulance arrived, the paramedic shouted, “Goddammit, Sleiman! Put that cigarette out. It’s dangerous to smoke when you’re injured!”
I refused. I wasn’t about to show weakness with everyone’s eyes on me, so I finished the cigarette to send a message to whoever had set me up.
Eventually, the paramedics managed to remove my sticky, bloody jacket. In my inside pocket was the James Bond DVD I had just borrowed from a neighborhood kid before the attack: Die Another Day. There was a dent in the cover from where the bullet had hit and failed to penetrate.
As I lay there watching the paramedics work, I felt wet and warm and cold all at once. I, Sleiman, had just cheated death.