Torsten Dahl book 1 - Stand Your Ground (16 page)

Couldn’t I just track him and shoot him now? End all this?

But it wouldn’t end. There was more at stake tonight than Dahl and his family. Nick Grant was also at large. Killing Vega wouldn’t save the PM or his family, though he’d take the opportunity if it presented itself. In truth, he needed to know what they were really up to.

The Swede pulled it together. Ordinarily, decision making and self-esteem were no problem for him. Today, his outlook had changed. He coaxed Isabella and Julia from under the table and then led the way towards the farthest, darkest point, moving steadily and keeping to the shadows. They made no sound, even Johanna staying calm, focused and understanding that only complete silence would keep them alive. No tears lined her face and Dahl saw a simmering new fire present in her eyes. If it was at all possible this woman would keep her children alive.

They flitted to and fro, unsure if Vega had positioned men around the area, seeing the streets and roads that led to safety but skeptical that they could make it to Jubilee Gardens by using them. Somewhere, possibly ahead at the fringes of the parade, Vega was audibly becoming more and more angry and then Dahl heard the shout of an unhappy man.

“Damn!” Vega cursed. “Damn you Dahl! I will find you and I will rip you to shreds. You hear me? I’ll be back soon. You fucking hear me?”

Dahl led his family away from the darkness and into the night.

*

Dahl, alone, considered every option. Some time had passed since he last saw his family, and the separation, not to mention the actual parting, weighed like granite anchors upon his heart and soul, but the distance had become necessary.

He worked his way carefully toward Grant and his men now, feeling both pleased and miserable. When he initially realized it was essential that he double back and at least try to become privy to Grant’s plan, the idea had lured out a tangled sense of dread. Leave Johanna and the kids alone? Here . . . now. But they had two guns and the advantage of concealment. And they also had Dario.

Dahl didn’t like it though. The kid had shown that he cared, had proven his bravery and had nothing left to lose. Dahl had faith in him to a certain extent.

“Can I trust you with this?” He’d spoken quietly to the younger Vega at first.

“I will stay with them. I will protect them with my life if I have to.”

“Why? Why not run?”

“Because they are
children
and should not have to endure this.”

A man after his own heart, Dario impressed Dahl. “I agree. But this is my family. My whole world. Today, they confound me and tomorrow they will astound me. Nothing matters without them.”

“I get that.” Dario had said. “I truly do.”

And the Swede believed him. Despite his youth, and perhaps because of the peculiarities of his father, Dario had found something deep with Maria that had now been torn asunder. He was a boy floundering in a storm, searching for shelter.

Dahl offered refuge. “I have to find out what they’re planning. Look after them. I’ll be back in a quarter of an hour.”

Dario looked relieved. “Yes. I can do that.”

Dahl then moved on to Johanna. The same request should have been met with protest, with self-righteousness, with tears perhaps, but his wife remained stoic, listening to the argument and then simply promised to take care of the kids.

Dahl had studied her, amazed. “Did I ever really know you?”

“Of course. But sometimes . . . we grow.”

He’d nodded. “I guess.”

“Go do your job.” Johanna had leaned in to deliver a goodbye peck on the cheek. “And don’t worry. We’ll all be here when you get back.”

Running in tandem with his need to help Sealy was the knowledge that the Prime Minister would then help them, and this nightmare would be over. The risk was worth the payoff. The paradox came in the form of eight- and nine-year-old girls. It turned good sense onto its head. Life had never thrummed with this much ambiguity.

He reviewed the conversation and the change in Johanna as he returned to them now. His wife hadn’t changed – she had grown. He needed her now as much as he ever had, as much as the first moment he knew that he loved her. Everything that had passed since – surges of life replete with incredible highs and lows – was just filler. The true foundation hadn’t crumbled. He knew it was simply, in the course of life, you
forgot
you needed each other. Living intervened. Complacency took root and you forgot the great things that drew you together in the first place. Children came along, higher priorities, no privacy. Problems escalated and extended like rotten, blackened roots, looking to spread and poison the whole tree.

