Torsten Dahl book 1 - Stand Your Ground

by David Leadbeater

  The man staggered. “What the fuck are you?”

  Dahl gritted his teeth rather than reply. No point wasting breath. Gathering power, he took hold of the man with two hands, hefted his bulk and then threw him around and against the wall. Unable to stop it, tumbling in mid-air, the hefty guard tried to curl fetal ahead of the impact. Dahl growled and stomped at the man, but the guard rolled away from his foot. He rose to a knee, visibly trying to clear his head but incredibly still holding onto the gun.

  “Really?” With regret, Dahl broke the arm and threw the gun, leaving the man writhing. It was the only way. With seconds to spare, he returned to the wall and started to climb, feet and hands moving triple-time.

  Dahl hauled himself up and over the balcony once more and drew both guns.

  FORTY TWO

  The balcony was clear, the room beyond standing as expected – less crowded. Vega at least would have sent extra men to assess the danger, thus thinning out the guards.

  So far, so good.

  He stepped through the balcony doors, guns leveled, a man alone against eight or nine and liking his chances. He’d faced worse and sent every offender plummeting down to that special place reserved for them beneath Satan’s toilet. The first guard to spot him coming through the window drew. Dahl shot him between the eyes, covering the next man in blood and worse. A second guard missed that memo and also tried to line Dahl up, falling a moment later with a brand-new, smoking eye in his forehead. Vega and Prime Minister Sealy were standing, immobile, still trying to register that guns were pointed at their heads. Other hands moved to weapons but Dahl shook his head.

  “Don’t.”

  Indecision froze the room. Some men had already drawn weapons but now held them pointed at the floor.

  Dahl didn’t waste time. Others would arrive and change the dynamic. He waved the barrel of a gun, bunching the guards together, and then raised an eyebrow at Vega.

  “Where’s Grant?”

  “Gone. A few minutes ago.”

  The man was slipperier than engine oil. Bunching the guards together had probably been a mistake, but then he could hardly leave them apart. Lowered guns itched to be raised and Dahl fought to watch every single one.

  “You are outnumbered,” Vega pointed out.

  “And how did that work out for you last time?” Dahl kept his eyes on the armed men. “If I see one barrel rise, I will shoot two men. That’s a lot of tears and funerals, Gabrio.”

  “They’re not all my men.”

  “How about you, Sealy? Your boys get life insurance? Dental?”

  “Dahl,” Vega interrupted. “What are you going to do?”

  “Take away everyone’s reason for being here,” he said, still not looking at the cartel boss. “You. I’m taking you.”

  “Torsten . . .” Vega began, then abruptly changed tack. “One million for the man who shoots him first. One million dollars!”

  Dahl tightened his grip, his eyes sweeping the room. Barrels swayed, raised and lowered. Fingers twitched. A true standoff. Vega’s men were perhaps a bit reticent, knowing they had jobs for life; Sealy’s men danced on the edge. All knew that many of their colleagues had tested Dahl and failed.

  “Don’t,” Dahl warned softly. “Don’t.”

  Men shifted. Dahl almost fired. He held off, knowing a single shot would start a bloodbath in which all could die. The strain smothered him, the tension tauter than a guy-wire. Vega and Sealy appeared nonplussed, unsure what form of leadership was required next.

  Dahl wondered where Grant was. The man was as cautious as a snake and Dahl doubted Vega would know. He could press the question but that would only waste time. “The balcony, Vega.”

  “Oh, and then we can go?” Vega asked. “Sure.”

  “Last chance.”

  “Men are on their way, asshole. This is your last chance.”

  Dahl judged the room. “This bastard offered one of you a million dollars to shoot me,” he said. “Ain’t you gonna collect?”

  And he moved, sidestepping toward the desk and Vega as one of the men snapped and drew. Dahl’s gun exploded first, a bullet penetrating the offender’s right bicep and drawing out a heavy groan. Dahl switched his tactics and pointed one gun at Vega’s throat, now less than a foot away.

  “Come here.”

