Torsten Dahl book 1 - Stand Your Ground Page 5

  “There.” Johanna pointed to the high, oak counter. “If we’re quiet they’ll pass by.”

  Dahl shook his head. “We keep moving. Situations like this – you stop, you die.

  “Don’t say—” She stopped herself.

  Dahl ignored Johanna’s tearful glare, hugged the children even closer, and pointed to the back of the store. “Through there. Find a door.”

  He paused for a second to peek through the door behind him. Back towards the hotel, the scene was a snapshot from Hell. The high façade towered over all, dozens of its guest-room windows shot through, glass cascading down as he watched. Palm trees swayed across the entire panorama of twisted, broken chairs and tables piled in haphazard array, umbrellas and chaise lounges thrown askew, men and women in swim-clothes crawling among the debris or trying to hide amid the pools, bottles and glasses and personal belongings scattered and half-destroyed, incongruous items like sunscreen and baseball caps lying forgotten.

  Dahl turned and followed Johanna, who had found the rear door.

  “Exit low,” he whispered. “Stay calm.”

  She did, leading him down a path through a thick hedge that bordered another meandering path. Certain they hadn’t been seen, Dahl told Johanna to keep going, but at a slightly slower pace.

  His arms were burning from the strain of his daughters’ weight, but he told himself to focus on what they needed: an alternative way out, or a reliable refuge.

  The beach emerged at the end of the hedged path ahead, white sands stretching wide in both directions, large areas still showing signs of that morning’s early rakings. Dahl saw a crowd running to the right and stragglers to the left, and knew his earlier nucleus of a plan would now grow to fruition.

  Isabella’s voice broke his focus. “Are we safe, Dad?”

  Julia answered quickly. “Don’t be silly. Just shut up.”

  Dahl knew what effect that reply would have. Of course, he couldn’t scold Julia, not when they were running for their lives, so he held his girls more closely. “To the right, Jo. Keep your head down.”

  Following a trail of footprints, they sprinted across the sand. Its heat transferred instantly to Dahl’s exposed soles, but again he fought through the pain. The kids grew even heavier as the sand grew deeper, each step grueling punishment. Dahl looked back once they’d cleared the hedge line.

  The sight tore a chunk from his soul.

  Ten men burst from two tree-lined pathways, most of them clad in chunky, black jackets and camo trousers. They held their guns easily, betraying an alarming confidence that spoke of careful planning and expectancy of escape. Dahl liked the situation less and less with each passing second.

  Something else then accelerated his downward spiral: a face he recognized and almost expected – the face he’d dreaded – stepped out into the open. Nick Grant. Dahl almost missed a step, caught himself just before sprawling headlong. Grant scanned the beach for just a moment before settling unpitying eyes on the running family.

  No mercy. No holding back. Dahl knew that now. Even if he hadn’t met Grant before, he knew the man’s reputation. Even if he hadn’t known that, he saw it in the set of his body, the frank, coldblooded stare.

  Dahl clung to the two things that meant the most to his life and picked up speed.

  “Don’t stop, Jo. Just keep moving.”

  “My feet hurt.”

  “Then pick them up. And run!”

  His deliberate drama galvanized her to a quicker pace as shouts pierced the clamor behind them. Dahl chased the footprints of previous runaways, bending his route slightly seaward as he saw something on the horizon.

  Ahead, two figures jogged toward them. Dahl felt his adrenalin fire for just a moment before realizing that these two were in fact policemen. Still, an inner voice told him to trust no one. The gap between them closed fast; neither cop reaching for his belt nor moving his hands out of sight. Dahl shouted as soon as the men approached within earshot.

  “Terrorists! Shooting at the hotel and guests! They’re right behind us!”

  He pitched his voice to what he hoped was the correct level of terror, enough to spur the cops into action. “Call it in,” he called as they looked past him. “I counted at least ten men.”

  Disbelief lit one cop’s face, unease the other’s.

  Hadn’t they questioned the other escapees and received the same information? The pair couldn’t tackle ten men alone; they should already have been on the blower.

