Torsten Dahl book 1 - Stand Your Ground (11 page)

Isabella’s face crumpled instantly, tears welling. Julia tried to look strong. “But who will look after us?” She knew somebody had to; it was something she’d been told in every possible nuance.

“A friend.” Dahl said. “You’ll be fine.”

He cradled his daughters in his arms. His father once told him that no matter the journey you were embarking on, even if it was no more than a trip to the shops or heading upstairs to bed, you should always hug and tell the ones you held dearest that you loved them, because one day that hug would turn out to be your last. He held Isabella and Julia close now and didn’t want to let go, never wanted to let go, fearing this was his last time. Family made you mortal. He was realizing that now.

He rose, hiding his emotions from his girls by staring up at the skies and then across at the dock. The majority of the cruisers were aboard, the line thinning out. He clasped his daughters’ hands and joined the line, shuffling along until they reached the gate. He gave his name to the gatekeeper and was waved through, no emotions betrayed in the eyes of the pirate who gave them free entry. The deck rolled slightly beneath their bare feet. If Dahl had the time, he’d use this voyage to grab a few pairs of sandals and other supplies, including clothes, but six-o-clock was fast approaching and he assumed a messenger would soon be seeking his face. Quickly now, he told the kids to grab whatever food they could and sought the person he was looking for. The right person. He stayed within a crowd while Isabella and Julia ate sandwiches at his side, approaching their fingers at an alarming rate.
Thank god for all-inclusive cruises
. Nothing popped immediately but he couldn’t stop looking. The examination took him to the rear of the boat, where, at last, he found just what he was looking for.

While Isabella and Julia finished their food, Dahl approached an older couple and steeled himself for the things he would have to say.

“Hi, how you doing?”

Both looked up at him, happy, faraway eyes meeting his troubled stare. The woman was golden haired and sported a necklace of pearls to match her handbag; the man wore a perpetual smile and had long since passed the point where trimming facial hair mattered anymore.

“Good. Real good,” the man said. “That sky’s a sight to behold, ain’t it?”

Dahl turned his head, surprised. A wicked, deep red stain was spreading slowly across the horizon, more a reminder of innocent blood spilled than the dying of another day. He absorbed the sight for several seconds.

“You okay, son?”

Dahl steeled himself and got right to it. “My wife is downstairs. There are a few issues,” he lowered his voice at the end of his sentence, “and the kids don’t need to know.” He realized how desperate he sounded when the old man’s eyes grew guarded.

“Is that right?”

Dahl appealed to the female half. “Five minutes,” he pleaded. They knew what he was asking, of course, and you couldn’t sugar-coat something like this. It was a raw, open wound, though far from the one they thought it was.

His silent struggle didn’t go unnoticed by his children. Isabella and Julia both slipped their hands into his.

The woman cleared her throat. “If we can help . . .”

The old man coughed loudly. “Mary? Maybe we should—”

“Oh, it’s fine.” She said. “Like I was saying—if we can help . . .” She smiled at the girls. “What are your names, sweeties?”

Dahl discarded the guilt that enveloped him like a cocoon, trusting and concentrating on the future. The father had to do his job before the soldier took charge. This was harder than fighting mercenaries on a battlefield, more grueling than any desperate knife-fight. He only had to look down into his daughters’ upturned eyes to see just how hard it was going to be.

“I love you,” he said, heart breaking. “And I’ll be back soon.”

“With Mom?” Isabella croaked.

“Yes. With Mom.”

Dahl thanked the old couple and then walked away before anyone, mostly himself, could change their minds, emotions tearing a hole through every moral and unwavering belief he’d ever known. In the end, thankfully, he didn’t have any time to dwell. As he cut through the laughing crowd, a face he recognized swam into focus.

Grant
.

Ahead. Nodding as he saw Dahl and pointing at a discreet door marked ‘private.’

Dahl walked straight in.

EIGHTEEN

Beyond the door, a narrow staircase plunged into the heart of blackness.

“Straight down.” Grant said. “I’m surprised you didn’t try to gung-ho it. Big, bad soldier like you. Take us all out, eh, boat and all.”

Dahl had considered it; the idea was fully within his make-up and not beyond his capabilities. In the end, it came down to categories and boxes ticked:

What were you liberating?

