Torsten Dahl book 1 - Stand Your Ground Read online

  “This is Dario.” Grant motioned at the lad. “Does the name ring any bells?”

  Dahl thought for a moment. “No.”

  “Face look familiar? Come closer, Dario.”

  Dahl kept his eyes on the bodyguard figure, who stepped forward behind Dario. The guy wasn’t for show. He looked well-muscled and knew how to handle himself.

  “The lad’s second name is Vega.”

  Dahl’s awareness clicked like an electric light going on. The Amazon raid, where he’d first encountered the Facilitator . . . and Gabrio Vega. The drug lord had pissed himself in the face of danger, in the face of an attacking Dahl, while his brother fought back and died for it. At Dahl’s hand. For his part, Gabrio Vega had managed to escape. Now it all made sense.

  “Vega is your employer.”

  “He’s been looking for you too. It may have taken a while for the stars to align, but we now have ourselves one fine cluster, don’t you think?”

  “Gabrio Vega sent his son to avenge his brother?” Dahl wondered aloud. “After all these years, the man is still chicken-shit. The worst kind of coward.”

  “Don’t speak too soon,” Grant said. “Vega’s on his way.”

  “And you, Nick?” Dahl deliberately personalized it. “This is your revenge for the Amazon? And the Russian thing.”

  He felt Grant tense behind him, as he’d known he would. Dahl had been planning to use this carefully engineered moment of distraction to make a move, a well-planned but high-risk move, but Dario’s bodyguard saw it coming a long way off. Before Dahl could move a single muscle, he’d raised and pointed a gun at Johanna’s head.

  “Not today,” the bodyguard said.

  “Are cheap tricks all you have?” Grant asked, emotion lowering his voice. “Then you will die. Right now. Vega sent his son to become a man, to avenge his brother. Vega sent his son to destroy your family as you destroyed his. Vin, give the boy a gun.”

  Dahl saw the shadow’s eyes flicker at the onset of fear that abruptly froze the young man’s face. With Vin caught watching Dario for a reaction, Dahl struck, tabling every hope and dream he’d ever had of the future. The closest man was a local clad in a light-green t-shirt and cut-off shorts. Dahl struck him in the chest, sending the man barreling back into Johanna and sending her stumbling toward the desk. Vin didn’t look impressed, but made no move. Two more locals looked on, as if doubting their own eyes. The four mercs moved decisively, their training kicking in, lowering weapons and trying to fit around the Barbadian personnel.

  Dahl went straight for the nearest gun. Vin’s. He caught the gun arm and aimed it at the ceiling. Any kind of ruckus, especially a shot, might alert the right person on the Jolly Roger. Vin held steady, matching Dahl’s strength. Dahl positioned Vin’s body before him, so that the mercs couldn’t quite reach past, the narrow room working to his advantage. When a head popped into view Dahl flicked a fist at it like a rocket-propelled hammer, drawing blood and sending its owner staggering away. Vin used the distraction to bear down on him, twisting the gun’s barrel toward Dahl’s skull. The man was a bull, practically unmovable. Dario shied away from it all, eyes flickering so fast they appeared to be rolling.

  Trade off.

  Dahl made a split-second decision to go for the slender teenager. In truth, it was perfect, the only option. Shoving Vin’s arm further away he started to lunge but a blood-curdling shriek stopped him cold.

  Grant. You forgot about bloody Grant!

  To his right, Johanna knelt on the wooden floor, hair held fast by in Grant’s left hand. Grant stood behind her, a blade held at her throat. A thin smear of blood already coated the sharp edge.

  “Stand down. Or watch her die.”

  “Catch her from behind did you?” Dahl threw Vin’s gun arm aside and moved toward Grant. “Nicky and Vega, kissing in the coward’s tree.”

  Behind him now, Vin spoke up. “End this now. You see this man’s one dangerous mother, so stop messing with him. Kill him.”

  Grant held Johanna so tightly she couldn’t even twitch for fear that the blade would sever her carotid. The mercenaries spread out as best they could, all smiles again. The locals tried to hide expressions of distaste.

