Torsten Dahl book 1 - Stand Your Ground Page 10

  “Good. Then don’t fail again. I’ll be there soon.”

  Vega waved the flight attendant away and started fiddling with his cell phone, turning it around and around in one hand as he decided what to do next. Three men dead – if they were his men then that meant three funerals back home, and much else to do. They might be goons, but they were his goons, and that meant treating them professionally. At least the Barbados operation remained sound. Soon, the lucrative island would fall under his control and the boost to his drug trade would be like a heroin shot in the arm – fittingly. Grant had organized the job impeccably. Vega didn’t see how eliminating Dahl and his family – and now Dario – would get in the way of the mission’s success.

  Dario.

  His son had betrayed him – betrayed his family. But he’d also killed three men and shot Vin . . .

  Vega shook his head, experiencing a stab of anger mixed with guilt that felt like a sword through the heart. Who knew the boy had such a set of cojones? And who could have predicted he would use them to thwart his own father, the man who had given him a thousand chances?

  Vega called home. Gomez answered the phone.

  “Get me Vargas. Now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Forty-eight seconds later, a gruff voice echoed down the wires. “Si, senor?”

  “The girl. Dario’s girl. His little secret. You still have eyes on her.” It was an expectation, not a query.

  “Si. We do.”

  “I want you to do something very specific. Are you listening?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Cut off her head. And then send me the pictures. Do you hear?”

  Vargas swallowed audibly. Vega knew it was rather an unexpected request from the boss, but this was one of those times when the psychopath had to emerge and overshadow the professional.

  Vargas’s answer was appropriate. “It will be done.”

  “Now, Vargas. Do it now.”

  Vega cut the connection. How did Vin come by these men? Lottery? Shortest straw? After the Barbados jaunt, it might be time to teach his business-suit wearing hoodlums the art of listening.

  Vega looked out the window as the plane came in to land. Barbados stretched out below, sparkling from the endlessly folding sea to the roads and the beaches and luxury boats. A small tourist paradise, and a new lucrative home for Vega. Barbados was about to be brought completely under his rule. Rivers of blood would be spilled at his order.

  Digital blood, naturally.

  Life was good.

  TWENTY ONE

  Dahl, his family, and Dario made themselves among the first to disembark, escaped the dock unmolested and headed into Bridgetown, part of a swelling crowd. Sirens screamed, lurid flashing lights painting the sides of buildings red. It wouldn’t do to be questioned by the cops at this point, especially carrying Dario’s gun. They had also purloined several items prior to their scramble off the ship.

  The kids now wore crocs, a size too small for each of them but better platforms than the soles of their sore, bare feet. They also had a short red cardigan and a thick, grey hoodie between them, the latter of which they took turns to wear as the heat of the day faded away. Johanna wore flip-flops and a knee-length cardigan draped over her shoulders, the clothing transforming her somehow into a much more confident woman. Dahl had found himself Asics trainers and a black leather jacket.

  Jo had been reluctant to steal the clothing they needed.

  “Our need outweighs theirs for now,” he’d told her. “I promise we’ll try to return the items another day.”

  If we survive . . . words best avoided.

  Dahl checked the time by shadowing a tourist and peeking at his wristwatch. 7:00 p.m. Help remained several hours away, but now their destiny had been returned to their own hands. He pressed further into Bridgetown, seeking a special, more personal type of asylum.

  As they walked, he spoke to each member of his party individually, bolstering their confidence with his own, dealing with their tiredness and fear by offering a strong, unbreakable set of shoulders.

  Isabella and Julia were subdued, the day taking its toll. Dario nodded at everything Dahl said, but the young man appeared deep in thought.

  Now far from the ship, Johanna favored Dahl with a grateful smile.

  “Thank you for coming to save me.”

  “You know me. Mad bastard.”

  “Sometimes mad can be a good thing.”

  “Did they hurt you?”

  He watched his wife closely, but Johanna didn’t flinch or look away. “Only here.” She tapped her head. “The things they said. What they would do to you. How they would sell Iz and . . . and Ju—” A silent sob wracked her frame.