  “Look—”

  They did, and as they stared past him, incredulity lit their features. Dahl saw inexperience and real fear and knew they were in serious trouble.

  “Come with us,” he said, still moving ahead. “You can call it in as we run.”

  He knew time was fleeing faster than the final death of day.

  They didn’t move, so Dahl kept running past them; he couldn’t waste more time cajoling these men at risk to his family. A volley of shots rang out from behind. Dahl glanced back as both cops cried out, twisted and fell, their shirts shredded and bleeding. The assault team was down on one knee, the Facilitator among them, taking aim at the two cops. Again, Dahl’s immediate thought was to wonder why he still lived, why the killers hadn’t trained their weapons on his family. Clearly, he’d been correct: Grant wanted them all alive. The reasoning behind that couldn’t be good.

  Johanna’s scream spurred him on, made his feet pound into the sand. If Grant were here to avenge his old supposed debt – Dahl couldn’t think of any other reason – then they’d never be safe until the Facilitator himself were dead. But that scenario didn’t sit right with Dahl. Grant only showed his face and traveled to a particular country when the deal at hand was vastly important. Profitable. Could the Facilitator be juggling two missions? It had to be. Even if Grant had tracked Dahl here from the start, Dahl couldn’t imagine him marshalling such resources for the hunt. Not alone. Not unless he expected payment in return.

  The real Dahl rose up in him then, the Mad Swede, perfectly controlled rage pounding at his gut, inciting him to action. But the Mad Swede would already have weapons in hand. The Mad Swede wouldn’t have been caught out on the open beach with his family. In truth, the gunmen were too far away anyway, and his family too exposed.

  He ran on, encouraging Johanna along, sensing rather than seeing the pursuers picking up their own pace now, closing the gap. In his peripheral vision, he saw the two downed cops still crawling, still alive with survival instincts kicking in. A minute later and four more shots rang out.

  The cops had been executed in cold blood, right there on the hotel beach. An unnecessary execution by men who – more than uncompromising – were cruel.

  Ahead, the jumble he’d seen earlier on the horizon grew clearer, confirming his hopes.

  Boats.

  With an escape plan now firmly in mind, he ran harder, ignoring the spasms in his strained arm muscles, urging Johanna to greater speed with every charging step.

  ELEVEN

  Dahl practically threw Isabella and Julia feet-first into the last speedboat on the strand, the one closest to the ocean. He yelled at Johanna to jump in, already spying the keys dangling from the ignition, and understanding why. Hearing gunfire, a panicking man might abandon the boat and run away on foot, seeking town and the safety of buildings and police stations rather than heading straight out to sea, where safety was just as fragile.

  No gunshots split the day apart, but Dahl didn’t have to look back to know Grant and his men remained hard after him. If they wounded Dahl, it was all over, but even that option appeared to have been ruled out by Grant . . . or whoever was calling the shots. Still . . . best not to test them.

  He pushed the rear of the craft hard across the sand, telling Jo to get ready at the ignition. Isabella and Julia hunkered down, fitting their bodies almost beneath the seats, their tiny forms so fragile that Dahl experienced a rash surge of helplessness. He turned his panic for them into fury, driving his shoulder into the boat’s stern, shov
ing it across the wet sand and into the foaming breakers. Water splashed him. Wet sand squeezed between his toes. An incoming wave almost toppled him, but Dahl held on.

  “Nowhere to run, Dahl!” A voice rang out. “Might as well stop there.”

  Dahl ignored it, still pushing.

  “We’ll get you sooner or later. The city is ours.”

  Dahl ignored Grant’s call, concentrating on his family. Johanna perched over the wheel as if searching for a portal to another world. At a word from Dahl, she turned the key, bringing the small engine to life.

  “Now get us going.”

  Johanna’s shoulders slumped, the sobs echoing like admissions of defeat.

  Dahl raised his voice. “Jo! Get us going!”

  “I can’t,” she whispered, shuddering. “I just can’t.”