  “Fuck you. Shoot him.”

  But nobody dared risk it. None held sufficient belief in his own skillset to risk the shot.

  He reached down to the desk and grabbed a letter opener. Before anyone could react, he rammed it through the top of Vega’s hand, pinning it to the desk. “Last chance. Come now.” Escaping alive meant he had to take Vega with him.

  Vega stifled a scream, but vented with a string of curses, punctuated with information. “Pendejo! Where will you take me? You go quickly. I will let you leave. You had best look after your family now!”

  Dahl drew a breath, taking stock. The gun never wavered. He almost wished one of these assholes would make a move so he could blow Vega’s head off. But the cartel boss’s statement shed a different light on things.

  You had best look after your family now.

  His family waited far away from here. But Grant had left some minutes ago. Could the Facilitator know where they were hiding? Hazard a guess? Grant knew Dahl well, and he’d hunted them across the island for a day or more. But surely . . .

  Dario.

  “How?” he managed. “Just . . . fucking . . . how?”

  “You think devices can only be put in watches and bracelets?” Vega spat, then shrugged. “Well, sometimes that is true. But family? We are skin deep. Yes?” Vega laughed. “Grant has my tracker with him.”

  Dahl reacted instantly, before anyone could speak or even blink. He unfastened Vega from the desk by yanking on the man’s wrist, pulling away the injured hand and letter opener together, then swept a thick arm around the man’s throat and wielded both guns at once, barrels pointed outward, covering the room with a steady, roving scan.

  “We’re leaving,” he said. “Anyone brave enough to take a shot better have perfect aim.”

  Shoving the drug lord along, Dahl contracted behind the man’s frame, manipulating his walk to maintain maximum cover. He passed Sealy, leaving himself wide open to the man. He expected the Prime Minister possessed little or no personal courage, which proved correct as Vega openly urged the man to act and received only a hooded frown in return.

  “I will gut you personally after this.” Vega growled at Sealy.

  Dahl pushed him toward the room’s hallway door, not wanting to complicate the situation any further. Time to call last orders on this particular party. Hardened gazes sought his, looking for an opening. Fingers still twitched, and Dahl challenged every one, the Mad Swede communicating with his eyes the essential truth of the situation.

  “They were right,” Vega said. “You are mad.”

  Dahl nodded at the five men he left behind, the four lined up along the wall outside and the one stationed at the end of the corridor. “You wouldn’t recognize a set of proper balls if they slapped you in the face, Gabrio,” he said loudly. Then more quietly, “Proof of that lies in your son.”

  “Easy to say from behind a gun,” Vega said. “So what would you do, Mad One? What would you do if you were them?” He indicated his own men.

  Dahl leaned in close. “Easy. I’d shoot you in the gut, then me in the head.”

  They neared the end of the first hall, the man there backing away, arms actually upraised. Clearly, he didn’t understand the situation. Not that Dahl minded. He urged Vega onward, over to the second-floor landing and then downstairs. Another bunch of guards and mercs waited in the lobby, calculating angles and risks, but Dahl remained in constant motion and manipulated Vega around slightly at every step, always changing the viewpoints and positions, always fluid. Still, he brandished both guns simultaneously, making himself as threatening a figure as they’d ever seen. Not once did the soldier in him fail, not once did the strength and focus acquired
from years of training and battle deteriorate. The air outside struck him like a cold towel, much welcomed. He inched his captive over to the row of parked cars and stopped along the path, breathing steadily.

  “Keys!” he called out.

  “Duh,” one of Vega’s men returned. “Already inside.”

  Dahl regarded the man, his bullet head and Goofy ears, his skew-whiff tie and uncomfortable-looking suit. “Where do you find ‘em?” he asked Vega.

  The Mexican nodded. “On this we can agree,” he muttered. “But they are my blood now. My clan. It is complicated.”

  Dahl opened the door and pushed Vega in first, following the man like a patch of glue, sticking to him right across the front of the car. Vega fell into the driver’s seat and Dahl settled alongside.

