Torsten Dahl book 1 - Stand Your Ground

by David Leadbeater

Now the third man was rising to his feet. Dahl kicked him point-blank in the temple, and screams erupted all around as the man dropped, unconscious or worse. It might be seen as a spirited skirmish, or it might be seen for what it was. Dahl couldn’t concern himself with style.

  Only one opponent now remained standing, glaring at Johanna, bloody-nosed, with something like wounded wonder.

  “Back. Off.” She stood in front of her children, the primordial protector.

  The man didn’t comply so Johanna struck again. This time he deflected the blow, but by then Dahl was alongside. He targeted where he knew the guy was already weak – where the truck earlier made contact with his skull – made devastating contact and gathered his family.

  “Quickly now.”

  They angled in the direction of the next side road, again cutting through the lines of marchers to angry protests. Ahead, a mammoth, vividly-decked float attracted most of the attention, in particular the half-naked dancing men and women on top. Dahl apologized as he barged people aside, pulling Isabella and Julia along behind. Refuge for his family, if not complete freedom, waited just a few dozen strides away.

  And then a shot rang out.

  THIRTY THREE

  It was the stuff of nightmares; the unmistakable sound of a rifle shot resounding across the parade, with Dahl knowing it was wholly his problem and at any moment the next bullet might take his children, or his wife. He thought he saw the first bullet glance off the road ahead, carve out a ragged furrow, and then ricochet into the night. Although he couldn’t tell for sure, it seemed as though the shot had come from above.

  Sniper.

  The tables had turned. Earlier he had thought a sniper might be about to take the Prime Minister out – now it was entirely possible the PM had arranged this hit.

  “Duck and run!” he shouted, voice betraying his fear. “Just go. Go!”

  They sprinted like Olympic runners freed from a mantrap and chased by cheetahs. They broke through the remaining marchers and left the newly forming chaos behind. Dahl tried to see their assailant as he ran, tried to look around and up. The attempt was beyond useless; it slowed him and almost tripped him up. Johanna shouted at him to focus ahead and, again, he was stunned. Essentially, safety was his job – but his family was in too much peril to strip emotion away, even though that was the requirement.

  Not today.

  Behind, the music continued and many of the party animals, both real and pretend, paraded on. Some broke ranks, looking for cops; others backed away with terrified glances to the rooftops. Seconds passed, long seconds, turning into double figures.

  “Head to the beach,” Dahl said. “Quickly now.”

  Dahl felt immensely inept when the second shot rang out, unable to process until it happened and then was gone, the bullet traveling at thousands of miles per hour, taking Dario up high and spinning him around. The lad’s gun threatened to fall out of his waistband and skid away, not that he’d shown any penchant to use it, but snagged its sights on a belt-hoop and stayed in place. A spray of red misted the air. Dario collapsed face first, hitting the ground with a cry of agony. Dahl didn’t break stride for a moment, bending as he ran and hoping to every God of strength and agility and power that he had the potency to succeed. Even as Johanna screamed, he bent low and scooped up the still-falling figure, taking him around the waist and heaving with every muscle, every sinew, every stretched tendon. Dario came up off the beachside walkway with a heave but immediately unbalanced Dahl as his head sagged low. Dahl shuffled the bulk along, trying to regain stability. The entrance to the side-street that led to the beach beckoned ahead. Unrest escalated among the paraders left behind. Dahl pushed hard beyond his limits, unable to prevent a roar escaping his mouth.

  Had Dario become the main target?

  What did that mean?

  Vega’s hit, perhaps? Grant’s?

  It didn’t escape his attention that whoever was firing would be able to see their route, at least some part of it.

  They arrived at the sand at a rapid pace, Johanna herding the girls along and Dahl carrying Dario. The Swede had no issues in dealing with the bullet wound. It had entered the lad’s shoulder, but was nothing more than a flesh wound. He’d handled many before, most in the field, but knew they had to reach safety first. You could dress a wound under fire, yes, but not viably with a wife and kids in danger alongside.

