Torsten Dahl book 1 - Stand Your Ground (10 page)

Or creeping.

She shook the thought off, seeing it for what it was – a sneaking specter of fear. If she didn’t combat it now, how would she ever survive this? How would she get back to Isabella and Julia or hope to protect them to oppose whatever future darkness came their way?

A sudden cacophony of noise made her turn around. Through her room’s door, which had been left wide open, she spied a kitchen area, now lit – peeling wall cupboards, a dirty oven and a pockmarked, food-stained table. Several men sat around the table now, one of them shuffling cards on its surface while the others glugged from condensation-covered bottles. Johanna turned back to her own room, conscious that she just had time to scrutinize every inch of it while light shone in. The first thing she became aware of was dozens of discarded newspapers, piled up around her feet. The second was infinitely more terrifying – a set of manacles attached to the rear wall at waist height, proving her fears that this building served as a long-established criminal safehouse. A roll of bloody bandages lay in one corner, a broken chair in another. It occurred to Johanna that she might be able to use parts of the chair as a weapon.

Except she didn’t dare try.

She jumped as a voice spoke behind her. “Not quite the Barbados Palm, Mrs. Dahl?”

She sniffed, turning to Grant. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“You mean ‘to
us
’, surely, since it’s not all about you, dear.” The cultured tones were becoming annoying. “And really, it’s all about your husband, of course. Do you want to know?”

Johanna met his eyes properly for the first time.
Did she
? “I think . . . I think you people shouldn’t threaten children.”

“I don’t recall threatening any children.” Grant said. “But I do know your husband saw me back in Washington, before your flight. What do you think of that?”

He was trying to worm his way into her head, distress her with half-truths. Even if it were true, thinking about it did her no good now.

Half-illuminated by the light coming in from the kitchen, Grant watched the emotions play out across her face. “Not now,” he said. “Maybe later I’ll tell you what your husband did to me. To my wife. And to my children.”

Johanna tried to imagine Grant being a father to young children. Failed. She watched him walk away, wishing she had a watch. As far as she knew, they were on a countdown. Grant had given Dahl two hours. She knew the Jolly Roger, had researched it on the Barbados website before their vacation. Perhaps it wasn’t far from here.

Across the hall, she saw two sharply dressed men enter the kitchen and draw Grant aside. An animated discussion followed, somewhat heated, until Grant led them away.

Left to her own devices, Johanna judged the stares of the men who sat around the table.

Some glanced at her lecherously, their feelings all too apparent. Others watched from the corners of their eyes, while another hid his face completely. Thankfully, none approached her, but at the same time, she had no opportunity for escape.

Not that she’d have dared. Pathetic as she sounded to herself, she buried the idea deep, doubting she had the courage to try, never mind the ability to succeed. My god, she realized, for the first time in many months I need my husband now.

Why had it all gone wrong?
Because of the physical distance between them? The uprooting from Sweden to the United States? The long absences? As her mind wandered, protecting itself from the more immediate terror, two more suited figures passed by the door to her room, glancing only briefly inside. Neither showed any more interest but seemed entirely preoccupied with something else. More than just a simple kidnapping was going on here today, it seemed, and Johanna was quite clearly far from an essential cog in its key machinery. Minutes stretched by, each an age in which she shook, feared for her kids and watched the men play cards.

At length, Nick Grant returned. “You will be swapped for your husband at six-o-clock after two somewhat important people arrive. My employer has sent men to handle it and will be along soon afterwards himself. Your husband’s fate will be far from pleasant, Mrs. Dahl, but you already knew that.”

“I thought you said he’d wronged
you
.”

“Ah, yes, he did. My employer promises to touch upon that when he removes your husband’s right hand.”

Johanna flinched, unable to lift her eyes. “I . . . I . . .” No reply could counter that. She found it hard even to think.

“And then my employer will press the point further, along with the razor blades he pushes under the nails of his remaining hand.”

“Please,” Johanna now said. “My children. Please don’t hurt my children. I’ll do anything. We’ll do anything.”

“Truth is, I’m not a great fan of torture,” Grant said without acknowledgement. “Except in the rarest of circumstances. Your husband is that rare circumstance. One in a million. You should be proud.”

Johanna couldn’t be sure if he’d ignored the plea or not even heard it. The man was unhinged but intelligent, calm but psychopathic, a dangerous, toxic human cocktail.

“And so to the crux of it. Torsten Dahl is a soldier, and not a bad one by all accounts. So credit where credit is due. ‘That Mad Swede,’ my best contact said, ‘is one serious badass. Watch out for him.’” Grant spread his arms. “I always have. I already knew. Do you know what he did to me?”

Johanna shook her head.

“I’ll tell you. But first, my employer, a Mr. Vega. Now, I see that look in your eyes. You’re wondering why I mentioned his name. You’ve watched your share of spy dramas and crime programs. You know that once names are dropped, the victim is as good as dead. Am I right?”

Johanna fought to stop the tears falling.

“Well, don’t believe all you watch, my dear. Sometimes it is healthy for one to know the name of her nemesis, her husband’s murderer. Sometimes it serves a better purpose for the woman to know the name of the man who sold her children into slavery.”

Johanna fell to her knees, unable to process such thoughts.

“Rumors.” Grant smiled. “Hearsay. Gossip. It becomes legend, myth, scary stories whispered in dark pubs and drug dens. It all helps to build the reputation of the man.”

Johanna wiped her eyes.

“Gabrio Vega,” said Grant. “A powerful man in a world you know nothing about. A younger Torsten Dahl killed this man’s brother while interrupting a very important transaction. That day put Vega back years, though he has recovered since. I say he’s recovered,” Grant laughed. “Only financially. Never mentally, of course. One never recovers from the loss of a family member, eh?”

His goading made her grit her teeth until she feared they’d shatter.

“Gabrio Vega will make Dahl pay,” Grant said. “Be assured. The rest of it is up to you. Come quietly. Don’t make a scene. Accept your fate. Be a good girl.” Grant swigged from a bottle of water and threw it at her knees, its contents spilling slowly. “Drink that. I don’t want you fainting on us aboard the bloody boat. Oh, and when I say get cleaned up, you do it fast. Just remember, Johanna, it’s
all
up to you.”

She plucked the bottle from the ground and drank it quickly, eyes turned back toward the card-playing men. The same men still watched her in their individual ways, while the other hid his face. Still, they laughed and smoked and argued. Drank and played cards. Time clicked away, the passing of all she held dear. As the moments drew shorter and the exchange loomed, Johanna heard an odd snippet of conversation.

Passing outside her door, a pair of new men were deep in conversation. She heard them as they walked up the passageway and as they passed by, heading toward the kitchen without glancing into her room.

“Where’ll the PM be at that time?”

“At the center of the parade, giving his speech. It’ll be easy.”

The accents were thick with the local twang, making some of the words hard to decipher, but at the same time they sounded well-educated. A third voice added to the mix.

“It’s never easy, my friend. These things are never easy to pull off.”

“Oh, fuck off, mon. You know his security detail like I do. All good. This will be the start of the greatest moments of Sealy’s leadership. You’ll see.”

“It better be. We have too much invested in this to fuck it all up today.”

The trio passed out of earshot, leaving Johanna with yet another dilemma. If she didn’t have enough to consider already, these men were quite possibly planning to assault the Prime Minister of Barbados. She considered what she knew. They were certainly well armed, plentiful and motivated enough to try. And it seemed likely that Grant and this Gabrio Vega were involved with the plot.

It was a shock when Grant appeared in the doorway, two objects held in one hand.

“Wash yourself off and put this on. We leave in five.”

“I . . .” she managed, again forcing down the begging, the pleas and the tears. “I—”

“Save it. You already know what is required of you and what will happen to your husband. Do not make this any harder than it will already be on yourself and your children. Remember them; help them. And if in doubt . . .” he paused. “Do what I say.”

Johanna nodded, swallowing the last of the bottled water and accepting a long shawl. Time was no longer sparing, vanishing at light speed.

It had run out.

