Why had it all gone wrong? Because of the physical distance between them? The uprooting from Sweden to the United States? The long absences? As her mind wandered, protecting itself from the more immediate terror, two more suited figures passed by the door to her room, glancing only briefly inside. Neither showed any more interest but seemed entirely preoccupied with something else. More than just a simple kidnapping was going on here today, it seemed, and Johanna was quite clearly far from an essential cog in its key machinery. Minutes stretched by, each an age in which she shook, feared for her kids and watched the men play cards.
At length, Nick Grant returned. “You will be swapped for your husband at six-o-clock after two somewhat important people arrive. My employer has sent men to handle it and will be along soon afterwards himself. Your husband’s fate will be far from pleasant, Mrs. Dahl, but you already knew that.”
“I thought you said he’d wronged you.”
“Ah, yes, he did. My employer promises to touch upon that when he removes your husband’s right hand.”
Johanna flinched, unable to lift her eyes. “I . . . I . . .” No reply could counter that. She found it hard even to think.
“And then my employer will press the point further, along with the razor blades he pushes under the nails of his remaining hand.”
“Please,” Johanna now said. “My children. Please don’t hurt my children. I’ll do anything. We’ll do anything.”
“Truth is, I’m not a great fan of torture,” Grant said without acknowledgement. “Except in the rarest of circumstances. Your husband is that rare circumstance. One in a million. You should be proud.”
Johanna couldn’t be sure if he’d ignored the plea or not even heard it. The man was unhinged but intelligent, calm but psychopathic, a dangerous, toxic human cocktail.
“And so to the crux of it. Torsten Dahl is a soldier, and not a bad one by all accounts. So credit where credit is due. ‘That Mad Swede,’ my best contact said, ‘is one serious badass. Watch out for him.’” Grant spread his arms. “I always have. I already knew. Do you know what he did to me?”
Johanna shook her head.
“I’ll tell you. But first, my employer, a Mr. Vega. Now, I see that look in your eyes. You’re wondering why I mentioned his name. You’ve watched your share of spy dramas and crime programs. You know that once names are dropped, the victim is as good as dead. Am I right?”
Johanna fought to stop the tears falling.
“Well, don’t believe all you watch, my dear. Sometimes it is healthy for one to know the name of her nemesis, her husband’s murderer. Sometimes it serves a better purpose for the woman to know the name of the man who sold her children into slavery.”
Johanna fell to her knees, unable to process such thoughts.
“Rumors.” Grant smiled. “Hearsay. Gossip. It becomes legend, myth, scary stories whispered in dark pubs and drug dens. It all helps to build the reputation of the man.”
Johanna wiped her eyes.
“Gabrio Vega,” said Grant. “A powerful man in a world you know nothing about. A younger Torsten Dahl killed this man’s brother while interrupting a very important transaction. That day put Vega back years, though he has recovered since. I say he’s recovered,” Grant laughed. “Only financially. Never mentally, of course. One never recovers from the loss of a family member, eh?”
His goading made her grit her teeth until she feared they’d shatter.
“Gabrio Vega will make Dahl pay,” Grant said. “Be assured. The rest of it is up to you. Come quietly. Don’t make a scene. Accept your fate. Be a good girl.” Grant swigged from a bottle of water and threw it at her knees, its contents spilling slowly. “Drink that. I don’t want you fainting on us aboard the bloody boat. Oh, and when I say get cleaned up, you do it fast. Just remember, Johanna, it’s all up to you.”
She plucked the bottle from the ground and drank it quickly, eyes turned back toward the card-playing men. The same men still watched her in their individual ways, while the other hid his face. Still, they laughed and smoked and argued. Drank and played cards. Time clicked away, the passing of all she held dear. As the moments drew shorter and the exchange loomed, Johanna heard an odd snippet of conversation.
Passing outside her door, a pair of new men were deep in conversation. She heard them as they walked up the passageway and as they passed by, heading toward the kitchen without glancing into her room.