  “Drive.”

  Vega turned the key and the engine roared to life.

  Dahl struggled with the frustration and buckled up. “Now go.”

  The car moved off, tires crunching as it left the concrete and turned onto the gravel drive. Vega juiced the throttle and watched Dahl, who motioned toward the upcoming gates. “Watch the road. Drive safe.”

  “Oh, yes, Miss Daisy.” Vega slowed as the gates slid aside and then pulled out onto the badly lit road. Passing traffic was non-existent at this time of night. Dahl swiveled to check the rear view.

  “Here they come.”

  “What? You think they just let us go? They’re not stupid; they know you won’t shoot me as I drive.”

  “Well, you got half of that right.”

  Vega blinked. “Which half?”

  Dahl ignored him and watched the road ahead, wary of Vega’s driving and those in pursuit. Each vehicle looked identical – black Lincolns with privacy glass all around and dull rims –the two following Dahl being driven more than a little enthusiastically.

  Vega took a curve at speed, accelerating through it.

  Dahl waved the gun. “Slow down.”

  “Don’t you want to escape them?”

  “I want to arrive in one piece.”

  “Then maybe you should not have stabbed me, puto.” Vega gunned the engine, aiming for the side of the road.

  Dahl had almost forgotten the letter opener in Vega’s hand. With a long-suffering sigh, he grabbed the steering wheel and held it straight with one hand, countering Vega’s lesser strength, much to the Mexican’s vexation, and holding the gun steady with the other.

  “Stop acting like a child,” he said. “And just drive.”

  Vega sprang at him, the rage taking hold, the wheel forgotten. His blind anger lent him brute strength. A blow flew past Dahl’s defenses, striking his skull and knocking the other side of his head against the window. The same hand struck again with less force, right above Dahl’s eye, causing a lightning flash of pain. Dahl leaned across and righted the wheel as the car drifted, ignoring his irate captive for the moment. A third punch landed, rendered weak by the lack of space in the front of the car.

  Dahl set the car on course and sat back. “Are you finished?”

  “Fuck you! Fuck you!” In his temper, Vega wrenched the letter-opener free and turned it upon his captor. Dahl caught the descending wrist and twisted until the letter opener fell to the carpet.

  Cars zoomed up close in the rear view mirror.

  Shit. This is getting out of hand.

  Time to rein it all in.

  Dahl twisted Vega’s wrist to snapping point, draining all the fight out of the man. “Drive. Foot on the pedal,” he said. “Or the letter opener goes in the other hand.”

  Vega complied, nursing his wrist like it was a childhood pet, eyes glued to the road. Dahl twisted, aimed one of the pistols, and blew the back window out.

  Glass shattered, air roared inside the car. Vega slewed the wheels. Dahl watched the chase vehicles, smiling grimly when the first skidded and then ran off the road, bouncing down a verge and slamming fender-first into the bottom of a ditch. It hit so hard the back-end shuddered and slid, almost toppling over. Dahl fixed his eyes upon the second vehicle. It raced up to them now, lights as bright as exploding planets, engine wailing under pressure. Vega took a tight turn at speed. Dahl estimated they were no more than ten minutes from the beach and quickly gave Vega directions. The pursuit car blasted up alongside, its passenger now eyeballing Vega and trying to aim his weapon at Dahl.

  “You know,” Dahl said, “they really should shoot the tires. Or the engine.”

  “Not all men were brought up eating Marine dirt,” Vega muttered.

  Dahl silenced him by aiming behind Vega’s head and pulling the trigger. The bullet parted hairs before it crashed through the other car, hitting the driver and making it slide and veer into an unstoppable tumble, side over side until it finally stopped, wheels up.

  “Actually, I went to an expensive English university. Until they kicked me out.”

  Vega nodded as if everything he saw and heard made perfect sense. “Why’d they kick you out?”

  Dahl wasn’t surprised when the smile came instantly, but he did try to hide it. “You’ve met her.”

  “Seriously, I don’t care. You destroyed years of planning and investment today. