Torsten Dahl book 1 - Stand Your Ground (18 page)

“We’re going to have to rethink this whole thing.”

“What happened up there?” Johanna asked again.

Dahl ducked past a dozen-strong group of escaping tourists, pulling the others along. “Sealy’s a bad egg.” He said. “Not a target. I’m guessing he’s part of Grant’s network. One of Vega’s cronies.”

Johanna blinked rapidly, mouth falling open with naïve misunderstanding. “But he’s the Prime Minister of Barbados.”

Dahl murmured an affirmation. “He was furious to see me up there. Happy to see me taken down. Believe me, Jo, he’s in on this.”

Dario asked the prize-winning question. “So, what is
this
?”

“I don’t know,” Dahl piloted his family around another group of stragglers, then straight through a mass of gawkers. More and more these days, civilians stood in the open, taking pictures and video as they risked the one thing they and their parents held dearest in all the world – their lives. Dahl didn’t understand: a few moments of adulation on social media couldn’t be worth the risk.

An alleyway beckoned, dark and seemingly empty. Dahl risked a last glance back before herding the others into it.

Elements of the crowd were already returning to the Gardens, some people booing as they thought the Prime Minister had fled. No doubt, the PM’s opposition was already finessing the idea that Sealy himself had planned the aborted assassination. Most would be hoping for information, showing their bravery and trying to snag a passing cop. Even more would be trying to jump before a camera and put their face on prime time. The stage and podium were deserted, now, but as he watched, Dahl thought he saw some of the mercs wandering around the edge of the stage. He couldn’t be sure, just a brief sighting of black vests that didn’t prove anything. But it was time to review all that Johanna and he had heard. It was time to get to the bottom of whatever the hell was going on tonight.

Fact: the business with Sealy was far more important to Grant and Vega than recapturing Dahl and his family. This was saying something – both men had every reason to see Dahl suffer and die.

Fact: Sealy was part of the setup, as was a bulky, rotten core of cops.

Fact: Johanna had overheard a conversation during her incarceration, but it had nothing to do with the PM’s assassination.

Fact: Grant organized notoriously high-level incidents. Dahl could think of no other way to describe the man’s stock in trade. He wove a black thread of chaos through the entire infrastructure of every place he operated in. While remaining inconspicuous, he created havoc and then moved on, the parasite of parasites, invisible in society both high and low.

Fact: Dahl and his family were situated in the middle of it all. A dangerous place to be, yes, but also an opportunity. Being in the middle meant they could affect the outcome. And after all this, and whatever Vega and Grant had planned, Dahl wanted very much to affect the outcome.

A small crowd coalesced in the Gardens, pulling together for a rousing cheer. Nothing happened up on stage. Sealy wasn’t coming back. Some stayed put and called out: “Coward!” while others gave up and headed back to the parade. Dahl took his family deeper into the alleyway and gathered them around.

“Do you have any money, Dario?”

The lad fixed his chiseled jaw. “Not a dime.”

“‘cause that’d be too easy,” Dahl muttered.
Or not
. Could he really rent a hotel room and leave Johanna and the kids behind? Not on this day, in this town right now. “Well, we can’t stay here . . . ” He wondered if the beach with all its layered darknesses would be safer; simply find the shelter of a stand of palm trees and lie low to await reinforcements. It seemed like as good a refuge as any.

“C’mon.” He led them in that direction, striding down the alley, toward the seemingly endless parade.

“Are we going home, Daddy?” Isabella asked.

Julia was the first to answer her. “Don’t worry, Iz. Dad will keep us safe.”

“I really hate this vacation.”

Julia hugged her sister close. “Me too. I want to go home.”

Dahl walked ahead, close to Johanna. “It’ll take time,” he whispered, “but I think they’ll be okay.”

Johanna nodded. “I’m sure of it.”

“You were an amazing mother today.”

It sounded a little corny, even to his ears, but he could honestly say it came from the heart.

“Oh, Torsten, don’t start me blubbering again. I need to get past all that.”

He smiled, wondering how traumatic events made people see themselves in a stronger light and whether those new traits stayed with them. He prayed they’d live to find out.

“We have an awful lot of talking to do.”