Behind it all, if you could find it, that initial spark, the fire that started it all, never extinguished. He stopped now, in the dark, mind clearer. The twenty minutes he’d been away had helped make a sharper focus of the jumble, sort the soldier from the father. He’d earlier decided to risk it all to stay alive today. Johanna’s attempt at the ultimate sacrifice had pushed her closer to his world. Now, they would have to grow closer still.

TWENTY SEVEN

Gabrio Vega had experienced a rare moment of clarity when he realized Torsten Dahl escaped. He stared around at his men – each a muscled, tattooed thug dressed up in a $1,000 suit. He looked down at himself and the weak hand that hurt every time he grasped something wrong or went out into the cold. He reviewed the years of Dario’s childhood – his growth into a young man – and considered for once that maybe it wasn’t all the kid’s mother’s fault. Mostly, though, he recalled that jungle clearing.

You pissed yourself, then ran like a coward. Dahl saw it all but said nothing today, probably hoping silence might save his children. It’s true . . . you blame him for so much more than the death of your brother.

Clarity stung like a metal-tipped lash, razor-edges reopening old wounds. The gates of Hell beckoned but it was simply a lost kingdom now, yawning and swallowing up one and all . . . except him. Never him. These men –
his
men – knew from day one that they stood in harm’s way. He always believed that the level of loyalty he offered, not threats, kept them together, true brothers in arms, his world a bazaar of madness with eddies of safety, of chaos counterbalanced by comradeship and care. He stood, a figurehead, at the tip of all that, a benevolent father.

Where did all that leave him now?

On the edge of . . .

“Gabrio,” a familiar voice spoke near to him. “It really is now or never. The PM’s on his way. We catch Dahl later.”

Vega exploded with a kind of verbal madness, screaming after Dahl, and then calmed himself and ensured that his men were carrying their fallen fellows to an agreed pick-up point. His mind then switched again, this time reluctantly leaving the whole Dahl situation behind and focusing on the whole reason for him being here tonight. This night, of all nights.

“Are we ready?”

“We are,” the Facilitator said. “Physically and digitally.”

Vega knew certain alpha-numeric strings had to be pulled at his facility back home to smooth the process here in Barbados tonight. Of course, if he didn’t have to be here right now, he’d have been tucked in there instead, tequila in hand, music surrounding him, keeping his mind clear so that he could design the tip of the computer-generated phalanx that would penetrate the defenses of his enemy.

“How long?”

“We should move.”

Grant turned away. Vega looked to his men, nodded at one’s suit so that the man knew to brush off a few specks of blood and at another to straighten his tie. When he caught up to Grant, he found himself wanting to explain.

“I so wanted Dario to succeed,” he said. “The need blinded me.”

“He’s your son.” Grant said simply.

“Not anymore.” Vega said. “Not after we hurt Maria.”

“You think?” Grant shot back, then amended his tone. “Do you regret that now?”

Vega didn’t know. “It showed that my men are loyal. They deserve the same in return.”

Grant led the way, steering them east along Cheapside Road, further and further under the umbrella of noise that accompanied the Grand Kadooment Festival. Vega shouted orders to his men, showing a rare display of anxiety on his part, attempting to bring them into line for what had been seen for some time now as one of the pivotal nights of Vega’s leadership – its climatic events catapulting them all into a far higher stratosphere.

“This next step will bring unbelievable heat down on you,” the Facilitator said. “And in the end, if they really want you, they can always get to you.”

“I know that. The Americans make no bones about it.”

“Then you’re quite ready?”

“I do have other mediators,” Vega said. “Apart from you. Don’t worry yourself, Grant. The plans are all set.”

Grant stopped and then pointed toward the end of the passage where the covering darkness offered by the narrow alley ended and a bright ribbon of color passed before them.

“Then let’s go make history, old boy.”

