I decided that I will publish my latest book, Trouble in Trondheim: Bikers and Gangsters, through Smashwords (and Amazon, for Kindle).

Smashwords will publish authors’ books to all the largest retailers, including Apple’s iBooks, Barnes and Nobles’ Nook and Kobo.

They will also help you as an author with marketing, through an affiliate program where you can get paid to market other people’s books!

As if that wasn’t enough, you can launch your book as a preorder in multiple stores. Right now, my book is available on the iBooks store, but will eventually be available on Nook and many others. I will update the book’s page with links as they become available.


First chapter of Trouble in Trondheim

I’ve had a recent influx of likes for my Facebook page, and to celebrate I’m posting the first chapter from my forthcoming book, Trouble in Trondheim. It will be released on Amazon within the next few months. Watch this space!


Chapter 1

Everything started at Trolla Brug in Trondheim. Outside the old, run down shipyard stood three trailers with Russian license plates. Each of them had a tail of people throwing bags containing heroin to each other in the rain.

Kurt Hammer stood on one of the trailers, relieved that ten tons of heroin were soon out of the cars. Out of the shipyard walked Padda, a bald man with a considerable frame and a flat face, which made up one half of the leadership in Trondheim Hells Angels.

— Lars?

Kurt looked questioningly at the bald face, planted between two enormous shoulders.

— You’re free to go, I’ll take it from here. The guys have done well, the trailers are almost empty!

— Sure?

— Unless you want to help us split the shit into bags?

— No thanks, I’ll pass on that, at least until tomorrow!

Kurt threw the bag in his hands to the russian behind him, before jumping down from the trailer and onto his Triumph Thunderbird. It originated from a police seizure, and this past month had barely seen him outdoors without it.
The drive to Ila took him all of six minutes, and three minutes later in front of Thon Hotell Prinsen he thought about making a detour to the police station to hand in his pistol and machinegun – the thought of seeing his fiancé Marte and hid newly born daughter again made him quickly ditch the idea.

He sped on past the old grey brick building with red details that was Prinsen cinema. When he passed Studentersamfundets red facade he was bombarded with raindrops the size of golf balls. Finally, outside his flat in Volveveien 11A at Nardo, water and sweat dripped off his entire body. The four room flat looked like a wooden square, painted white, with a small quadratic shed in front of it, which also served as a storage place for garbage containers. Coupled with the first flat was another flat, this one oblong and painted black, also with its own shed in front.

He jumped off the bike and gave it a clap on its seat, before walking across the gravel and putting his hand on the doorknob. Closed – perhaps she was sleeping in?
He found the key under the mat on which he stood before putting it in the keyhole and turning the lock.

— Hello, Marte? I’m home!

No one answered. Instinctively he went out the door again and picked up his gun from the bag on the bike.
Inside he could feel a cold breeze emanating from the kitchen. The living room window turned out to be shattered, but beyond that, he could find no signs of anything out of the ordinary. He couldn’t find any footprints. That should be impossible in this weather. The people who had broken in must have removed their shoes, he reasoned. With his pistol still in both hands, he entered the bedroom.

At once, all doubts about the unknown perpetrator’s identity faded. In the black double bed Fjell from Ikea, Marte lay chained with two handcuffs. Her long, curly tresses wound neatly down past her shoulders. A gaping grimace had melted itself onto her face as a sort of cruel last goodbye. A bullet hole had manifested itself in her forehead, another in her stomach. The duvet was steeped in blood. He could barely watch the cot in the other side of the room. What was there wasn’t so much the remains of a human being as a cadaver.

He turned on his heel and went back to his bike. Rationally speaking, he should have dialed 112 – rational thinking had just passed into another dimension.
He drove from Nardo to Trolla Brug in a blind, violent rage with an average speed of 80 kilometers an hour. When he arrived, the trailers were already gone, but he found most of the bikes still parked outside. The last thing he did before going in was to put on the bulletproof vest safely placed in his bike’s bag. Inside the warehouse stood Padda, Martin, Ramberg, Flisa and several others. Some were opening bags; others were splitting the heroin into small zip lock bags. “If my colleagues had been here, they’d have laughed at the entire operation – how extremely careless,” he thought.
However, they weren’t here, it was just him and his machinegun. It turned into a real battle – heroin and blood squirted everywhere, like paint onto the misty grey relief outside.

Half an hour later it was all finished – twenty or so bodies were scattered on the grey concrete floor, on wooden tables and behind boxes.

Without a word, he hoisted himself up from a crouching position, went outside, positioned himself on the bike and drove home.
A few hours later, he turned on the television in Volveveien 11A.