  Dahl reached out to steady her. “We’re almost done,” he said. “The worst is over now.”

  “No,” she said, crying. “I don’t think it is. While I was – oh!”

  Two faceless figures came out of nowhere, tackling Dahl and Johanna about the waist. Hitting Dahl meant his attacker met an unyielding tree stump, but Johanna sprawled and rolled across the sidewalk faster than she could cry out. Dahl hooked an arm under his assailant’s body and lifted his bulk in the air. As the feet left the ground and the body tipped, Dahl let go. The man landed neck-first and went still. Dario motioned at Dahl’s waistband, but Dahl shook his head. Firing a weapon now would only increase the risk. Dahl dealt his would-be captor another, decisive blow and then turned to help his wife. Isabella and Julia crouched together, faces turned away. Dario had his arms around them, instinctively moving them away from the melee. An unexpected protector.

  The man who stood over Jo looked up at Dahl as he approached. Realizing he didn’t stand a chance, he turned to run, but Dahl was faster, dispatching him with a single blow to the back of the neck.

  He helped his wife to her feet and brought the children close with a nodded thank-you to Dario.

  “You were right, Jo. Let’s hurry.”

  They moved away quickly, escaping the stares of rubberneckers by becoming one with them. The crowds ebbed and flowed. Johanna tapped Dahl’s arm.

  “I overheard something,” she said, sniffling. “Something really bad.”

  “It doesn’t matter. The priority is to get you all to safety. This place isn’t what it used to be, Jo.”

  He’d meant it as part-joke, trying to lift her spirits, but saw in her face how seriously she took his words, and how she’d been hoping for so much more from their time here.

  “Let’s keep walking,” he said to take her mind off it all.

  Johanna looked like she might capitulate, but then stopped and let it all out in a sudden surge, the floodgates of emotion opening and washing self-preservation away. “They were talking about a Prime Minister. The Prime Minister. Of Barbados, I think. They said he was called Sealy. And they spoke about his security detail and where he would be at a certain time. They were saying he’d be giving some kind of a speech. Maybe at a parade? They said, ‘It’s never easy to pull these things off.’”

  Dahl mulled it over. “These people . . . were they with Grant?”

  “They were meeting with him, yes.”

  Dahl had suspected that the Facilitator and Vega wouldn’t have gathered all their considerable resources in Barbados so quickly simply to take revenge. Now he knew: they had a larger plan.

  “It sounds like a hit.” With back-up or even alone, Dahl would have pinpointed Grant’s position and taken one more parasite out of existence; the paradox was that his family was here and he still wanted to snare him.

  “Lucky for him, you’re here. Can we call it in?”

  “I have a phone, but . . .” He shrugged and surveyed the area. “Did they say which parade?”

  “No. Why?” Johanna’s fear grew by the second, clear on her face.

  “It might give us the time-frame.”

  “Today,” Johanna said. “They said it’s today.”

  With that, Johanna could stand it no more, the trauma of the last several
hours, the surety of her death, the pressure of right now. Her face crumpled and the sobs shook her frame. When they saw their mother sobbing, Isabella and Julia both started to cry too, right there in the center of Bridgetown, as the crowds skirted by.

  We don’t have time for this, Dahl thought, still in military mode, but then found his compassion as his children looked to their father for guidance. His wife tried to hug herself rather than reach out for him. He took a chance and drew her close, hoping the kids would take solace from the closeness of their parents.

  Johanna sniffed. “The kids need you.”

  “So do you. And I need you.”

  “And so do your soldier buddies. And the US government. Isn’t that what you once said?”

  Dahl despaired then, and looked up at the Barbados skies for inspiration. What to do now? Darkness was a solid vault above, inscrutable and cold. He realized that Isabella and Julia had both stopped crying and he looked back down to see why.

  Dario was on his knees beside the girls, speaking softly, engaging them and shifting their attentions. The young man had a good heart and cared for children. How on earth could he be the spawn of Gabrio Vega? The girls clearly felt his innate kindness, warming to him and listening. Isabella even let out a small giggle.