SEVENTEEN

Dahl struggled with a terrible ordeal, the toughest of his life. Everything inside him, every instinct, said
no,
the risks were too great; but an equal force fought in favor of keeping Isabella and Julia at his side every step of the way.

Well, almost every step.

Starting with a look at the Jolly Roger. The pirate ship was a red-sailed party boat, upon which pirates of all ages sailed out to sea, walked the plank and swam along with whatever marine life came their way. For fair coin, of course.

Dahl got a good feel for the size and layout of the boat from seeing it at the dockside, its crew cleaning and readying the vessel for its next voyage. The decks had plenty of floor space; the benches were simple, painted red and plentiful, fixed all around. Rope swings, ladders and other tourist delights covered the double-leveled upper deck, no doubt more entertaining once the rum punch started flowing. A lower deck was only identifiable by a row of portholes. If any negotiations were going to happen, they would occur down there. He completed his recce in just a few minutes and then drew Isabella and Julia away from the dockside and the empty railings and back toward the busier areas of the town.

Could he risk the lives of his children to save his wife?

What would anyone do?

He had 30 minutes.

He tried to think like a civilian, coloring the black-and-white and occasionally gray considerations of the soldier. The attempt only made his head hurt. In the end, his soldier’s body acted on its own.

As he and the girls passed through a crowd of locals and tourists, Dahl managed to pilfer a cell phone without an awful lot of hassle. Isabella looked aghast, the innocence still showing, and Julia tried to pretend shock, the veneer wearing thinner with each passing minute. Pulling his daughters into the doorway of a closed shop, Dahl pressed a memorized series of numbers and waited for someone to answer.

“Yeah?”

“It’s me. Now, shut up and listen . . .”

Dahl passed every ounce of information he’d retained to a man he knew well. This person, though currently in Washington, D.C., might be able to scare up some local help, but would only do that if they trusted the help completely. Failing that, the person would head to Barbados with their team, as they would do for any comrade, 365 days a year. Dahl pocketed the phone after the call, deciding to hold on as long as he could in case his people had any news. The phone was equipped with a GPS, which he ensured was switched on.

A germ of an idea had grown to fruition in his mind. No, it wasn’t perfect, not even close, but it was the best he could come up with at this moment and highly likely to keep his children safe.

Highly likely
.

Dahl balked at the insufficient odds, questioned everything twice, then three times. The alternatives were far worse. He led the girls to a water fountain, stood by as they drank and cleaned, and then did the same for himself. Six-o-clock was fast approaching. The dock where the Jolly Roger sat at anchor began to fill with expectant partygoers. Dahl moved to a position from where he could watch them embark.

Isabella clutched hold of his hand. “Dad?”

“Yes?” He glanced down, a little distracted.

“Is Mommy okay?”

“Ah, yes, darling. She is.”

“Can you see her?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Then how do you know she’s okay?”

“It’s a grown-up thing. Hard to explain.”

His eyes roamed the dockside, anxious to spot Nick Grant’s group and assess numbers, ability and destination.

Isabella pulled at his hand again, more insistently. “How old were you when you could do it?”

“Do what?”

“The grown-up thing? How old?”

“Old,” Dahl said with a faint smile, thinking of all the living his children had to do. “Very old.”

“Like . . . 25 or 30?”

Julia stepped in, the big sister trying to look after her inexperienced sibling. “It’s when you get married, silly. When you find somebody you love.”

“Like Kristoff and Sven?”

“No. Like Kristoff and
Anna
. Remember?”

“I like Rapunzel.” Isabella’s mind flew off on its tangent, the conversation and questions instantly forgotten, but no doubt stored away for later when Dahl would least expect it. His heart ached for his daughters . . . and Jo.

There
. He spied the gang he’d been expecting. As he’d feared, they numbered far too many to risk any kind of assault. He watched them board and tried to pinpoint where they went. It was now time to let the boat fill up and the clamor rise. He watched for a moment, then turned to the kids, fully focused.

“We will be getting on that boat soon. And then Daddy will go to get Mummy back. I won’t be able to take you.”