  Dahl shifted Dario as they ran, not losing a jot of pace, simply seeking to make the young man more comfortable. Johanna looked over, eyes as round as saucers. Dahl nodded.

  “He’ll be okay.”

  The beach was quiet, the small structures of refreshment huts and watersport stands either dimly illuminated or cast into pitch blackness. Dahl thought he could see the silent, black swell of the ocean ahead and the soft glow of an errant lamp, painting a subtle swathe across the beach. They didn’t let up until the ocean landscape grew large, the sand almost at their toes. Then Dahl cast around fast, sending questing glances back the way they’d come.

  No signs of pursuit.

  “What do you think that was?” Johanna asked.

  “Not a clue.”

  “How is he?”

  “We’ll find out.”

  Dahl pounded across the sand now, unable to give his family the reassurances they needed, trusting they would follow closely. The edges of the beach were bordered by high fences and overhanging trees, thick with dense shadow. He aimed toward the darkest, most viscous area and knelt, letting Dario slide gently to the sand.

  “I . . . I’m okay . . .” the kid gasped, a good sign.

  Dahl fought away frustration. Not only was he running blind with his family without money, knowledge and ID, but he was now also being called upon to patch a bullet wound on the beach with no equipment. He checked the wound in Dario’s shoulder first, probed the ragged hole while clamping a hand over Dario’s mouth. Johanna removed the children by several feet. Dahl turned Dario slightly, saw the exit hole in the top of the muscle.

  “Got lucky,” he said. “Went right through. No bones broken.” He smiled. “My usual team would say it doesn’t really count as being shot. Just a scratch.”

  “Feels . . . like fire and ice and . . . knives.”

  “Stop whining.” Dahl ripped a strip from Johanna’s shawl, cleaned the wound as best he could with the larger part and then used the clean strip to bandage the wound. He wrapped it tight. It would do for now, and Dario would need painkillers and antibiotics, but Dahl found it highly unlikely they’d find a pharmacy at the beach. Saying that, the number of times he’d already been asked if he wanted to buy Charlie, even with the kids along, was astounding. He’d known from before that “Charlie” was a Barbados staple and on most locals’ lips. Nobody had to score drugs in Barbados to know what the resident painkiller was called. It would take Dario’s pain away for a short while, but it would also dull every other sense he possessed.

  Dahl needed him whip-sensitive, hyper-alert, ultra-vigilant.

  He leaned over the boy. “You all right?”

  “I don’t know. Never been shot before.”

  “I have. And you won’t get any sympathy from me. Now, can you help keep my family alive? At least your belt buckle saved your bloody gun.”

  “Yes. Hand me that gun and I’ll fight an army.”

  “Good. Very good.” Dahl sat back and beckoned the others closer. “Because we need to think. And plan. And end this.”

  THIRTY FOUR

  Dahl took a breather but didn’t waste more than two minutes. A sense of incredulity fell over the others, and Dahl saw it as something along the lines of battle trauma – never good and especially when they remained in harm’s way. The silence helped, though.

  Helped him think.

  What next?

  Darkness was their ally, pooling all around and permeating a beautiful silence. The one time they heard noises he picked it up 100 feet away, saw the figures and knew it was a pair of alcohol-toting romancers before they’d gotten ten
feet. They found their own darkness, far enough away, unaware of the Dahls, and got straight down to business.

  Ironically, this new safety had returned them to where they started this afternoon – the beach. That brought him around to Grant, then Vega and finally Prime Minister Sealy. A semblance of justice had to be meted out. More than that. The first two in particular were men who used the world as a deadly playground, stomping over civilians and governments wherever they chose to go, dealing misery without care or concern. Vega may have his so-called ‘family’ loyalties, but Grant certainly did not.

  And both had a score to settle with Dahl.

  As it seemed now, so did Sealy. Dahl accepted that Dario was now with them, and that meant protecting the kid with almost the same fervor he’d protect his own flesh and blood.

  He saw Johanna watching him. “They have to be stopped.”

