Dahl saw mayhem as their only chance to escape.
But how the hell did they find us? Chance?
Doubtful. Possible, but doubtful. Faced by impossible odds, he nevertheless struck first, sending one man to his knees and the other whirling away, clutching his face. He spun and urged Isabella and Julia forward, back toward the crowd. If he could fire a shot into the air . . .
Already the men were close, though, pounding at his back. Dario went sprawling. Dahl reached down, gripped the lad’s wrist and hauled him up, the movement costing him valuable moments. The jewelry Dario wore flashed under the lights, the gold watch in particular.
Obviously gifts for the seventeen-year-old. Dahl picked up the pace, an arm under each of his girls’ shoulders, almost sweeping them off their feet. It was a mad, desperate run, one misstep could end in disaster for them all. It was the Mad Swede’s epic obstinacy in the face of danger, his refusal to give in. Johanna, to her credit, flew along without missing a step.
They skirted a group of senior travelers, almost demolished a flower stall. They saw a cop car with lights flashing, ignored it and aimed for the thick of the crowd. They leaped over a sidewalk scribbler, decimated his onlookers, squeezed through a line of taxis. Dahl swung twice, elbows striking those who dared to venture too close. One man sprawled across the road, arms and legs wind-milling; the second only grunted and kept coming. Dahl chose this moment to wrench the shawl away from his waist and reach for the gun.
A voice rang out: “Stop right there! Police!”
Dahl didn’t stop, but swiveled his head. What he saw made his heart fall. Beyond the immediate knot of pursuers, a phalanx of cops followed, weapons drawn. Onlookers were already moving away and aside and showing panic, possibly attributing the situation to the upcoming parade and Sealy’s speech. Dahl didn’t know, but he did see that they, a family of vacationers, could easily get disappeared tonight.
From out of the crowd ahead, four more cops emerged.
Dahl arrested their flight, hugged his children close and left the gun right where it was.
“One move,” a policeman said with a wavering barrel. “One move and I will blast every one of you, right on this street.”
Dahl shielded his family as best he could, but the enemy had surrounded them, guns to all sides. The cops were working with the mercs who all worked for the Facilitator. Not all the cops, of course, but enough. Enough to make the difference.
“How did you find us?”
Vin made his way to the front of the pack. “We have eyes and ears everywhere. Closer than you think.”
Dahl had an idea, but didn’t elaborate. Best to let something slide for now that might be turned to advantage later.
“So what next?”
“Cheapside for you. And the chance to meet the man.”
“Grant? Already met him. I’ll pass.”
“Not Grant.”
Dahl’s philosophy — the mandate he’d had drummed into him — had always been never to surrender. Despair clouded good judgment.
But no one who ever had their family threatened came up with that theory.
Family changed everything . . . and made the Mad Swede even more dangerous.
TWENTY THREE
Their captors ushered Dahl’s party into Cheapside Market through a parking garage at its rear. The bazaar was closed for the day. Empty stalls sat in pools of darkness, and locked buildings awaited the morning and an influx of the most colorful, wide-ranging fruit and vegetable offerings in the world. Dahl and his family had been led through the streets at gunpoint, staying off the beaten track and at the heart of a twelve-man group. For passers-by, their peril would have been hard to spot. Vin stayed close but said nothing, not even to Dario. The bodyguard limped slightly, the only sign that he’d recently been shot. Dahl knew from experience the wound had to be smarting; it only substantiated his theory that Vin was the man to watch.
Dahl assessed everything, from the high access arches to the myriad merging darknesses, from the lights in nearby houses to the route they’d already covered. He watched the men around him –a combination of mercs and locals, and perceived a mix of three distinct groups of enemies. First the locals themselves, generally younger, fresher and dressed like Bajan civilians. Second, the mercs, more rugged with black coats and camo pants, most likely Grant’s hires. And last, Vega’s own men wearing their $1000 suits as if they were lined with gravel. He reminded himself that the hours were counting down – help would be here soon, real help that could take this mangy group apart faster than a Bajan merchant halved his price. But could they survive for that long? And what about poor Prime Minister Sealy? He wondered how long the man had left. Already, booming sounds of carnival and exhilaration were starting to ring outside the market like chimes of fate and destiny.
Nick Grant appeared out of the shadows like a ghoul surfacing from the darkest vault. “We meet again, my lucky friend. So tell me – how are you planning to escape this time?”
Dahl forced what he knew were haunted eyes not to flicker downwards, not to include the girls and Johanna. Grant would wring out that weakness to its most terrible finale.
“I’ll let you know.”
“Good. Good.” The Facilitator clearly had much on his mind, as he tried to move things along quickly. “This way, guys. Try not to trip over a curb and shoot yourselves, will you?”
The odd procession moved along, passing through a series of open arches and entering a vast space under a makeshift roof. Dahl guessed this was the center of the famous indoor market, somehow commandeered by Grant.
The Facilitator’s shadow paused ahead. A brief red glow betrayed the presence of other men, some drawing on cigarettes. Quite a crowd, Dahl thought. Only one man could command this much silent attendance.
Gabrio Vega.
Dahl steeled himself. The darkness actually helped in an odd way, keeping Isabella and Julia quiet and comparatively out of sight, enabling Johanna to range a little more freely, and emphasizing the dozens of other arches and potential escape routes that fringed the market.
All is not lost.
“Torsten Dahl. We meet again, at last.”
The voice focused his attention so suddenly it felt like a nail being struck by a hammer.
“Vega,” he answered. “Late to the party?”
“The men, my men, you killed needed funeral arrangements. Such things take time.”
Vega sounded as if he were telling a regretful truth. Interesting . . . a cartel boss who cared about his men.
“Save yourself some more ‘time’ and back off.”
“Ah, the dedicated, enthusiastic soldier I remember so well. This time, though, you have fewer men and I have more, yes?”
Dahl fixed on Vega as he came out of pitch darkness and into relative shadow. The suit he wore was grey and pin-striped, the tie bright yellow; lapels and knot and double-breast arranged just right. Dahl looked at the hand, wondering if it had been reconstructed.
Vega was unlike any other drug lord in the world. Impossible to read, difficult to coax into a mistake, and a strangely fascinating figure. A digital warrior and drug merchant who saw to his men’s well-being.
“I could have used a man like you.” Vega said. “Men like you. Vin here, he seems always to draw from the, um, denser pile, if you follow my meaning. No offense,” he held up a hand to those close by. “We all are what we are.”
His men nodded sagely.
Talkative, too, Dahl realized. His best play seemed to be drawing Vega into discussion, spinning it out for every extra minute possible.
“Do you have water?” he asked, knowing the question would appeal to Vega’s apparently noble side. “We could all do with a drink. Especially the children.”
“Of course,” Vega waved and a bottle appeared. As his family passed the bottle around, Dahl watched Vega study Dario.
“What to do with you?” the cartel boss said to his son. “In a way you showed initiative. Balls, even. But—”
“He shot Vin,” one of his men protested.
“Yes, yes, Mario. I know that. But Vin’s been shot before. It was Dario who surprised me. And there’s the dilemma.”
“Well, I wouldn’t hand him a loaded gun,” another of Vega’s hands murmured.
Vega held up a hand. “Points taken. I too do not want another funeral to arrange. How about a knife? Would that work?”
Dahl watched the crime lord and his henchmen discuss the best way to test Dario’s mettle. The kid himself remained still and silent, close to Dahl, joining his protective stance in front of Iz and Julia, and taking everything in. Vega’s men were bunched behind him; not a clever arrangement but a predictable one. Those Vin arrived with had dispersed around the edges of the market – far more of a threat. Dahl still had the gun and saw decent chances to grab more weapons quickly but could contrive no way to keep Johanna and the girls safe.
Vega sighed, looking at Dario, his patter finished for the moment. Dahl needed to extend the chat, if possible. Slow things down. Sometimes prolonging the inevitable led to unforeseen surprises and, currently, he could think of no safe way out of this.
Maybe they’d catch a break.
“You recovered well after the jungle incident, Gabrio.”
The man froze, stared. Dahl’s comment held myriad meanings and a humiliatingly deep one.
“Some men are cleverer than you think. I resurrected myself another way.”
“And you flew all this way just for me?”
“Who says I came only for you? I knew you were an arrogant man by reputation, Dahl, but this . . .” He sighed again, loudly as if proving a point.
His men grunted in agreement.
Dahl cleared his throat. “Not arrogant,” he said. “Confident.”
“No mames, Dahl! The jungle was a long time ago. The deals you destroyed then have long since been repaired. The dead men – mourned. Now stop stalling. I have other plans tonight. It’s your turn now.”
Dahl made ready to attack, the soldier’s brain switching on like a massive floodlight.
“And your family’s,” Vega added with a drop of malice.
And Dahl’s floodlit readiness instantly evaporated. This day had undone him. The fear he felt for Isabella’s and Julia’s safety washed over every ounce of confidence he felt, every iota of skill, drowning them in a rising surge of utter dread.
Just when he needed it most, his poise vanished. Haunted, he couldn’t understand and didn’t know what to do.
Vega laughed into his face then, in the way of all-conquering, omnipotent men sensing weakness in his foe.
“But, Dario,” he said, actually letting Dahl off the hook, surprising him. “Here we are discussing your big future without the whole picture. Forgive me, eh?”
Dahl felt more than saw Dario stiffen. Here now, he saw the other Vega, the demented psychopath dancing behind those clear, blue eyes.
“Who is your allegiance to, son? Is it me? My business? The men? Who?”
Dario coughed, saying nothing for a moment, but Dahl, in close proximity, knew the lad was standing taut as hide stretched over a drum. Something was happening here. Something Dahl had no awareness of.
Grant came forward, as did Vin. The three men stared hard at Dario.
“What was her name?” Grant asked. “Maria?”
Dario started as if shocked by a cattle prod.
Vin stepped into Dario’s space, crowding him. “You shot me. Me. How easy a bitch makes you change loyalties. You remember nothing.”
Vega patted Vin on the shoulder, gently moving the big man aside and back from Dahl and Dario. “We took pictures,” he told his son. “Want to see?”
He held his cell phone out at arm’s length and turned the screen towards Dario. Dahl saw a young woman with long black hair tied to a chair and then, as a slideshow played, the rest became unspeakable. Dario was crying, and so was Johanna, hiding the girl’s eyes by burying their heads against her stomach, but even so they sensed some kind of horror had been perpetrated and began sobbing too. Johanna herself wept in silence, the terror evident upon her features, the need to live and save her girls all that mattered. Dahl saw a tiny spark in her now, something he’d been waiting for: the absolute need to protect her children, at all costs.
Vega waved the phone around, showing to his men, who displayed a mix of reactions. Dario’s legs were trembling, a shock-induced reaction. Dahl used a shoulder to shore the young man up. All eyes were on them.
Dahl took a deep breath. “Talk about going over the top.” He hunted for the calmer Vega with a few composed words. “Our jungle fracas isn’t worth all this, Gabrio.”
Vega switched his gaze to Dahl without actually seeing, then refocused again on Dario. “You die first, son,” he whispered. “By the bullet. And this time there will be no getaway.”
The instant he finished speaking, men surged forward. Dahl lunged alone, with no backup, Dario and Johanna frozen in terror, that spark he’d seen in her already extinguished. He punched hard, breaking a jaw and then jabbed again. Another enemy fell away, grunting in pain. Men surrounded him, grabbing shoulders and reaching for his neck. Dahl shrugged them off, swinging fists and elbows and kicking out. His attackers wailed, flinched and yelled but did not relent. Their mass was unbeatable, their commitment absolute. His arms were pinned in strong grips, his thick neck encircled by a huge arm like a boa-constrictor, allowing him barely enough air to breathe. It took six men to subdue him, but that still left more than six, plus the main players.
Dahl never stopped struggling as Dario took a blow to the head, staggering. Johanna screamed and kicked as blows rained upon her.
Then Vega’s men dragged Isabella and Julia out of her arms.
Dahl had never experienced such rage. Yes, the sheer presence of the girls clouded his abilities but watching them being pulled from their mother’s arms and hearing their frightened cries kick-started an adrenalin-fueled anger like none other. At first they couldn’t hold him as his berserker rage powered his arms. Bodies fell away. They pummeled and kicked and scratched like boys in a schoolyard brawl, fighting to regain their grip, which they quickly did. Dahl used every ounce of strength, every hidden resource, but couldn’t break free. When his muscles were sapped and the point of a sharp knife pressed against the back of his neck, he relented for a moment, willing the unaccustomed weakness to slip away.
Vega exchanged a glance with Grant, who tapped his watch. Time was pressing, it seemed. “Despite all this show, I do have other things going on tonight. Let’s finish all this, shall we? Now, take this loaded gun.”
Vega held the weapon out for Dario. Several men flinched away or hid behind bigger, less vigilant comrades.
Dario reached for the weapon. As he did so, Vega spoke again.
“Now, men, point your guns at the girls’ heads. If Dario doesn’t shoot himself in the next 20 seconds, I want you to shoot them.”
TWENTY FOUR
Dahl saw Dario’s turmoil, the dilemma etched deep into every feature. The gun was loaded, the faces watching him, all expectant. Vega studied his son with interest; Vin with naked contempt. Grant looked bored, clearly ready to move the night along. Dahl felt choked with emotion, every single ounce of power and strength and feeling he possessed, every iota of hope, wrapped up in the two small but immensely spirited figures now being held by Vega’s men. Every nerve bled terror through his entire system.
Dahl studied Dario and then Isabella and Julia as Dario, weeping, raised the gun. His shaking hands made it hard to determine the barrel’s final destination. A few grunts of warning went out, a snort of nervous laughter. Dario brought the weapon around in an arc, finishing by pointing it at his own temple.
Vega nodded. “That’s right, son. Now, show me your mettle.”
“Father,” Dario said, “you never even knew me.”
Vega inclined his head in agreement, “I require loyalty,” he said. “Look at these men. That is all I need. I tried, day after d
ay, to teach you that. When they come into the fold they are family. These men mean more to me than a worthless boy who sneaks out to go see his girlfriend and hides from his family duty. These men . . . they are of my blood. Not you. Is it the carnival noises in the distance? Do you think you will be missing out on life?”
Dario’s tears flowed freely down his cheeks as the gun barrel wavered. Dahl saw his finger tighten on the trigger. Of course, Dario killing himself wouldn’t change anything for Dahl’s family. This merely prolonged the agony. The faces of the men holding his daughters became imprinted forever in his memory.
“He’s weak,” Vin growled. “He won’t do it.”
“You know, it’s interesting.” Vega turned away from his son’s terror to gaze at Vin. “We have both been shot, you and I. And now I have this and you limp.” He proffered a half-mangled hand.
Vin stared with lopsided uncertainty, unsure how to respond to that.
Dahl turned to Dario. “Don’t do it.”
“No . . . choice . . .” Dario managed.
Dahl despaired, caught between the Devil and a dozen demons.
“Come now,” Vega said. “Your girl is dead. Shoot yourself. Show me how much you cared for her.”
Dario screamed, his face a mask of anguish. His finger tightened.
The next few moment would live with Dahl forever, as it was one of the most shocking events of his entire life.
Johanna, until now more fearful than bold, stepped forward, catching everyone’s attention. “Kill me,” she said. “Kill me.”
Dahl’s mouth fell open. Dario paused.
Vega shook his head. “What did you say?”
“Kill me!” Johanna screamed at the cartel boss and his men. “Kill me. Not him. And spare my children!”
The balance of power shifted over to the woman. Dahl’s heart pounded like a jackhammer. If anything about this day was unforeseen, it was Johanna standing her ground with such uncompromising courage. Gone was the timid nervousness. Something had developed throughout the day – a new bravery – and now she was stepping up to protect the kids before Dahl could think of what to do himself.
Torsten Dahl book 1 - Stand Your Ground Page 11