  “Look.” Dahl tapped Johanna.

  She sniffled, wiped her eyes, and managed a small smile. “Maybe someday they’ll forget this.”

  Doubtful. “We’ll do what we can.” He gave her a strong hug. “You’ll be okay, Jo.”

  “I don’t care about me,” she said. “I care about our kids.”

  Dahl nodded, hugged her again. They needed to find a place less traveled, now. Hundreds of passers-by had already noticed them. He also felt an urge to contact the incoming rescue team about the Prime Minister threat, but they were still hours away. Was this a job for the local cops? No, because the Facilitator was involved and no stone would have been left unturned, no worm left unearthed and not paid off.

  Who could he trust?

  Easy. The man Grant wanted to kill.

  Dahl thought about that sentence, measuring its simple truth and honesty. Seven words – job done. Help the one man who could help them. Dahl had to get to the Prime Minister.

  Now there’s an idea.

  He tabled it for a few minutes as he led them across the road and into the shadow of a department store, seeing it was still only early evening and wishing the small hand of the clock would start spinning a little faster. Nevertheless, he considered his plan sound. All he had to do now was locate the PM and then get close to the man. Easier said than done, especially with assassins crouching somewhere in the night, but Dahl believed he could do it.

  Have to.

  Grant and past memories assailed him, a constant commentary in the background of his thoughts and plans. The guilt he felt over Grant’s accusations regarding the Russian mafiya incident was unfounded. It was misplaced, fueled by Grant’s mistaken beliefs and by the suffering of innocents. The Russians had been dabbling in everything from video piracy to murder-for-hire and human trafficking. They were evil men, raised without a conscience, trained by depravity and cruelty, indoctrinated into sin by those who had been indoctrinated before them. When they branched out, they used others, partly to conceal their actions and identities but also to learn the skills of those they hired. One such man was Nick Grant, even then a procurement legend. Dahl remembered the day he’d learned the Facilitator was in league with the Russian mob, remembered his reaction.

  Not a chance, he’d thought. Grant’s too savvy for that.

  Not so. The Facilitator proceeded to work for the Russians and later came to regret every single second of it.

  Dahl forced it down, but it rose like bile, spilling acid into the pit of his stomach. Grant’s fury would have its reckoning.

  Dahl hoped for it.

  TWENTY TWO

  Bridgetown’s shopping district bustled with life, excitement everywhere. Johanna first noted that the bustle seemed more of a festive affair – colorful costumes, face paint and the gathering of small crowds and the presence of barriers and cops– since Dahl was fully focused on keeping them safe and wondering about Prime Minister Sealy. His family had arrived yesterday, their vacation booked at short notice, and had no idea of what other events might be happening across the island. What the hell was this? From years ago he remembered watching a more authentic, cultural parade. This felt more like a politically funded affair.

  As Bridgetown became an ever-growing hub for cheerful partygoers, Dahl came to the conclusion that the merriments had to be investigated. Don’t leave the unknown at your back or anything past you. Well, anything that could hurt or help. The best group of people to approach appeared to be a bunch of jolly Americans, recognizable by t-shirts supporting American football teams and, mostly, by their accents.

  Dahl also liked the size of their group, pulling his own among them. The first friendly face that held his gaze belonged to a middle-aged woman wearing a Harley Davidson baseball cap and short denim shorts. She gave Dahl a big smile.

  “Hi there, handsome. You lookin’ for someone?”

  “As a matter of fact, no.” Dahl grinned. “The kids were wondering what on earth was happening?”

  “Ooh, you’re English. Jess, Becca, listen, this man’s from the UK!”

  Dahl had long since given up correcting assumptions as to his birthplace. “You like the English?”

  “Dunno, honey. I never really met one before. But I do love that accent.”

  Dahl had been hit upon many times, but not in front of his wife. The sad part was she didn’t appear to even think about stepping up.

  “Big party?” He steered her back around to the question.

  “Kadooment.” The woman said, then swigged from a bottle. “Kadooooment! They call it Crop-over too. Who knows, honey? It’s all just a big party to us.”

  “Yeah, it’s Grand Kadooooment day, baby!” one of the others cried out, then grabbed the nearest body and started to grind. Dahl winced, surreptitiously glancing at his daughters. Luckily, Dario had their attention.

  Sometimes, you do find diamonds in the dirt.

  He’d never heard of Grand Kadooment Day, but the first woman knew a little more. “They say it’s a summer street carnival,” she recited as if reading from a leaflet, “crammed with people consumed by festival fever. Soca dancing. Body paint. Just like Mardi-Gras. Oh, yeah.”

  “Sounds . . . cool.” The family man inside him thought it actually sounded rowdy, dangerous and best avoided; the soldier saw the chance to approach Sealy and perhaps help him at the same time.

  “The Prime Minister?” Johanna whispered. So she had been listening after all.

  “Any celebs? Locals? VIPs?”

  “Oh, gosh, not a clue. You a reporter or something?”

  “Something,” Dahl said. “Thanks, guys.”

  The crowd had thickened around them, women screeching some phrase he could not recognize. The party was clearly ramping up. Noise levels were climbing the decibel scale, gatherings at barriers becoming two or three rows thick. Dahl saw it would soon become difficult to move freely around the center of Bridgetown.

  “A parade has to have a beginning and an end,” he bent to speak into Johanna’s ear. “The most likely points for a speech. C’mon.”

  They gathered the girls and Dario and extracted themselves from the crowd. Crossing over the empty roadway seemed an unnecessary risk, so Dahl headed for a cluster of well-lit nearby shops. What they really needed were some helpful locals, and Dahl hoped they might find some at work nearby. He just needed a few minutes to learn the Prime Minister’s schedule and then he’d secure his family and Dario somewhere safe, allow them some much-needed time to rest.

  He couldn’t in good conscience allow the prime Minister of Barbados to take a hit without at least trying to warn him. It also stood to reason that the PM might be able to help them. Still, any such side benefits were immaterial – he had to try to sa
ve the man.

  He stopped outside a flamboyantly painted gift shop, wondering briefly if he should take an extra five minutes to interrogate Dario. Information gleaned now could become invaluable later, but did he have the time? He placed his hand on the door handle, which pulled inward, drawing him into the shop. The girls giggled; even Johanna smiled, and the moment was gone. Inside, he spied walls hung with masks and paintings, tour guides, jigsaws, kids’ accessories and a whole lot more. The woman smiling at them caught his attention. She wore a bright blue skirt and jacket, and a checkered shirt. Brighter than a sunny outlook, she saw the husband, wife and kids and began her spiel.

  Dahl held up a hand. “We came out tonight without money.” He grinned, unable to help himself. “Could you please tell us the parade route?”

  “Independence Square to Jubilee Gardens,” she said in a thick accent. “Don’t go near the costume bands an’ bad behave or the cops’ll have your ass.”

  “Ah, thanks for that. I don’t suppose you happen to know where the Prime Minister is speaking.”

  “All the talk say he at Jubilee,” the woman said. “What’s happening?”

  “Cheers.” Dahl said and headed for the door. He paused a moment, unsure where Jubilee Gardens might be, but Johanna plucked a folded pamphlet from the counter.

  “These free?”

  “In true.”

  Outside, on the street, Dahl opened the pamphlet, attempting to get his bearings from the tiny map amidst a hundred huge advertisements for helicopter rides, water slides and island cooking.

  “We appear to be here,” he jabbed. “Over there is Jub—”

  “Want help with that?” a voice drawled.

  “Here, let me take a look,” another voice followed the first. “Don’t wanna get lost now, do ya? Some bad areas around here.”

  Before the second man had finished speaking, Dahl had glanced up, recognized some of the mercenaries from earlier and a couple of luridly-dressed locals, and begun moving, pulling the kids behind him and covering Johanna, remembering the gun in his waistband and calculating how hard it would be to untie the shawl that hid it. Two men flanked them with a knotty little group behind, including the bodyguard called Vin.