— Trolla Brug has seen what looks to be a gang war. Trolla Brug is the headquarters of Hells Angels in Trondheim. Seventeen people were murdered and three people severely injured in what police describes as the worst shootout in the history of Trondheim.

Kurt Hammer opened another bottle of Jack Daniels and waited for the sirens.

Kon Tiki

I’ve experienced a once in a lifetime experience! Trondheim Symphony Orchestra arranged a viewing of the Norwegian movie Kon Tiki, while playing the soundtrack.

The film is about Norwegian explorer, ethnographer, author and artist Thor Heyerdahls expedition across the Pacific Ocean on the raft Kon Tiki.

Thor Heyerdahl, image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Thor Heyerdahl, image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

The voyage took him and five others from Calao in Peru to Raroia in French Polynesia, and Thor Heyerdahl proved something in which noone believed: that ancient man saw oceans as pathways, not barriers.

He’s one of my idols, precisely because he dared when nobody else believed, and because he was multi talented and one of the few Norwegians ever to have shaped world history. Amongst a people counting (at the time) barely four million, that’s not a small feat! The movie’s music is awe inspiring, and composed by the swede Johan Söderqvist. It can’t really be described, it has to be experienced. Suffice it to say that the main theme is played on a conch shell.

On another note, the film was nominated for an Academy Award for best foreign movie the year of its release. If you’ve yet to see it, you have something really great to look forward to!

At one stage in my life, I dreamt of being Thor Heyerdahl. Nowadays I’m happy if I manage to become a shred of the man he was.

He’s one of the reasons I’m alive, because he taught me how to dream. And the movie is a reminder of just that: without dreams, you are nothing.

Trouble in Trondheim – Prologue

Finally, it’s time to reveal the prologue for my upcoming book Trouble in Trondheim: Bikers and Gangsters, which will be released exclusively on Amazon Kindle in English and Norwegian versions. I don’t have an exact date yet, but more on that later.

For now, here’s the prologue – I hope you like it!


In that moment, the way he was posed in front of her told her there was no going back.

His eyes popping out of his head, they reminded her of ones she’d seen on frogs they were about to dissect in elementary school. Sticking out of his mouth was a swollen tongue; the hue of his skin had turned a sickly green. A tailor made suit clung stiffly and lifelessly to his body; all its former glory now nothing but a vague memory.

Why had he called her a whore? It wasn’t so much the word, but its associations which brought out her inner devil. Before leaving, she had promised herself that this land would mean a fresh start. Sighing, she turned, exited the booth and closed its door behind her. «I couldn’t help it, it was her fault,» she told herself while entering the entrance hall on Værnes airport.

Outside, the rain had settled in. She firmly entered the first and best taxi she could find.

«Where’re you going?»

«Brothel,» she answered.

Unsettled by the welcome, she still decided this country had potential.


«Hammer, you idiot, wake up, a guy was murdered in a toilet booth!»

«Hm, zzz.. what?»

Looking down on his most unreliable employee was Editor in Chief Karlsen.

«On Værnes, to be precise. I guess I ought to let you sleep on, but there aren’t anyone around else around right now.»

«Relax, boss, Hansen and I will take care of this.»

Karlsen sighed.

«That’s what I was afraid you’d say. Just don’t drink any more beer!»

«I won’t, he mumbled, grabbing his tweed coat from his chair, haplessly putting the coat on over his yellow suit»

«Hansen, let’s go, We’re going to Værnes!»

The young journalist Frank Hansen looked up from his monitor, throwing a sceptic look at the tall figure. Who was it Felicia in Culture had said he looked like? Jeff Bridges! Even with a fedora and a cigarette constantly hanging out of his mouth there was no mistaking the comparison. Looks wise they couldn’t have been more different: Frank Hansen was of medium build with slightly too much fat around his abdomen. He had short, brown hair and blue eyes sitting closely together that appeared to be blinking a lot.

«Fine, but I don’t drink at work, just so you know!»

«That’s only cos you’re still new to the game, Hansen!»

«Relax, Hammer, I know what happened. Everyone knows, it made the national headlines, damnit.»

Hammer snorted, and didn’t say anything else until they’d entered one of Aftenbladet’s cars.

«Listen, you little piece of shit, that’s not why I drink, just so we’re clear about that! It’s been two years, I’m past that by now.»

«Okay. If it’d been me I’d probably taken out early retirement and gone to the Bahamas – I think you’ve handled the situation well. But I still don’t drink at work!»

Hammer leaned into his seat and pulled his fedora down over his forehehad as they sped towards Værnes.