  “I’m not sure how we can do that.”

  He felt a swell of emotion inside. The sudden use of we; the neutral question rather than the immediate negative. “You’re a constant surprise, love.”

  She beckoned the girls closer, now that Dario seemed stable. “Isn’t that what marriage is supposed to be?”

  Dahl hesitated. Interesting use of words, encompassing past and future possibilities and even an opening for Dahl, but they had to stay on point.

  “Grant. Vega. Sealy. They’re together for a reason, something huge. They wouldn’t need the Facilitator here if it wasn’t big.”

  “Well, remembering the conversation I overheard,” Johanna said. “And taking it in different context, you’re right: they are here together. Some kind of meeting.”

  “We have to stop them finishing up and leaving,” Dahl said again.

  “I won’t leave my children. Not for anything.”

  Dahl had already felt a certain weight winched up and away from him. This happened when they found a relative safe haven. Now, another burden fell away. He was convinced he could rely upon Johanna and Dario to keep Isabella and Julia safe no matter the cost, even if it meant losing their own lives.

  Dahl said: “I have to go. I can’t let . . . this happen around me.”

  “I know.”

  “This meeting – or whatever it is – could be over well before our help arrives. I’ve seen deals made in a tent, over in fifteen minutes, that changed the course of the world. I’ve seen handshakes in the street that greenlit terrorist strikes. If those three men are here, now, the outcome of whatever they’re discussing could be devastating.”

  “I understand,” Johanna said. “This man, Grant, is the worst of his kind. The things he said . . . about . . .” She swallowed drily as she glanced toward the children. “I’d never repeat.”

  “I know.”

  “The world would be better without him.”

  Dahl smiled grimly. “Will be,” he said. “Will be.”

  “He holds a grudge against you.”

  “For a long time now.” Dahl nodded. “He holds me responsible for the death of his wife and daughter. The worst part of it is – I see his point of view. I see through his eyes, his mentality, and know how he arrived at that point. But it’s garbage. Twisted, perverse logic that, deep down, he knows contradicts every fact of the event. He knows, but yearns for some kind of revenge.”

  “Be careful, Torsten.”

  She didn’t pile on the questions. No guilt. No second-guessing. Just an acceptance that he had to end this now, tonight, or they’d be suffering through the rest of their lives and through the generations.

  Dahl placed a hand on her arm. “I will. You know me.”

  “The Mad Swede? I don’t think so.”

  Dahl saw a sadder future, where he abandoned his family and sought out their enemies, only to return and find he’d truly lost everything. Maybe Johanna and Dario couldn’t protect the kids. He was the soldier after all.

  You can’t just leave Vega and Grant out there, wandering the world like viruses.

  More to the point, what would stop Vega or Grant seeking them out next week, or next year?

  “If I don’t return, you know what to do.”

  Johanna squeezed his hand. “I hate to hear you say that but, yes, I know who to talk to.”

  “They’ll bring thunder and lightning. They’ll make Grant’s world a volcanic wasteland.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “You’ll be safe if you trust them.”

  “I want you, Torsten. Not them. I really do.”

  Dahl struggled to remain focused. Isabella and Julia peered around their mother’s side, eyes deep and wet and impossible to discount. The love that radiated from his children’s eyes melted his heart.

  And hardened his will. He had to end the larger threat.

  For you. For your future and your mother’s future and to slow the destruction of a thousand other futures.

  He studied Dario and checked the makeshift bandage he’d fashioned from Jo’s shawl. The outflow of blood had reduced to a trickle. The quandary remained. Good sense dictated that he return to one of the many refreshment stands and appropriate juices and food, in particular for Dario, but harsh reality told him every second he didn’t pursue Grant was one more nail hammered deep in someone’s coffin.

  He reviewed his options once more: He could keep on running with his family, leave them and seek help, or stay and protect them. Each of those options meant worrying about creeping consequences later.

  Or he could proceed as planned.

  For my family and for others, I will stand my ground.