TWENTY EIGHT

Grant and Vega had led the way back to Bridgetown. When Dahl had left to find them, he’d known it would be a struggle to get close, but managed to quickly swing around the market and make off with a jacket and beanie hat worn by a dead thug, a local man Vega hadn’t considered one of his crew and therefore not worthy of burial. It was easy bypassing the men carrying their dead comrades – they had bigger concerns than a flitting shadow – and in any case they fell behind presumably to await the arrival of one of the Range Rovers. Dahl then joined the ranks of Vega’s bruised security detail, assisted by the utter darkness of the alleyways they stalked through, the woolen hat he’d managed to cram down over his more striking features and the shirt he’d stolen from the dead man. Walking with a hunch rounded it out, but it was far from perfect and Dahl wished there were another way.

But since he was already here . . . who knew what useful tidbits he might learn?

“The plans are all set,” Dahl strained to hear Vega say.

Grant replied, but Dahl missed it. Cursing in silence, he inched as close as he dared as the group converged on the alleyway’s exit. A few more choice snippets of conversation lightly massaged his eardrums.

“We’ll have to get a move on.” Grant urging Vega.

So he had no precise schedule, but the appointed moment was fast approaching.

“Where does this come out? Jubilee Gardens? Good, that’s close enough.”

And a place.

“We’ll see Sealy there, right as he’s speaking.”

Dahl had heard enough. Whatever Johanna overheard earlier was about to come to pass and Vega’s crew were primed and ready to act. Every moment he wasted following these men now put Sealy’s life in further danger. Still, he would not leave his family wondering. He would return and re-join them, keep them close. The size and exuberance of the parade almost guaranteed anonymity, which was why Grant chose it, of course. But what worked for the killer would work for the victims too. And the rescuers. He slipped back and away from the group, retracing his steps.

The memory of Johanna and her new bravery rode shotgun in his mind, demanding attention. In comparison, his own abilities and self-confidence were twisted beyond recognition by the accompaniment of family. Dahl did not recognize the man who fought today, but knew if he could get Jo and Iz and Jules to safety, then the real warrior would resurface and quite likely save the day.

Logic, not ruled by emotion. Based on experience.

Dahl crouched low to find the gap in a fence behind which Dario and his family were hidden. He whistled the Hunger Games’ mockingjay tune, pitched low, to signal his return. He squeezed through the fence.

“We have to go now, guys. We have no time. PM’s in big trouble. Stick together and follow me.”

A rapid scan of faces assured him the adults were assured and ready. He hated having to bring Isabella and Julia along, but the alternatives were worse. Again, the huge parade would serve them well.

“No cops?” Johanna asked.

“None I’ve seen. And none we can take a risk on.”

“So you intend to get as close as possible to the Prime Minister, who’s about to be assassinated?” Johanna pointed out as they walked. “That sounds a little mad, Torsten.”

“I am mad, Johanna. It’s why you married me.”

They’d originally met as schoolkids, chasing an imaginary monster through the woods that backed onto their homes. Dahl had organized the neighborhood children into groups, given them specific jobs to do, and handed out backpacks, water flasks and packets of sandwiches, assuring their mothers they were going ‘fishing.’ And they
were
fishing – only not for fish.

Their friends, one by one, had given up and gone home, until only Johanna and he hunted in the forest. And she’d believed him when, later that day, he said he’d spotted the enormous, stalking furball. Together they’d charged at the unknown, sharpened sticks raised high.

“I remember,” said Johanna.

They found no prey, no threat, in the forest that day; no danger greater than a fourteen-year-old boy’s imagination. But they had been mad for a day and loved it. Dahl had been mad for years. Everyone told him so.

As the group moved ahead, a tiny voice spoke up. “Daddy?” she said. “Daddy, can we go home now?”

And walls came crashing down. Perspectives crumbled. The world contracted instantly to a very different place. It took every last ounce of commitment to stay on the path he’d chosen.

“Soon, darling,” he whispered. He wanted to sit his daughters down, listen to them talk, hold them and at least try to explain.

“One day you’ll understand why we can’t go home right now,” Johanna spoke for him. “For now, you have to be brave, okay?”

Dahl led them on, keeping his face to the shadows.

TWENTY NINE