Dario didn’t relax his trigger finger, but Grant now gave Johanna his full concentration. “You want to save people now? Show your bravery? You are different than before? Or were you hiding your true self? Women.” He snorted. “A man would have to be crazy to take this one on. Are you crazy, Dahl?”
He had always been her protector. Now, she had covered for him.
“My wife is more of a man than you’ll ever be, Nick. And you, Vega. I remember the jungle better than you think. And Nick? What happened between you, the Russians and your family? That’s on your head, not mine.”
Johanna suddenly made a lunge toward Dario. Dahl was astonished at the direction of her charge, as, it seemed, was everyone else. In the flickering dark, lit by patches of moonlight, narrow-bodied torches and the furthest fringes of pooling streetlights, disorder and misperception were Dahl’s allies. Johanna went one way, away from her kids; he ripped free from his captors in the opposite direction. Grant melted into shadow. The remainder became a bellowing, human puzzle.
Johanna plowed into Dario’s ribcage. The gun went off, the bullet tearing a bloody line across his cheek and vanishing into the night. Dario didn’t even moan, the gun now hanging forgotten in his hand. Dahl targeted the men holding his daughters as they sought sight of Vega, unsure what to do next, all the force and intensity that had accumulated inside the suffering father suddenly unleashed. Isabella’s captor jerked away as if hit by a wrecking ball, flying fully three feet before coming to earth. The goon holding Julia didn’t even scream under the force of a blow that almost snapped his neck.
Dahl grabbed his daughters and moved immediately, hoping the darkness would bring at least a modicum of cover. Vega’s men were about to start shooting, and it was important to evaporate, to move among them so they could not fire, to become little more than smoke. Dahl forced his girls under a stall, told them to lie flat, forced away the enormous sense of guilt he felt on leaving them, and then turned back to the battle.
Time to earn that reputation.
TWENTY FIVE
Dahl moved like a tangible patch of madness, separating men and leaving chaos in his wake. No way could he hope to defeat them all, but several new factors leaped to his aid. First, Grant had indeed disappeared, seemingly taking several men with him. Next, Vega — typically — panicked and shouted for everyone to come together. Then men began to trip over the bodies Dahl had already left behind, giving the impression that Vega’s soldiers were dropping faster than a banker’s promise. Finally, those who remained upright were still trying to grasp exactly what was happening.
Dahl punched and kicked and struck hard and fast, avoiding any skirmish as he circled the throng, always moving, never stopping, sidling around one enemy, progressing to the next man. As soon as a combatant became aware of Dahl’s presence, Dahl tried to entangle him with the next man. He made his journey around the periphery last 20 seconds, 30, largely unseen, before Vin even came close to regaining control over his crew. Handguns were waving in all directions, even toward Vin and Vega. Some men thought the departed Grant was Dahl and fired in that direction. The shots rang out clear and resounding, and would draw the police, even beyond those already present.
Last Dahl had seen, Johanna and Dario had slipped out of sight, under a stall. He caught hold of another man’s jacket and pulled him sharply off-balance, forcing him against the next who stumbled and dropped his weapon. Cries of derision broke out. Dahl skipped around the group, then punched out at the only man who saw him, sending him to his knees. Now more heads swiveled, eyes seeking, and Dahl saw that his few moments of free license were well and truly up.
Two gunshots rang out. Dahl saw men duck, but he knew Dario had fired into the air. He could see the boy’s head peering out over the top of the stall where Dahl had stashed the kids. Now was the time. A vast advantage had to be taken from the lack of visibility, the endless, winding hiding places and escape routes, and the level of chaos they had engineered. Thanks to Johanna’s new bravery and Dario’s ongoing aid, they had somehow contrived an escape route.
Dahl placed his future firmly before him and went for it.
TWENTY SIX
Dahl came from behind Vin, believing he had him unawares, but the large bodyguard was ready, rolling at the last moment and sending Dahl flying. Dahl sprawled headlong, but was swift to roll and recover, ready for Vin as the bodyguard descended with a jabbing blade.
