Torsten Dahl book 1 - Stand Your Ground (24 page)

“There you go.”

Johanna didn’t waste time. She asked Dario to hunt around for food and water for the kids while she dialed, aware that they could be discovered or reported at any moment. In the end, the younger Vega came up with a stash of bottom-drawer chocolate bars and an unopened can of cola. He shrugged doubtfully.

“Are you kidding?” Johanna said. “That’s perfect.”

A coarse voice with an odd accent suddenly answered the phone: “Yeah, who’s this?”

She knew the speaker. “It’s Johanna. We don’t have long.”

“Gotcha. Go ahead.”

Johanna collected her thoughts in a hurry. “The highlights – both Grant and Vega are here to do business with Prime Minister Sealy, not to kill him, as it first appeared. Torsten said they own him. And they’re doing their business right now. We’ll be on Pebbles Beach, somewhere near the Harbour Lights club. And they still have men out there searching for us.”

“We’ll come in hard,” the man said. “But, tell me love, why isn’t Dahl making this call?”

“He’s gone to sort it all out.”

A restrained snort from the other end. “Of course he has. And you, you’re safe? Unhurt?”

“Yes. We will be.” She didn’t have time to tell them all about Dario. “How long will you be?”

“Not long. Less than an hour. Do you have Dahl’s location?”

Johanna explained about the PM’s residence and Dahl’s idea. She left the final plea unspoken, because the man she talked to wanted to save her husband just as much as she did.

“We’ll come for you first,” he said. “And then the residence. If anything changes try to let me know.”

Johanna confirmed, hung up, and then looked Dario in the eye. “Time to go. We’ve done all we can.”

“Are you sure going back to the beach is the best idea?”

“It’s a great hiding place, and it should be safer still once they’ve already checked it. What could be better?”

“I hear ya.”

Johanna took hold of the girls’ hands, grabbed a bit of chocolate, and led them back toward the street.

The words sounded great, but she was a sapling bending in the midst of a storm. A stronger sapling than yesterday, but bendable and breakable nonetheless.

“Where are we going, Mummy?” Isabella asked.

“The beach, darling. You know how you like the beach.”

“Not today.” The quiet retort.

Just one more hour,
Johanna thought.
Please just give us that
.

FORTY ONE

Dahl’s improvised sheet-rope wasn’t long enough. Not even close. He did see that he could make a safe jump to the ground, but that was missing the point – there were two halves to this plan. Dahl decided to take a little time and dial the risk ratio to full. He backtracked, retracing his steps to the housecleaner he’d tied up in the unoccupied bedroom and gathered up the bedding linens she’d been carrying. Time slipped away, but not too fast now that he knew where he was going and exactly what he was doing. And if the original guard had recovered by now – it hardly mattered. A general alarm is what he was after.

Dahl used the now-lengthened sheet-rope to abseil all the way to the ground and left it dangling. Funny thing, when you wanted to catch a criminal’s attention, you just couldn’t get a bloody break. No warning shouts, not even a challenge split the night air as he dangled off the side of the residence, hit the ground, or began moving heedlessly around the house.

Time to change it up a bit.

Now on a different side of the mansion from where his rope still hung, Dahl sought the closest window and broke it with the butt of his pistol. Glass smashed, shouts filled the air. At last men came forth, some flicking cigarette butts as they ran, others hastily pocketing cell phones. One fell over a tree branch. That would be Vega’s contribution, then.

Dahl ensured he was spotted by multiple men, then ran steadily back the way he’d come. Radios squawked. Protocol would dictate the guards chase and apprehend, but Dahl knew the caliber of the men up in that room. Maybe they’d guess it was he, maybe they didn’t care a jot, but the order would soon come down – shoot to kill.

Dahl ran hard. A man appeared ahead, sprinting the other way. Their eyes locked, the man’s gaze hardening. Dahl used his momentum to leap high, elbow pointed down. As the two men came together in their crude joust, Dahl slammed down with faultless accuracy, landing the point of his elbow on the man’s cheekbone and driving him to his knees. For his part, the guard rammed a heavy fist into Dahl’s ribs. Tensed muscle absorbed most of the blow, focus diverting the pain. The Mad Swede didn’t break stride, leaving the guard in his wake, approaching the corner of the house and spotting his sheet-rope still hanging toward the back. Now it was vital to stay ahead. The crackle of radios sounded like maddened birds whizzing all around, the warning yells white noise, pointless. It wouldn’t be long until—

The first shot rang out, the bullet smashing into the wall to Dahl’s left, producing a plume of mortar and brick dust. He sprinted with everything he had until, reaching the sheet-rope, he took hold and planted both feet against the wall.