  Vin draped a huge, muscled arm around Dario’s shoulder, bringing the boy in close, grunting animalistic words of encouragement. With one finger he dangled the gun in front of the kid’s face.

  “Use this to avenge your father’s brother,” he said. “Do it.”

  Dario eyed the black steel, then the man he was being told to kill. Dahl registered every unfolding moment of it, the inevitability of death beginning to close around him. Grant watched Dario as, for the first time, Vega’s son’s gaze met Dahl’s eyes.

  “Kill him,” Vin urged again, oddly gentle, much like a preschool teacher urging a child to take a developmental first step.

  “You can shoot him in the leg first,” Grant said, “if it helps.”

  Dahl watched the Facilitator in his peripheral vision. If the Englishman moved a single muscle, shifted the blade for one instant, he would make the most significant move of his life. If . . .

  “Dario,” Vin growled, “become a man. Shoot this soldier between the eyes so that we can start on his wife.”

  Dahl grated already clenched teeth.

  Dario took the gun.

  “And his children,” Grant added. “They’ll sell for more than a pretty penny at the slave market. You’re making us rich, Dahl old boy.”

  Dario squinted his eyes nearly closed as he raised the gun.

  NINETEEN

  Dario’s finger entered the trigger guard, the pistol shaking, then withdrew.

  Vin steadied Dario’s shaking gun arm. “Now is the time.”

  “Yeah,” one of the locals laughed. “Mama’s boy take a shot.”

  Vin turned so fast even Dahl barely saw the move. A whip-like arm shot out. The local clutched his neck, face suddenly twisted, choking. Dahl saw blood and realized Vin’s hand must have held a concealed blade. Good to know. The local collapsed, still gagging. Dahl shifted a little closer to Vega’s best man.

  “You do not disrespect the family,” Vin rasped, his voice a cheese-grater across concrete. “The family are your gods.”

  Dahl had been watching everyone, from Dario to the mercs to Grant, hoping for a loss of concentration. What minute losses there were offered no opportunity. He was close enough to both Grant and Johanna to make a move, but not a telling one. It began to look increasingly as if Dahl was going to have to make a last-ditch assault. His body was charged, his mind ready. Vin now clutched Dario’s hand in a violent grip and aimed it dead-center at Dahl’s chest.

  “Pull the fucking trigger, boy.”

  Finally, Dario showed some spirit, pulling away from Vin and taking several deep breaths. Nobody spoke, nobody dared.

  Dario aimed the gun.

  Dahl gathered himself. Johanna moaned.

  Then Dario turned the gun on himself.

  Vin gasped out loud. Dahl couldn’t wait any longer. He lunged for the Facilitator and drove a fist into his ribs, a move that would draw the blade away from his wife’s throat. For a split-second, he felt a pang of hope.

  Then the gunshot rang out.

  One of the locals spun, dead. Then another shot and Vin fell backwards, clutching his side. Two more shots and two mercs fell. The rest stared between Vin and Dario, wondering what the hell to do.

  Dario hadn’t killed himself after all, Dahl now saw. Instead, he was killing the locals and mercs. Dahl pounced on the chance like a predator taking a wounded animal. Another blow and Grant was falling away from Johanna, groaning. Dahl plucked the blade from his fingers and pulled Jo close. A merc closed in behind; Dahl sent an elbow in search of the man’s nose, locating it easily without looking. Dario fired again, each resounding clap making Dahl flinch instinctively. Another merc went down.

  Vin was screaming at the young man. Dahl made his voice louder than the bodyguard’s.

  “Come on! N
ow!”

  Dario didn’t hesitate, hurdling dead men and training the gun on those who still lived. One of the mercs asked Vin if they could shoot the boy, but Vin was barely listening. The shadow was beyond livid, beyond furious.

  “He’s mine.”

  Dario reached Dahl’s side as Dahl broke for the far door, Johanna moving with him. They crossed the passage and pounded up the narrow wooden staircase, hearing no signs of pursuit but trusting nothing. Only Vin’s vengeful roar followed them up the stairs. Dario stumbled to his knees in fear, but Dahl urged him on. The door at the top of the steps was locked, but the Mad Swede hit it like a charging bull, rotating slightly at the last moment so that his lowered shoulder struck it squarely. Hinges splintered, the lock cracked, and it surged open, slamming back against the boat’s bulkhead with a resounding snap. Cheerful sounds now reached their ears, the partygoers making merry. Dahl was surprised nobody had heard the shots, but then saw a worried-looking group approaching from the ship’s bow.