Johanna laughed hard, right there in the darkest alley in Barbados with the parade music pounding ahead and the stars glimmering above. With the children close to their sides. She laughed so hard she made herself burst out into fits of coughing. Dahl draped an arm around her shoulders and held tight; the closest they’d been for many months, in every way. He could feel Isabella’s mooning eyes upon them and hear Julia’s suppressed giggle. Thank god for little girls and their unquenchable, limitless spirit. Right now, there was no darkness around them except for a shadow cast by Dario’s own recent loss, and Dahl meant to redress that barbarity before the sun rose.

They reached the far end of the alley a few moments later. Floats passed by, lit by myriad colors, outstanding in the night. The marchers were ten deep still, meandering around the barriers, snaking toward Independence Square. Side streets branched off in the general direction of the beach, giving Dahl the option he’d been hoping for.

“This way, stay close.”

He merged with the crowd, only to hear shouts and sounds of pursuit coming from behind. The mercs he’d seen near the PM’s emptied dais. Now pounding down the alley they’d just vacated.

Dahl cursed himself. He’d been so preoccupied with Sealy and the shock of discovering his betrayals that he’d ignored his training once more:

He’d failed to check Dario for tracking devices.

Never again.

Back to being the soldier. Time get to work.

But first they had to run.

THIRTY TWO

Dahl switched like a TV channel, instantly shedding the skin of a father and throwing on the soldier’s armor. Beckoning Isabella and Julia, he urged them in front, straight into the parade and joined its flow. Johanna moved closely beside and Dario brought up the rear. The current took them. Dahl found himself alongside a six-foot-seven woman wearing a yellow peacock feather headdress and little else, another woman wearing a kitschy gown and a man twirling a cane, dressed as sharp as ZZ Top under his stunning, white suit. Ahead a whole line of marchers strutted and swaggered, twirled and stalked, the colors blinding, the noise overwhelming. It occurred to him that, remarkably, the incident with Sealy hadn’t come close to shutting down the festivities or sent people fleeing. But taking in the sheer size and scope of the parade, he imagined that it would take something much more perilous. Besides, it seemed in the PM’s best interest to leave everything running as normal. He too had chosen this day for a reason.

Dahl spun in place, checking for pursuit.

It still came. Heads bobbed as the group of mercs followed, running hard. Dahl saw three, maybe four. Grant, it seemed, hadn’t given up on the Dahl family just yet and had added more locals to the chase. The rewards Vega could offer would make it an easy sell. Owning the country’s Prime Minister no doubt had its benefits. Dahl dropped his shoulders and pushed the children to make them go faster. Together, they saw a gap and wedged through the line ahead, coming up to the rear of a high, wide float.

“Don’t stop,” Johanna breathed at his side. “They’re still coming.”

Good. Now he had two sets of eyes. Earlier today he’d barely been able to trust his own.

The float was purely makeshift, in true Bajan fashion. Made fast and easy, it was a thin metal frame, draped with many-hued fabrics, tied to the back of a pickup. The vehicle was festooned in colorful cloth as well, the driver barely able to see at his three-mile-per-hour crawl. In the bed of the vehicle, half a dozen festive bodies clapped and danced, holding banners and scarves and, apparently, anything they could lay their hands on.

Dahl ducked around the blind side, walking alongside the float, staying low. The kids moved well, carefully, remarkably undistracted by the float and the people and the noise. Sometimes it paid to stay covert and move steadier and he saw no reason not to try that approach right now. The riot of humanity here would work nicely in their favor. He raised an eye at Dario to remain on alert, indicating the side of the street. To their right, the barriers segregated the crowd from the marchers, and every so often they passed a vigilant policeman. Dahl hadn’t seen one yet but had begun to formulate an explanation for when he did.

The route had reached a central part of the city, buildings towering over all but barely seen, even their light pinks and blues relegated to the shade by the mobile extravagance passing through. A rich aroma of blended fragrances rode the air, from barbecue smells to the zing of spicy seasoning and perfumed whiffs from hundreds of bodies dancing around. Cheers followed them every step of the way. Dahl kept eyes to front and rear, now confident that Johanna and Dario would do the same.

So far so good.