  He cursed silently, understanding that his wife was suffering the mid stages of shock, the trauma of panic and fear immobilizing her. He pulled himself over the stern, leaped over the seats and nudged her gently aside. One twist and the engine roared to life. A tweak of the throttle and the craft surged ahead, surfing the rolling waves. For the first time, Dahl had at least a partial way out. The next decision would be pivotal.

  “Can you pilot the boat?” Dahl asked Jo.

  One look at her red, tear-streaked face told him the truth much more clearly than the mumble that escaped her lips. Here they were, alone in their swimsuits, pursued by assassins on an unfamiliar island, not knowing whom they could trust. The outlook was bleak. Understandable that his civilian wife could not function.

  He kept the boat close to shore, taking a quick glance back to shore at the crew chasing them. Grant was clearly visible, the leader of the pack. Dressed impeccably as always, he stood out now, uncharacteristically, as the odd man. The rest wore camo pants and t-shirts covered by black military-style jackets. Dahl had seen them a thousand times, but didn’t think these were lined with the bulletproof plates that were available. Some mercs would rather be comfortable than remain breathing, it seemed, but that was nothing new. Dahl’s eyes roved over the weapons: an assortment of AK’s, HK’s and even less accurate hardware. Everything he saw told him that Grant – the best of the best – had been forced to assemble a team from whatever was available. He’d been hasty. He’d had to make do. An improvisational hunt, started at Dulles, no doubt. That worked in Dahl’s favor. And made him suspect that Grant wasn’t alone in this after all. Added to the many questions now haunting him was, Who had helped Grant amass this team. The men’s professionalism did not, frankly, rise to Grant’s usual standards. If Grant had organized this hunt alone, he would have come prepared, backed to the max by men who knew their job.

  Grant and another, equally or more powerful individual. Both after Dahl and his family. Their hunt spurred quickly by a chance sighting at Dulles. Still . . . to have this many men at the ready, on Barbados, of all places? The puzzle would make little sense, Dahl knew, until he had all the pieces.

  Dahl looked ahead, telling Johanna and the children to stay low. The beach narrowed past another property and then swept further inland. His mental map of the island was incomplete but did contain parts of the local landscape. The ocean around them was by no means empty; small sailboats with masts drifted to and fro with no signs of life aboard. Red- and blue-topped umbrellas lined the beach to the right and Dahl saw an exit off the beach, a makeshift path that led into a busy area of town, somewhere near the Harbour Lights Night Club. This was Bayshore or Pebbles Beach, then, a tourist hotspot and a great place to get well and truly lost.

  Dahl considered the choices. Yes, they could power out to sea, become a speck on the horizon, but Grant would already be anticipating that. Heading further out would only make them more vulnerable if Grant commanded any significant resources whatsoever.

  Dahl opened the throttle and aimed the nose of the craft at the beach. They stood a far better chance ashore, and Grant’s men now lay far behind.

  “Get ready,” he said. “We’re heading inland.”

  Johanna turned those red eyes upon him. “Can’t we talk to someone? Where are the authorities, for God’s sake?”

  Dahl understood that complaining helped decent people make more sense of their situation. “We’ll find somebody who can help. But first we have to reach town.”

  The speedboat sped among the shallows now, then struck the beach hard, bouncing slightly as it skimmed the sand. Isabella and Julia jerked forward but Dahl was already there, protecting their heads. As the boat shuddered to a stop, he pulled them out. “This time,” he said, “you run with me.”

  Johanna climbed out, lost her footing and then rose again. The fight was not inside her, not today. She was so far out of her element that she might have lost all sense of self; she was running past empty.

  “That way.”

  He moved between the umbrellas, slogging up the sandy beach. Sunshine beat down upon his shoulders. Emptiness surrounded them for the most part, but there were a few other stragglers and shapes moving within a stand of palm trees and greenery to the right. Dahl couldn’t physically help the bystanders, and some soldiers — many of them – would remain mute to conceal their own location, but Dahl couldn’t bring himself to do it. He shouted that they should get the hell away from the area. Return to their hotels, even.

  No answers were forthcoming. The danger hadn’t reached them, yet.

  As the sand evened out and they approached the path, Dahl’s thoughts turned to the authorities Johanna had mentioned. Grant might well have paid a certain number of them off. He had the money—that was sure. The question was whether he’d had sufficient time – or whether Grant or a partner already had a foothold in Barbados. Dahl couldn’t think of a reason why they would, but, regardless, he couldn’t fully trust anyone – even an innocent cop might lead them inadvertently to a conspirator.

  They ran down a tree-lined avenue, coming out alongside a brick wall topped by black railings. The small car park was full, but not with vehicles. People stood outside, some apparently oblivious of what had transpired not too far away, others clearly aware and looking around nervously. The approach of sirens had triggered their awareness. Perhaps gunfire as well. The worried crowd’s presence only added to Dahl’s uncertainty.

  “There,” Johanna panted. “A cop.”

  Dahl grimaced, realizing that it was dangerous for them to be traveling as a family. They’d stand out like thorns on a rosebush. But separating would be madness. Try as he might, he couldn’t think of a single fact that lay in their favor.

  “Cops could be paid off,” he said. “We need to lie low and find a way out.”

  Johanna regarded him in shock. “What do you mean – paid off? Are you—”

  Dahl cut in. “In real life, people can be corrupted. Police forces are no different.”

  Her face still registered disbelief, but they didn’t have the time. Dahl would have loved to explain it all, lay out every possibility and potential misstep, but Grant was coming and the only cop he could see had just set eyes on them.

  Shit.

  Dahl ushered his family along before the police officer picked them out amid the crowd. The gathering now consisted of many who had escaped the hotel and somehow saw this solid vestige of normality as a refuge. True, more cops were arriving, but Dahl saw little reason to linger here. It was now well past midday, approaching mid-afternoon; Harbour Lights was a nightclub and unlikely to be open yet. Dahl kept Isabella and Julia close and pulled Johanna along behind. His wife was silent, unhelpful, but Dahl put any anger he might feel aside – she wasn’t trained as he was, couldn’t react like he could, and he understood that.

  Nearing the club, he saw that he’d been wrong. Its doors were ajar, people slipping in and out. Maybe they’d opened in response to police pressure . . . or actually never shut. Dahl didn’t know, but at that moment he saw a figure that ignited a spark of hope.

  She could help.

  Still conscious of all the roving eyes, Dahl pushed
a little harder, parting the throng and making a bee-line for the figure. Their eyes met and the woman smiled. She was a brunette with every single strand of hair scraped back into a huge bob that gave her the appearance of having a garden ornament affixed to her head. With her well-pressed, red jacket, gold badge and thick clipboard, she certainly looked the part.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  Dahl approached the holiday rep with immense misgivings, but at the same time understood they weren’t in a position to keep on running. It was time to bury the soldier’s instinct, think of his family and ask for help. “I believe we’re being targeted,” he said. “By the gunmen at the Barbados Palm. You’ve heard, yes?”

  The woman’s expression indicated that she had.

  Dahl indicated his wife and daughters. “Can you help?”

  He hadn’t chosen the woman at random. A good holiday rep would have intimate knowledge of the island, good contacts with police and authorities, and most importantly, a first-rate rapport with the locals. Dahl needed his family to disappear until he could call DC for backup. Of course, the call wouldn’t take long, but the backup would.

  The holiday rep took an unconscious step back. “You think they’re targeting you? Please don’t worry, sir. The authorities have this in hand. The police are here and—”

  “You don’t understand.” Dahl dipped his head, drawing her face down with him. Unconsciously he reached for his own ID before remembering he’d left it back at the hotel. “Look, I realize this sounds insane but you have to help me. My family,” he indicated the children and Johanna, “are being hunted.”

  The woman’s face withdrew once more, glancing to either side. Dahl knew exactly what she was thinking. He’d seen it a thousand times. The distraught tourist. The panic-stricken dad. Suddenly, everything was about them and the safety of their kids; they only imagined the worst happening and all they wanted was to get away from this place, to get home and hold their family close.