  “Quickly,” he said. “They’ll take the ship back to dock. We should get lost in the commotion.”

  “Won’t Grant’s men just start shooting everyone?” Johanna asked, her voice steadier than Dahl expected.

  A plausible concern.

  “It’s not like before,” he said. “I guess they might, but last time it was all about terror. Moving people out of the way and covering tracks. This time, no one can go anywhere and their secret’s already out. And look, the dock’s right there.”

  In the fifteen minutes or so since boarding had ended, the pirate boat hadn’t moved far. Dahl slammed the door shut behind them and moved away, distancing them from the area. Now Johanna clutched at his hands.

  “Where are they?”

  He smiled to comfort her and then eyed Dario. “We don’t know each other,” he told Vega’s son. “But you appear to be in some deep trouble. I can’t trust you yet but I’m happy to help.” He paused. “If you give me the gun.”

  Dario let out a ragged breath, his tall, gangly frame still shaking. He proffered the gun without hesitation. “Take it. I don’t want it.”

  “But you did know how to use it.” Dahl checked for rounds, safety, and then tucked it into the waistband of his swim shorts. “Woah. That’s not gonna work.”

  “Here. This should help.” Johanna unwrapped her shawl and tied it tightly around his waist, like a belt.

  “My father made me learn and prepare,” Dario told them. “For a day like today. He wants me to become a man. Join the family business.” He stopped in fear, casting a glance back at the door.

  “Well, you did the right thing.” Dahl said. “Killing is no business to be part of.”

  “It isn’t quite so easy. I have a—”

  “Torsten,” Johanna interrupted. “Where are they?”

  Dahl eyed Dario a moment more, using every minute of his decades-long experience to gauge the boy and his intentions. The initial impression was favorable.

  “This way,” he said.

  Isabella and Julia screeched when they saw Johanna, running into their mother’s arms. Johanna tried to hide the blood at her throat by kneeling and burying her head into her daughters’ embrace. Dahl thanked the older couple for keeping his world safe and then turned to Dario.

  “You failed your initiation.”

  “Oh, I know. I’ve known for a long time that I would. But Vin . . . he’s not just a bodyguard. He’s a massive bully. A born killer, but loyal. He’d kill his own mother if my father ordered it.”

  Dahl wondered how the boy had ended up planted so far from the rotten tree that was his father, how the genes had spliced so diversely, so far apart. He put the interrogation off for now, finding he was able to breathe the air again, see his family together again, something that had seemed unattainable only a few minutes ago. His normal self-confidence had taken a beating, but now came flooding back. Yes, he could do this. He did have the skills to save his family. Nothing had changed.

  “Can you get us out of here?” asked Dario.

  “I do this for a living.” Dahl told him. “Just do as I say.”

  As the ship returned to dock, nudging the concrete slipway, a security team stalked the deck, making the passengers bunch and lose their good cheer. Dahl, his family, and Gabrio Vega’s son found adequate space in which to hide, and Dahl finally began to believe they might all survive this day intact.

  TWENTY

  Gabrio Vega stared out the tiny airplane window, pinching the knot of his yellow tie into a tidy bundle, a cell phone tucked beneath his chin.

  “Are they talking?”

  The answer came from a voice as fragile as a twig. “No. No, sir.”

  Vega hated to hear fear in a man’s voice despite the fact that he was forced to foster it among the ranks. Goons, unfortunately, only responded to one thing, and often goons were all that was available. “Find out where they live. Use their families.”

  “Um, we’re taking about a commissioner here. And two deputies.”

  “And are they sitting comfortably in your cell?”

  “Yes. Yes, sir.”

  “Well, good. Warn them, let them go and then use the office to go to work on their families. Leave the cops alone. Start small: bank payments, car loans, alimony payments if there are any. You know. Do you understand? Use our system like you’re supposed to.”