He indicated that Johanna should lead the kids and slipped back to Dario, knowing that their freedom would be short-lived unless he could relieve the lad of an item or two.

“We’re being tracked,” he shouted above the racket. “You have devices on you.”

Dario screwed his face in confusion. “I do?”

“It must be you.” Dahl knew Johanna had been wearing a bikini during her capture and nobody would have been able to secure anything to her person without her knowledge. He, too, had been similarly attired. Dario wore a gold watch, a narrow bracelet and a filigreed necklace. Chances were, his father had had him bugged.

“Sorry.” Dahl removed the watch and threw it deep into the crowd. He followed suit with Dario’s remaining jewelry and then eyed him calculatingly.

“Anything else?”

“No wallet.” Dario said. “No keys. So unless it’s sewn into the lining of my jeans . . .”

Dahl shrugged. “Anything’s possible. But we’ll not strip you just yet. Although—” he looked around. “You’d fit in quite well.”

“Are you serious?”

Dahl had more crucial things to consider than Dario’s embarrassment. “Do it,” he said. “We’ll grab you some more.”

Dario tucked a hand into the waistband of his jeans just as Dahl saw the familiar bobbing heads.

One peered around the rear end of the float and smiled broadly. “They’re here!” he called to his team.

“Move!” Dahl called to Johanna, and she needed no further warning. She immediately urged the children forward toward the pickup’s front end. Dario spun, gun close to his now-naked thigh, but Dahl stopped him.

“Not here. Go with them.”

Dahl ran hard at the man following them, regretting the choice he’d made. A gunshot here might start a stampede, killing many, but it remained a solid choice to stop the pursuit. Keep them safe.

Shocked at Dahl’s move toward him, the man stopped and started to raise his gun. Too late. Dahl swiped him into the side of the float, following with an elbow to his head. The float ambled on beside them, and the crowd whooped it up as dancers grinned, singing in time and tune. Dahl took a blow to the side of the head. To his right, Johanna urged the girls ahead of the slow-moving truck, but Dario tarried, eyes on the fight.

“Go!” Dahl shouted. “Watch them.”

His opponent landed a blow to the neck. Dahl fought fast and hard, with the desperation of a father losing his children. He had the edge on his opponent because of his military training, but no opponent could simply be left unconscious now.

He struck at the weak spots, the nerve clusters and tender areas, but Vega’s merc proved tougher than he’d looked. His opponent had a fair amount of training. Dahl was aware that the bloodied man’s friends couldn’t be too far behind, whereas Dahl’s family ranged farther away with each passing second. He backed away and kicked, landing a boot dead-square upon the man’s chest, sending him crashing against the float trailer’s metal edge. The bunting fluttered all around the man as his arms gyrated, even some thin wire getting twisted around his wrist. Now aware of him, the dancers began beating down upon him too, even as his skull bled and his legs wobbled. Dahl darted away, seeking his family.

Around the front of the float, more parade lines frolicked along the city street. Dahl saw Johanna flitting through the center of them. To his left, away towards the other curb, three tails pushed among the revelers. Dahl moved to intercept.

Another float trundled ahead, this one higher, richer in color, and more imposing. A yellow-garbed, dark-skinned woman rode the dizzy heights, waving to one and all, while below her several men and women danced around the float’s perimeter, each sporting feathers and beads over their outlandish costumes.

The three men saw Dahl before he reached them, and one angled to cut him off. A second man cast around for his lost colleague before making a beeline for Dahl. The other continued after Johanna. Dahl changed course, bending his brisk, forceful walk in that direction too, figuring it would be better to be beside his family than apart.

Circumstance and fate pushed them together, and then apart.

The float came between them, the celebrators bunched all around. Dahl lost his prey and the men lost him. For a moment. Dahl worked his way past the float, looking all around the garish scene for Johanna. For a moment, he saw only a sea of bobbing heads, darkness outside the streetlights, and carnival everywhere, but then Johanna’s blonde hair stood out like a bare bulb in a cave and gave him a focal point. He moved insistently in that direction, ignoring the protests. As he reached them, a pair of police officers took an interest.

“You shouldn’t be in there,” one shouted from where he leaned against a barrier. “Come on out. Parade only.”