“Where’ll the PM be at that time?”
“At the center of the parade, giving his speech. It’ll be easy.”
The accents were thick with the local twang, making some of the words hard to decipher, but at the same time they sounded well-educated. A third voice added to the mix.
“It’s never easy, my friend. These things are never easy to pull off.”
“Oh, fuck off, mon. You know his security detail like I do. All good. This will be the start of the greatest moments of Sealy’s leadership. You’ll see.”
“It better be. We have too much invested in this to fuck it all up today.”
The trio passed out of earshot, leaving Johanna with yet another dilemma. If she didn’t have enough to consider already, these men were quite possibly planning to assault the Prime Minister of Barbados. She considered what she knew. They were certainly well armed, plentiful and motivated enough to try. And it seemed likely that Grant and this Gabrio Vega were involved with the plot.
It was a shock when Grant appeared in the doorway, two objects held in one hand.
“Wash yourself off and put this on. We leave in five.”
“I . . .” she managed, again forcing down the begging, the pleas and the tears. “I—”
“Save it. You already know what is required of you and what will happen to your husband. Do not make this any harder than it will already be on yourself and your children. Remember them; help them. And if in doubt . . .” he paused. “Do what I say.”
Johanna nodded, swallowing the last of the bottled water and accepting a long shawl. Time was no longer sparing, vanishing at light speed.
It had run out.
SEVENTEEN
Dahl struggled with a terrible ordeal, the toughest of his life. Everything inside him, every instinct, said no, the risks were too great; but an equal force fought in favor of keeping Isabella and Julia at his side every step of the way.
Well, almost every step.
Starting with a look at the Jolly Roger. The pirate ship was a red-sailed party boat, upon which pirates of all ages sailed out to sea, walked the plank and swam along with whatever marine life came their way. For fair coin, of course.
Dahl got a good feel for the size and layout of the boat from seeing it at the dockside, its crew cleaning and readying the vessel for its next voyage. The decks had plenty of floor space; the benches were simple, painted red and plentiful, fixed all around. Rope swings, ladders and other tourist delights covered the double-leveled upper deck, no doubt more entertaining once the rum punch started flowing. A lower deck was only identifiable by a row of portholes. If any negotiations were going to happen, they would occur down there. He completed his recce in just a few minutes and then drew Isabella and Julia away from the dockside and the empty railings and back toward the busier areas of the town.
Could he risk the lives of his children to save his wife?
What would anyone do?
He had 30 minutes.
He tried to think like a civilian, coloring the black-and-white and occasionally gray considerations of the soldier. The attempt only made his head hurt. In the end, his soldier’s body acted on its own.
As he and the girls passed through a crowd of locals and tourists, Dahl managed to pilfer a cell phone without an awful lot of hassle. Isabella looked aghast, the innocence still showing, and Julia tried to pretend shock, the veneer wearing thinner with each passing minute. Pulling his daughters into the doorway of a closed shop, Dahl pressed a memorized series of numbers and waited for someone to answer.
“Yeah?�
��
“It’s me. Now, shut up and listen . . .”
Dahl passed every ounce of information he’d retained to a man he knew well. This person, though currently in Washington, D.C., might be able to scare up some local help, but would only do that if they trusted the help completely. Failing that, the person would head to Barbados with their team, as they would do for any comrade, 365 days a year. Dahl pocketed the phone after the call, deciding to hold on as long as he could in case his people had any news. The phone was equipped with a GPS, which he ensured was switched on.
A germ of an idea had grown to fruition in his mind. No, it wasn’t perfect, not even close, but it was the best he could come up with at this moment and highly likely to keep his children safe.
Highly likely.
Dahl balked at the insufficient odds, questioned everything twice, then three times. The alternatives were far worse. He led the girls to a water fountain, stood by as they drank and cleaned, and then did the same for himself. Six-o-clock was fast approaching. The dock where the Jolly Roger sat at anchor began to fill with expectant partygoers. Dahl moved to a position from where he could watch them embark.
Isabella clutched hold of his hand. “Dad?”
“Yes?” He glanced down, a little distracted.
“Is Mommy okay?”
“Ah, yes, darling. She is.”
“Can you see her?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Then how do you know she’s okay?”
“It’s a grown-up thing. Hard to explain.”
His eyes roamed the dockside, anxious to spot Nick Grant’s group and assess numbers, ability and destination.
Isabella pulled at his hand again, more insistently. “How old were you when you could do it?”
“Do what?”
“The grown-up thing? How old?”
“Old,” Dahl said with a faint smile, thinking of all the living his children had to do. “Very old.”
“Like . . . 25 or 30?”
Julia stepped in, the big sister trying to look after her inexperienced sibling. “It’s when you get married, silly. When you find somebody you love.”
“Like Kristoff and Sven?”
“No. Like Kristoff and Anna. Remember?”
“I like Rapunzel.” Isabella’s mind flew off on its tangent, the conversation and questions instantly forgotten, but no doubt stored away for later when Dahl would least expect it. His heart ached for his daughters . . . and Jo.
There. He spied the gang he’d been expecting. As he’d feared, they numbered far too many to risk any kind of assault. He watched them board and tried to pinpoint where they went. It was now time to let the boat fill up and the clamor rise. He watched for a moment, then turned to the kids, fully focused.
“We will be getting on that boat soon. And then Daddy will go to get Mummy back. I won’t be able to take you.”
Isabella’s face crumpled instantly, tears welling. Julia tried to look strong. “But who will look after us?” She knew somebody had to; it was something she’d been told in every possible nuance.
“A friend.” Dahl said. “You’ll be fine.”
He cradled his daughters in his arms. His father once told him that no matter the journey you were embarking on, even if it was no more than a trip to the shops or heading upstairs to bed, you should always hug and tell the ones you held dearest that you loved them, because one day that hug would turn out to be your last. He held Isabella and Julia close now and didn’t want to let go, never wanted to let go, fearing this was his last time. Family made you mortal. He was realizing that now.
He rose, hiding his emotions from his girls by staring up at the skies and then across at the dock. The majority of the cruisers were aboard, the line thinning out. He clasped his daughters’ hands and joined the line, shuffling along until they reached the gate. He gave his name to the gatekeeper and was waved through, no emotions betrayed in the eyes of the pirate who gave them free entry. The deck rolled slightly beneath their bare feet. If Dahl had the time, he’d use this voyage to grab a few pairs of sandals and other supplies, including clothes, but six-o-clock was fast approaching and he assumed a messenger would soon be seeking his face. Quickly now, he told the kids to grab whatever food they could and sought the person he was looking for. The right person. He stayed within a crowd while Isabella and Julia ate sandwiches at his side, approaching their fingers at an alarming rate. Thank god for all-inclusive cruises. Nothing popped immediately but he couldn’t stop looking. The examination took him to the rear of the boat, where, at last, he found just what he was looking for.
While Isabella and Julia finished their food, Dahl approached an older couple and steeled himself for the things he would have to say.
“Hi, how you doing?”
Both looked up at him, happy, faraway eyes meeting his troubled stare. The woman was golden haired and sported a necklace of pearls to match her handbag; the man wore a perpetual smile and had long since passed the point where trimming facial hair mattered anymore.
“Good. Real good,” the man said. “That sky’s a sight to behold, ain’t it?”
Dahl turned his head, surprised. A wicked, deep red stain was spreading slowly across the horizon, more a reminder of innocent blood spilled than the dying of another day. He absorbed the sight for several seconds.
“You okay, son?”
Dahl steeled himself and got right to it. “My wife is downstairs. There are a few issues,” he lowered his voice at the end of his sentence, “and the kids don’t need to know.” He realized how desperate he sounded when the old man’s eyes grew guarded.
“Is that right?”
Dahl appealed to the female half. “Five minutes,” he pleaded. They knew what he was asking, of course, and you couldn’t sugar-coat something like this. It was a raw, open wound, though far from the one they thought it was.
His silent struggle didn’t go unnoticed by his children. Isabella and Julia both slipped their hands into his.
The woman cleared her throat. “If we can help . . .”
The old man coughed loudly. “Mary? Maybe we should—”
“Oh, it’s fine.” She said. “Like I was saying—if we can help . . .” She smiled at the girls. “What are your names, sweeties?”
Dahl discarded the guilt that enveloped him like a cocoon, trusting and concentrating on the future. The father had to do his job before the soldier took charge. This was harder than fighting mercenaries on a battlefield, more grueling than any desperate knife-fight. He only had to look down into his daughters’ upturned eyes to see just how hard it was going to be.
“I love you,” he said, heart breaking. “And I’ll be back soon.”
“With Mom?” Isabella croaked.
“Yes. With Mom.”
Dahl thanked the old couple and then walked away before anyone, mostly himself, could change their minds, emotions tearing a hole through every moral and unwavering belief he’d ever known. In the end, thankfully, he didn’t have any time to dwell. As he cut through the laughing crowd, a face he recognized swam into focus.
Grant.
Ahead. Nodding as he saw Dahl and pointing at a discreet door marked ‘private.’
Dahl walked straight in.
EIGHTEEN
Beyond the door, a narrow staircase plunged into the heart of blackness.
“Straight down.” Grant said. “I’m surprised you didn’t try to gung-ho it. Big, bad soldier like you. Take us all out, eh, boat and all.”
Dahl had considered it; the idea was fully within his make-up and not beyond his capabilities. In the end, it came down to categories and boxes ticked:
What were you liberating?
Who were you up against?
How many?
Who led them?
Dahl didn’t need to think beyond the first to know a full-frontal assault was out of the question. Problem was, he had no real plan. Just skill, experience and a deep, all-encompassing love for his family.
&nbs
p; He needed every ounce of concentration right now. Instant, sound evaluations were the key. The dark staircase surrendered to a widening aura of yellowish light. Dahl put bare foot after bare foot, his skin sore, his muscles aching, feet slapping against the wood with a dull wallop at each step. The deck below was narrow – a doorway stood to the right, marked ‘Function room, private party.’
“Go inside. They’re waiting.”
Dahl entered a slender room, well-lit and clad all around with dark paneling. Benches lined the edges, none in use. Instead a motley group of men stood at the far end, arrayed around and mostly behind Johanna, who’d been given some sort of a shawl as a wrap, probably to minimize attention.
“Well,” Dahl said. “You’re on the right kind of ship. You planning to hole up down here until it docks?”
His wife met his eyes, her fingers clutching the shawl around her, knuckles white.
“Don’t worry,” Dahl told her, moving closer. “Are you all right? Did they hurt you?”
Of course, he was playing for time while he scrutinized the space: every man, every angle, every room-based implement that he might use, including two genuine-looking pirate cutlasses attached to the wall close by the Jolly Roger’s symbol.
The order of victims played out in his head. Would they consider Grant most valuable? He had moved around Dahl to stand beside Johanna. If Johanna could see it, she had a low desk to her left, the perfect place to hunker down.
“I’m fine.” Johanna said. “Where are the kids?”
“I wondered that too,” Grant cut in before Dahl could respond. “My guess is, close by.”
“So what happens now?” asked Dahl.
Grant, the only man behind him, made a clucking noise as if considering alternatives. “Well, let me see. I think first . . . you have to meet the new players.” He snapped his fingers. Three men moved aside to reveal a young lad sitting nervously atop a low stool, a brutish figure positioned beside him like a bloated, malignant shadow. The shadow whispered into the lad’s ear and the lad quickly rose.
Torsten Dahl book 1 - Stand Your Ground Page 8