Time to . . .

“Hold it, asshole. You ain’t fuckin’ Spiderman so get the hell down from there.”

Dahl didn’t think, just thrust and threw himself backwards from the wall in the direction of the voice. His body struck the guy, who grunted and staggered. Dahl managed to regain his balance and spin—

Only to be hit by a sledgehammer; the man’s head angled down, shoulders out, slamming into Dahl’s gut and knocking the wind right out of him. Dahl held on as he was propelled backwards, then dug his heels in, the edges churning up dirt as he sought to deplete the power in the charge. The man soon came to a halt and tried to back away, but Dahl heaved on the downturned shoulders, raising the man’s heels off the ground. The guard acted like he’d never known the like of it before, kicking like a mule and shaking his head like a rabid dog. Dahl clapped both sides of his head with open palms.

The man staggered. “What the fuck
are
you?”

Dahl gritted his teeth rather than reply. No point wasting breath. Gathering power, he took hold of the man with two hands, hefted his bulk and then threw him around and against the wall. Unable to stop it, tumbling in mid-air, the hefty guard tried to curl fetal ahead of the impact. Dahl growled and stomped at the man, but the guard rolled away from his foot. He rose to a knee, visibly trying to clear his head but incredibly still holding onto the gun.

“Really?” With regret, Dahl broke the arm and threw the gun, leaving the man writhing. It was the only way. With seconds to spare, he returned to the wall and started to climb, feet and hands moving triple-time.

Dahl hauled himself up and over the balcony once more and drew both guns.

FORTY TWO

The balcony was clear, the room beyond standing as expected – less crowded. Vega at least would have sent extra men to assess the danger, thus thinning out the guards.

So far, so good.

He stepped through the balcony doors, guns leveled, a man alone against eight or nine and liking his chances. He’d faced worse and sent every offender plummeting down to that special place reserved for them beneath Satan’s toilet. The first guard to spot him coming through the window drew. Dahl shot him between the eyes, covering the next man in blood and worse. A second guard missed that memo and also tried to line Dahl up, falling a moment later with a brand-new, smoking eye in his forehead. Vega and Prime Minister Sealy were standing, immobile, still trying to register that guns were pointed at their heads. Other hands moved to weapons but Dahl shook his head.

“Don’t.”

Indecision froze the room. Some men had already drawn weapons but now held them pointed at the floor.

Dahl didn’t waste time. Others would arrive and change the dynamic. He waved the barrel of a gun, bunching the guards together, and then raised an eyebrow at Vega.

“Where’s Grant?”

“Gone. A few minutes ago.”

The man was slipperier than engine oil. Bunching the guards together had probably been a mistake, but then he could hardly leave them apart. Lowered guns itched to be raised and Dahl fought to watch every single one.

“You are outnumbered,” Vega pointed out.

“And how did that work out for you last time?” Dahl kept his eyes on the armed men. “If I see one barrel rise, I will shoot two men. That’s a lot of tears and funerals, Gabrio.”

“They’re not all my men.”

“How about you, Sealy? Your boys get life insurance? Dental?”

“Dahl,” Vega interrupted. “What are you going to do?”

“Take away everyone’s reason for being here,” he said, still not looking at the cartel boss. “You. I’m taking you.”

“Torsten . . .” Vega began, then abruptly changed tack. “One million for the man who shoots him first.
One million dollars!
”

Dahl tightened his grip, his eyes sweeping the room. Barrels swayed, raised and lowered. Fingers twitched. A true standoff. Vega’s men were perhaps a bit reticent, knowing they had jobs for life; Sealy’s men danced on the edge. All knew that many of their colleagues had tested Dahl and failed.

“Don’t,” Dahl warned softly. “Don’t.”