Dahl caught the wrist and held tight. The blade stopped in mid-air, four inches from Dahl’s left eye, tremoring with the strain of their struggle.
“Grant and I,” Vin whispered. “We have a deal.”
“I hope is has nothing to do with wrestling and baby oil,” Dahl breathed, trying to inject a little looseness into the tense situation but failing under the bigger man’s brute force.
Vin bore down relentlessly. “No, with your pretty daughters. We’re gonna sell them and split the profit.”
Dahl compressed his body to the side, feeling rough asphalt scrape away flesh but ignoring it, slipping out from beneath Vin and letting the blade drive harmlessly, point-first into the macadam. From his knees, Dahl delivered two lightning punches, but Vin barely moved. The next struck the large man’s temple. Vin grunted. Dahl rose and kicked the man away so that a gap opened up between them.
Only a handful of seconds had passed since they’d come together. Vega was bellowing somewhere, his men casting around with their pinprick flashlights. Shots rang out, but Vega yelled sarcastically at someone to stop shooting at the fucking moon!
“I don’t think he’s happy with your choice of men,” Dahl said.
Vin lowered his head and tackled Dahl hard around the waist. Dahl was strong enough to hold his ground, much to Vin’s surprise. Dahl smashed elbows down upon the man’s back, then punched in from both sides. Vin pulled back, but Dahl wouldn’t let him go so easily. Two more blows to the side of Vin’s head sent the bodyguard reeling back.
At that moment, the two men Vin had been leading, who’d ranged ahead unaware of the melee behind them, materialized like Halloween ghosts popping up out of the gloom, one of them holding a gun at arm’s length. Dahl immediately pulverized him, not standing on ceremony nor even acknowledging the weapon. It was sometimes better to act without hesitation than allow a situation to take shape. The other man saw his chance and hit him hard.
Vin had recovered. “No way out,” said the bodyguard. “Not this time.”
Dahl throat-punched the second ghost, but Vin was upon him, first ramming him, then staggering Dahl with blows as he tried to recover.
Dahl went to one knee, heart on fire, limbs leaden and screaming, but that single, desperate, horrified voice inside spoke for his children, bawling and hollering and spurring him on. He caught Vin’s roundhouse kick and heaved the man away, gaining a fraction of a second’s respite.
A shot rang out, then another. Vin paused, then stared stunned down at the two red spots that began to bloom across the white shirt that stretched across his chest.
Then he looked up, mouth falling open. “You?” he gasped. “Again?”
Dario stood behind his bodyguard, pistol still pointed at the big man’s torso. The youth had shot his mentor again, and this time his enemy wasn’t coming back.
Vin collapsed, a pool of blood forming quickly around him on the street. Dahl quickly finished off the other two men so Dario wouldn’t have to step up again, then rifled through Vin’s clothing for a gun.
“Why didn’t you shoot him?” Johanna wondered, peering up from under the table and looking a little confused.
The British phrase my head’s a shed didn’t do her question justice. How could he tell her that in any other situation he’d have taken a gun and dispatched Vin from behind in less time than it took to blink? That, if you started with two-parts danger and then added family to the mix all you ended up with was a blend of second-guessing and low confidence and a head full of churning blades – each a conflicting thought whipping from side to side?
“I . . . wasn’t thinking right.” He breathed, but then reached out a hand to his wife and children. “What you did, Jo,” he said. “Was brave beyond belief. I—”
Dario spun. “We have to run.” And I need one of these guys’ shirts.”
Of course, their pursuers wouldn’t stop. They would be ranging out now, aiming torches in the direction of the gunfire and striding toward the spot. Vega would be among them – Dahl couldn’t see any figures; they were too far away – but there was no way he’d let this lie now.
Couldn’t I just track him and shoot him now? End all this?
But it wouldn’t end. There was more at stake tonight than Dahl and his family. Nick Grant was also at large. Killing Vega wouldn’t save the PM or his family, though he’d take the opportunity if it presented itself. In truth, he needed to know what they were really up to.