  THIRTY FIVE

  Dahl borrowed Dario’s gun, still with six bullets in the mag, two guns now giving him double the firepower, and turned his thoughts toward a new dilemma. Where would Grant even be? How did you locate a trio of cockroaches in the entirety of Barbados? Before he could apply his mind to that, he still had to say a few painful goodbyes. There was no way of rationalizing what he was about to do. The Mad Swede had stayed quiet until now; the dark side had to have its day. To explain, to justify one action in the face of all the others he could carry out, was beyond him; but it was clear within him. Inside every layer, every pore, every pulsing blood vessel.

  “Good luck,” Johanna said. “I love you. Now, go.”

  And there it was, laid out better than he could have put it, so clean and pure it was like a fresh snowfall.

  Two young people didn’t quite see it that way, hanging onto his arms because of the doubts they had. Everything they had been through today had not only depleted all their reserves and overwhelmed their minds, it had also helped them recognize at least one vital ideal Dahl had been trying to teach them all their young lives.

  Family. If you were lucky enough to have a loving, caring family, you should fight to hold on to it, fight and scrap and brawl for it until your nails were bloody, your voice ragged, your options spent. Fight.

  They clung to him and he knelt to face them.

  “Only we can look after each other, Dad,” Isabella said in her light sing-song voice. “That’s what you say.” Her eyes were earnest, deep as pools.

  “We can only fully rely on each other,” he said. “Just family. Just us. That’s what I meant.”

  “Then why are you leaving?” Julia asked.

  He coughed to give himself a moment. “To make us safe forever.”

  His children accepted it but still clung on, probably relying on what instinct told them at a profound level. Johanna felt to her knees beside them and said more soothing words.

  “Let Dad go to work,” she said finally.

  “Be back soon to tuck you in,” he said and turned to Johanna. Quickly, he laid out his plan both for her and for Dario.

  Then he walked away.

  *

  The streets of Bridgetown still reeled from the festive assault, the main arteries clogged to near impassable. Oblivious revelers crowded together, many weary from the night’s fun but just as many using the carnival as a mere warm-up act to the main event. Sirens split the nig
ht air, common in any major city, and the presence of cops and marshals only served to instil a broodier, perturbed air in the crowd. Ambulances crept slowly through the throng, and any casualties would be put down to the density of people and intensities of the celebrations – at least for now. Dahl still had the city map Johanna had snagged earlier but the main focus of his thoughts rested around where he believed his quarry would be.

  Grant. Vega. Sealy. Working together. Meeting together after the parade, or after the speech. That made more sense, and meant Sealy would have to follow some kind of protocol. If he’d been meeting local trendsetters say, or a celeb or even a visiting dignitary, the PM might have whisked them away to a high-profile restaurant or luxurious hotel. But criminals? Even faceless ones?

  As a head of state, he would take them to the same place he’d take any politician, banker or Wall Street investor.

  He’d take them to his residence.

  Dahl’s theory derived partly from logic, but mostly from experience – where else would these figureheads of misconduct feel safe enough to discuss their plans? Nowhere else in Barbados fit that particular bill.

  Dahl took a moment to conceal the handgun as best he could and tidy himself up in the reflection of a shop window. Considering all that had happened today, he didn’t feel too bad physically. Bruises and scrapes would heal, and were necessary, truth be told. No way did he want to come out of this day looking as if nothing had happened. The backup he’d called would show no remorse with their biting wit . . .

  Once they knew everyone was safe.

  Dahl checked the map, which pinpointed the PM’s residence as near the St. Lawrence Gap. He traced his finger along Government Hill, past Two Mile Hill, and then came to Illaro Court, Sealy’s home for what the PM imagined would be a little while longer.

  A good 30-minute walk. Maybe more.

  He set out, wondering if he might be able to thumb a ride, then remembering he couldn’t trust anyone, even cops. He now took out the phone he’d stolen earlier, checked his team status, and advised them where to find his family. It was risk-free – he couldn’t imagine Sealy having a listening station – and one way of setting his mind at rest. Preparing for the hour or so ahead.