Men shifted. Dahl almost fired. He held off, knowing a single shot would start a bloodbath in which all could die. The strain smothered him, the tension tauter than a guy-wire. Vega and Sealy appeared nonplussed, unsure what form of leadership was required next.

Dahl wondered where Grant was. The man was as cautious as a snake and Dahl doubted Vega would know. He could press the question but that would only waste time. “The balcony, Vega.”

“Oh, and then we can go?” Vega asked. “Sure.”

“Last chance.”

“Men are on their way, asshole. This is
your
last chance.”

Dahl judged the room. “This bastard offered one of you a million dollars to shoot me,” he said. “Ain’t you gonna collect?”

And he moved, sidestepping toward the desk and Vega as one of the men snapped and drew. Dahl’s gun exploded first, a bullet penetrating the offender’s right bicep and drawing out a heavy groan. Dahl switched his tactics and pointed one gun at Vega’s throat, now less than a foot away.

“Come here.”

“Fuck you. Shoot him.”

But nobody dared risk it. None held sufficient belief in his own skillset to risk the shot.

He reached down to the desk and grabbed a letter opener. Before anyone could react, he rammed it through the top of Vega’s hand, pinning it to the desk. “Last chance. Come now.” Escaping alive meant he had to take Vega with him.

Vega stifled a scream, but vented with a string of curses, punctuated with information. “
Pendejo!
Where will you take me? You go quickly. I will let you leave. You had best look after your family now!”

Dahl drew a breath, taking stock. The gun never wavered. He almost wished one of these assholes would make a move so he could blow Vega’s head off. But the cartel boss’s statement shed a different light on things.

You had best look after your family now.

His family waited far away from here. But Grant had left some minutes ago. Could the Facilitator know where they were hiding? Hazard a guess? Grant knew Dahl well, and he’d hunted them across the island for a day or more. But surely . . .

Dario
.

“How?” he managed. “Just . . . fucking . . .
how?”

“You think devices can only be put in watches and bracelets?” Vega spat, then shrugged. “Well, sometimes that is true. But family? We are
skin deep.
Yes?” Vega laughed. “Grant has my tracker with him.”

Dahl reacted instantly, before anyone could speak or even blink. He unfastened Vega from the desk by yanking on the man’s wrist, pulling away the injured hand and letter opener together, then swept a thick arm around the man’s throat and wielded both guns at once, barrels pointed outward, covering the room with a steady, roving scan.

“We’re leaving,” he said. “Anyone brave enough to take a shot better have perfect aim.”

Shoving the drug lord along, Dahl contracted behind the man’s frame, manipulating his walk to maintain maximum cover. He passed Sealy, leaving himself wide open to the man. He expected the Prime Minister possessed little or no personal courage, which proved correct as Vega openly urged the man to act and received only a hooded frown in return.

“I will gut you personally after this.” Vega growled at Sealy.

Dahl pushed him toward the room’s hallway door, not wanting to complicate the situation any further. Time to call last orders on this particular party. Hardened gazes sought his, looking for an opening. Fingers still twitched, and Dahl challenged every one, the Mad Swede communicating with his eyes the essential truth of the situation.

“They were right,” Vega said. “You are mad.”

Dahl nodded at the five men he left behind, the four lined up along the wall outside and the one stationed at the end of the corridor. “You wouldn’t recognize a set of proper balls if they slapped you in the face, Gabrio,” he said loudly. Then more quietly, “Proof of that lies in your son.”

“Easy to say from behind a gun,” Vega said. “So what would you do, Mad One? What would you do if you were them?” He indicated his own men.

Dahl leaned in close. “Easy. I’d shoot you in the gut, then me in the head.”

They neared the end of the first hall, the man there backing away, arms actually upraised. Clearly, he didn’t understand the situation. Not that Dahl minded. He urged Vega onward, over to the second-floor landing and then downstairs. Another bunch of guards and mercs waited in the lobby, calculating angles and risks, but Dahl remained in constant motion and manipulated Vega around slightly at every step, always changing the viewpoints and positions, always fluid. Still, he brandished both guns simultaneously, making himself as threatening a figure as they’d ever seen. Not once did the soldier in him fail, not once did the strength and focus acquired from years of training and battle deteriorate. The air outside struck him like a cold towel, much welcomed. He inched his captive over to the row of parked cars and stopped along the path, breathing steadily.