The Swede pulled it together. Ordinarily, decision making and self-esteem were no problem for him. Today, his outlook had changed. He coaxed Isabella and Julia from under the table and then led the way towards the farthest, darkest point, moving steadily and keeping to the shadows. They made no sound, even Johanna staying calm, focused and understanding that only complete silence would keep them alive. No tears lined her face and Dahl saw a simmering new fire present in her eyes. If it was at all possible this woman would keep her children alive.
They flitted to and fro, unsure if Vega had positioned men around the area, seeing the streets and roads that led to safety but skeptical that they could make it to Jubilee Gardens by using them. Somewhere, possibly ahead at the fringes of the parade, Vega was audibly becoming more and more angry and then Dahl heard the shout of an unhappy man.
“Damn!” Vega cursed. “Damn you Dahl! I will find you and I will rip you to shreds. You hear me? I’ll be back soon. You fucking hear me?”
Dahl led his family away from the darkness and into the night.
*
Dahl, alone, considered every option. Some time had passed since he last saw his family, and the separation, not to mention the actual parting, weighed like granite anchors upon his heart and soul, but the distance had become necessary.
He worked his way carefully toward Grant and his men now, feeling both pleased and miserable. When he initially realized it was essential that he double back and at least try to become privy to Grant’s plan, the idea had lured out a tangled sense of dread. Leave Johanna and the kids alone? Here . . . now. But they had two guns and the advantage of concealment. And they also had Dario.
Dahl didn’t like it though. The kid had shown that he cared, had proven his bravery and had nothing left to lose. Dahl had faith in him to a certain extent.
“Can I trust you with this?” He’d spoken quietly to the younger Vega at first.
“I will stay with them. I will protect them with my life if I have to.”
“Why? Why not run?”
“Because they are children and should not have to endure this.”
A man after his own heart, Dario impressed Dahl. “I agree. But this is my family. My whole world. Today, they confound me and tomorrow they will astound me. Nothing matters without them.”
“I get that.” Dario had said. “I truly do.”
And the Swede believed him. Despite his youth, and perhaps because of the peculiarities of his father, Dario had found something deep with Maria that had now been torn asunder. He was a boy floundering in a storm, searching for shelter.
Dahl offered refuge. “I have to find out what they’re planning. Look after them. I’ll be back in a quarter of an hour.”
Dario looked relieved. “Yes. I can do that.”
Dahl then moved on to Johanna. The same request should have been met with protest, with self-righteousness, with tears perhaps, but his wife remained stoic, listening to the argument and then simply promised to take care of the kids.
Dahl had studied her, amazed. “Did I ever really know you?”
“Of course. But sometimes . . . we grow.”
He’d nodded. “I guess.”
“Go do your job.” Johanna had leaned in to deliver a goodbye peck on the cheek. “And don’t worry. We’ll all be here when you get back.”
Running in tandem with his need to help Sealy was the knowledge that the Prime Minister would then help them, and this nightmare would be over. The risk was worth the payoff. The paradox came in the form of eight- and nine-year-old girls. It turned good sense onto its head. Life had never thrummed with this much ambiguity.
He reviewed the conversation and the change in Johanna as he returned to them now. His wife hadn’t changed – she had grown. He needed her now as much as he ever had, as much as the first moment he knew that he loved her. Everything that had passed since – surges of life replete with incredible highs and lows – was just filler. The true foundation hadn’t crumbled. He knew it was simply, in the course of life, you forgot you needed each other. Living intervened. Complacency took root and you forgot the great things that drew you together in the first place. Children came along, higher priorities, no privacy. Problems escalated and extended like rotten, blackened roots, looking to spread and poison the whole tree.
Behind it all, if you could find it, that initial spark, the fire that started it all, never extinguished. He stopped now, in the dark, mind clearer. The twenty minutes he’d been away had helped make a sharper focus of the jumble, sort the soldier from the father. He’d earlier decided to risk it all to stay alive today. Johanna’s attempt at the ultimate sacrifice had pushed her closer to his world. Now, they would have to grow closer still.