Who were you up against?

How many?

Who led them?

Dahl didn’t need to think beyond the first to know a full-frontal assault was out of the question. Problem was, he had no real plan. Just skill, experience and a deep, all-encompassing love for his family.

He needed every ounce of concentration right now. Instant, sound evaluations were the key. The dark staircase surrendered to a widening aura of yellowish light. Dahl put bare foot after bare foot, his skin sore, his muscles aching, feet slapping against the wood with a dull wallop at each step. The deck below was narrow – a doorway stood to the right, marked ‘Function room, private party.’

“Go inside. They’re waiting.”

Dahl entered a slender room, well-lit and clad all around with dark paneling. Benches lined the edges, none in use. Instead a motley group of men stood at the far end, arrayed around and mostly behind Johanna, who’d been given some sort of a shawl as a wrap, probably to minimize attention.

“Well,” Dahl said. “You’re on the right kind of ship. You planning to hole up down here until it docks?”

His wife met his eyes, her fingers clutching the shawl around her, knuckles white.

“Don’t worry,” Dahl told her, moving closer. “Are you all right? Did they hurt you?”

Of course, he was playing for time while he scrutinized the space: every man, every angle, every room-based implement that he might use, including two genuine-looking pirate cutlasses attached to the wall close by the Jolly Roger’s symbol.

The order of victims played out in his head. Would they consider Grant most valuable? He had moved around Dahl to stand beside Johanna. If Johanna could see it, she had a low desk to her left, the perfect place to hunker down.

“I’m fine.” Johanna said. “Where are the kids?”

“I wondered that too,” Grant cut in before Dahl could respond. “My guess is, close by.”

“So what happens now?” asked Dahl.

Grant, the only man behind him, made a clucking noise as if considering alternatives. “Well, let me see. I think first . . . you have to meet the new players.” He snapped his fingers. Three men moved aside to reveal a young lad sitting nervously atop a low stool, a brutish figure positioned beside him like a bloated, malignant shadow. The shadow whispered into the lad’s ear and the lad quickly rose.

“This is Dario.” Grant motioned at the lad. “Does the name ring any bells?”

Dahl thought for a moment. “No.”

“Face look familiar? Come closer, Dario.”

Dahl kept his eyes on the bodyguard figure, who stepped forward behind Dario. The guy wasn’t for show. He looked well-muscled and knew how to handle himself.

“The lad’s second name is Vega.”

Dahl’s awareness clicked like an electric light going on. The Amazon raid, where he’d first encountered the Facilitator . . .
and
Gabrio Vega. The drug lord had pissed himself in the face of danger, in the face of an attacking Dahl, while his brother fought back and died for it. At Dahl’s hand. For his part, Gabrio Vega had managed to escape. Now it all made sense.

“Vega is your employer.”

“He’s been looking for you too. It may have taken a while for the stars to align, but we now have ourselves one fine cluster, don’t you think?”

“Gabrio Vega sent his
son
to avenge his brother?
”
Dahl wondered aloud. “After all these years, the man is still chicken-shit. The worst kind of coward.”

“Don’t speak too soon,” Grant said. “Vega’s on his way.”

“And you, Nick?” Dahl deliberately personalized it. “This is your revenge for the Amazon? And the Russian thing.”

He felt Grant tense behind him, as he’d known he would. Dahl had been planning to use this carefully engineered moment of distraction to make a move, a well-planned but high-risk move, but Dario’s bodyguard saw it coming a long way off. Before Dahl could move a single muscle, he’d raised and pointed a gun at Johanna’s head.

“Not today,” the bodyguard said.

“Are cheap tricks all you have?” Grant asked, emotion lowering his voice. “Then you will die. Right now. Vega sent his son to become a man, to avenge his brother. Vega sent his son to destroy your family as you destroyed his. Vin, give the boy a gun.”

Dahl saw the shadow’s eyes flicker at the onset of fear that abruptly froze the young man’s face. With Vin caught watching Dario for a reaction, Dahl struck, tabling every hope and dream he’d ever had of the future. The closest man was a local clad in a light-green t-shirt and cut-off shorts. Dahl struck him in the chest, sending the man barreling back into Johanna and sending her stumbling toward the desk. Vin didn’t look impressed, but made no move. Two more locals looked on, as if doubting their own eyes. The four mercs moved decisively, their training kicking in, lowering weapons and trying to fit around the Barbadian personnel.

Dahl went straight for the nearest gun. Vin’s. He caught the gun arm and aimed it at the ceiling. Any kind of ruckus, especially a shot, might alert the right person on the Jolly Roger. Vin held steady, matching Dahl’s strength. Dahl positioned Vin’s body before him, so that the mercs couldn’t quite reach past, the narrow room working to his advantage. When a head popped into view Dahl flicked a fist at it like a rocket-propelled hammer, drawing blood and sending its owner staggering away. Vin used the distraction to bear down on him, twisting the gun’s barrel toward Dahl’s skull. The man was a bull, practically unmovable. Dario shied away from it all, eyes flickering so fast they appeared to be rolling.

Trade off.

Dahl made a split-second decision to go for the slender teenager. In truth, it was perfect, the only option. Shoving Vin’s arm further away he started to lunge but a blood-curdling shriek stopped him cold.

Grant. You forgot about bloody Grant!

To his right, Johanna knelt on the wooden floor, hair held fast by in Grant’s left hand. Grant stood behind her, a blade held at her throat. A thin smear of blood already coated the sharp edge.

“Stand down. Or watch her die.”

“Catch her from behind did you?” Dahl threw Vin’s gun arm aside and moved toward Grant. “Nicky and Vega, kissing in the coward’s tree.”

Behind him now, Vin spoke up. “End this now. You see this man’s one dangerous mother, so stop messing with him. Kill him.”

Grant held Johanna so tightly she couldn’t even twitch for fear that the blade would sever her carotid. The mercenaries spread out as best they could, all smiles again. The locals tried to hide expressions of distaste.

Vin draped a huge, muscled arm around Dario’s shoulder, bringing the boy in close, grunting animalistic words of encouragement. With one finger he dangled the gun in front of the kid’s face.

“Use this to avenge your father’s brother,” he said. “Do it.”

Dario eyed the black steel, then the man he was being told to kill. Dahl registered every unfolding moment of it, the inevitability of death beginning to close around him. Grant watched Dario as, for the first time, Vega’s son’s gaze met Dahl’s eyes.

“Kill him,” Vin urged again, oddly gentle, much like a preschool teacher urging a child to take a developmental first step.

“You can shoot him in the leg first,” Grant said, “if it helps.”

Dahl watched the Facilitator in his peripheral vision. If the Englishman moved a single muscle, shifted the blade for one instant, he would make the most significant move of his life. If . . .

“Dario,” Vin growled, “become a man. Shoot this soldier between the eyes so that we can start on his wife.”

Dahl grated already clenched teeth.

Dario took the gun.

“And his children,” Grant added. “They’ll sell for more than a pretty penny at the slave market. You’re making us rich, Dahl old boy.”

Dario squinted his eyes nearly closed as he raised the gun.

NINETEEN

Dario’s finger entered the trigger guard, the pistol shaking, then withdrew.

Vin steadied Dario’s shaking gun arm. “Now is the time.”

“Yeah,” one of the locals laughed. “Mama’s boy take a shot.”

Vin turned so fast even Dahl barely saw the move. A whip-like arm shot out. The local clutched his neck, face suddenly twisted, choking. Dahl saw blood and realized Vin’s hand must have held a concealed blade. Good to know. The local collapsed, still gagging. Dahl shifted a little closer to Vega’s best man.

“You do not disrespect the family,” Vin rasped, his voice a cheese-grater across concrete. “The family are your gods.”

Dahl had been watching everyone, from Dario to the mercs to Grant, hoping for a loss of concentration. What minute losses there were offered no opportunity. He was close enough to both Grant and Johanna to make a move, but not a telling one. It began to look increasingly as if Dahl was going to have to make a last-ditch assault. His body was charged, his mind ready. Vin now clutched Dario’s hand in a violent grip and aimed it dead-center at Dahl’s chest.

“Pull the fucking trigger, boy.”

Finally, Dario showed some spirit, pulling away from Vin and taking several deep breaths. Nobody spoke, nobody dared.

Dario aimed the gun.