  Vega felt fury rise in his breast when the voice fell even lower, answering in the affirmative but clearly out of its depth.

  Did he have to do everything himself?

  Often, yes. Men liked this filled the ranks of his organization, but it was the shrewd psychopaths that Vega needed. People like Vin. Like Drago. But they did not come along often. He wondered if he should send Drago to Vegas. The operation there was showing signs of foundering, the competition smelling blood. That was why they’d abducted la chota in the first place. But physical intimidation was becoming less and less the way to go these days.

  He lowered the cell phone and shouted down the aisle. “How long until we land?”

  “Twenty minutes, sir.”

  Vega gripped the phone’s plastic tightly. “Now listen, puto,” he breathed into the mouthpiece, not enjoying the change of tactic but deeming it necessary. “You have orders. Do it now or I’ll have to send Drago. Do you understand me?”

  More whining.

  Vega felt around on the leather seat beside him, instinctively going for his gun. It took an enormously deep breath to calm himself. The rage didn’t come often these days, but when it did . . .

  Don’t become your own worst enemy, he told himself. A phrase from the mouth of his father, one of the few fondly remembered ones.

  “Last warning. Do it. Now.” He killed the call, wishing it were the man, and bellowed out an order for his laptop. Twenty minutes was just enough time to start to destroy someone safely and remotely, exactly the drug he needed. And it was a drug: the need, the power to rule and kill and stomp obstacles into the ground . . . digitally. He’d once had a competitor removed literally from the face of the earth. Killed and burned him. Torn him asunder. Ground him down. Then pulverized the ashes until nothing remained. That face-to-face act brought him no kind of solace, but doing the same — via data alone — to another competitor kept him happy for months on end.

  Today, though, only one thing would satisfy him. Here he was, flying toward the culmination of one of the greatest deals of his career and all he could think about was Torsten Dahl and Dario.

  Did the kid come through and end Dahl?

  A stab of phantom pain emanated from the old gunshot wound in his hand, the reconstructed thumb joint reminding Vega of the klutzes who worked for him and instilling in him a faint desire to be more like his father. His father would have dealt ruthlessly with such an offense. Vega forgave and laughed about it, inspiring loyalty at the same time as confusion, his men rarely knowing what to make of him.

  Vega entertained a buffed-up memory for a few moments, remembering all that he had
seen and conquered. It was during these sumptuous flashbacks that he felt most at ease – the jungle episode, for instance, when his brother had turned tail, shot in the back by Dahl and Gabrio Vega had fought tooth and nail through the Swede’s entire crew to carve out a slice of vengeance. Only to be foiled at the last moment, as Dahl absconded on a helicopter, tail between his legs. In truth, in his most twisted, deepest heart, Vega knew this was why he hadn’t pursued Dahl through the years. The memory he preferred served better than the reality he buried away.

  A flight attendant paced up the aisle, smiling. Vega felt content again. Calm. The phone rang again and this time it was someone he actually wanted to speak to.

  “Vin? Tell me what happened.”

  He sat back languorously, looking forward to hearing of Torsten Dahl’s anguished final moments on earth.

  “The kid shot me. Killed three others. Escaped with Dahl.”

  Vega’s mouth actually fell open. For once, he was stuck for words, too flabbergasted to put anything coherent together.

  “They made it off the boat. If you want us to find them it could . . . clash with that other business.”

  Vega mouthed like a goldfish, still struggling. Finally he said: “Is Grant alive?”

  “Si. The Englisher is a cockroach. He could crawl away from anything.”

  “Tell him to carry out the plan without adjustment. But spread the word down there – I want Dario, Dahl and the rest of the Swede’s worthless family. I want it all.”

  “It could deplete our cover. Cause problems.”

  “Don’t tell me what it could do. Get it done!”

  “On it.”

  “And listen to me. Does the kid have his tracker on?” Dario was family. Vega was technology-minded, and domineering to a fault. The Web helped him control most lives he took an interest in, but to regulate those he kept closer a different system was required. And redundancies in droves.

  “He does. All three of them. Already activated.”