TWENTY SEVEN
Gabrio Vega had experienced a rare moment of clarity when he realized Torsten Dahl escaped. He stared around at his men – each a muscled, tattooed thug dressed up in a $1,000 suit. He looked down at himself and the weak hand that hurt every time he grasped something wrong or went out into the cold. He reviewed the years of Dario’s childhood – his growth into a young man – and considered for once that maybe it wasn’t all the kid’s mother’s fault. Mostly, though, he recalled that jungle clearing.
You pissed yourself, then ran like a coward. Dahl saw it all but said nothing today, probably hoping silence might save his children. It’s true . . . you blame him for so much more than the death of your brother.
Clarity stung like a metal-tipped lash, razor-edges reopening old wounds. The gates of Hell beckoned but it was simply a lost kingdom now, yawning and swallowing up one and all . . . except him. Never him. These men – his men – knew from day one that they stood in harm’s way. He always believed that the level of loyalty he offered, not threats, kept them together, true brothers in arms, his world a bazaar of madness with eddies of safety, of chaos counterbalanced by comradeship and care. He stood, a figurehead, at the tip of all that, a benevolent father.
Where did all that leave him now?
On the edge of . . .
“Gabrio,” a familiar voice spoke near to him. “It really is now or never. The PM’s on his way. We catch Dahl later.”
Vega exploded with a kind of verbal madness, screaming after Dahl, and then calmed himself and ensured that his men were carrying their fallen fellows to an agreed pick-up point. His mind then switched again, this time reluctantly leaving the whole Dahl situation behind and focusing on the whole reason for him being here tonight. This night, of all nights.
“Are we ready?”
“We are,” the Facilitator said. “Physically and digitally.”
Vega knew certain alpha-numeric strings had to be pulled at his facility back home to smooth the process here in Barbados tonight. Of course, if he didn’t have to be here right now, he’d have been tucked in there instead, tequila in hand, music surrounding him, keeping his mind clear so that he could design the tip of the computer-generated phalanx that would penetrate the defenses of his enemy.
“How long?”
“We should move.”
Grant turned away. Vega looked to his men, nodded at one’s suit so t
hat the man knew to brush off a few specks of blood and at another to straighten his tie. When he caught up to Grant, he found himself wanting to explain.
“I so wanted Dario to succeed,” he said. “The need blinded me.”
“He’s your son.” Grant said simply.
“Not anymore.” Vega said. “Not after we hurt Maria.”
“You think?” Grant shot back, then amended his tone. “Do you regret that now?”
Vega didn’t know. “It showed that my men are loyal. They deserve the same in return.”
Grant led the way, steering them east along Cheapside Road, further and further under the umbrella of noise that accompanied the Grand Kadooment Festival. Vega shouted orders to his men, showing a rare display of anxiety on his part, attempting to bring them into line for what had been seen for some time now as one of the pivotal nights of Vega’s leadership – its climatic events catapulting them all into a far higher stratosphere.
“This next step will bring unbelievable heat down on you,” the Facilitator said. “And in the end, if they really want you, they can always get to you.”
“I know that. The Americans make no bones about it.”
“Then you’re quite ready?”
“I do have other mediators,” Vega said. “Apart from you. Don’t worry yourself, Grant. The plans are all set.”
Grant stopped and then pointed toward the end of the passage where the covering darkness offered by the narrow alley ended and a bright ribbon of color passed before them.
“Then let’s go make history, old boy.”
TWENTY EIGHT
Grant and Vega had led the way back to Bridgetown. When Dahl had left to find them, he’d known it would be a struggle to get close, but managed to quickly swing around the market and make off with a jacket and beanie hat worn by a dead thug, a local man Vega hadn’t considered one of his crew and therefore not worthy of burial. It was easy bypassing the men carrying their dead comrades – they had bigger concerns than a flitting shadow – and in any case they fell behind presumably to await the arrival of one of the Range Rovers. Dahl then joined the ranks of Vega’s bruised security detail, assisted by the utter darkness of the alleyways they stalked through, the woolen hat he’d managed to cram down over his more striking features and the shirt he’d stolen from the dead man. Walking with a hunch rounded it out, but it was far from perfect and Dahl wished there were another way.
Torsten Dahl book 1 - Stand Your Ground Page 12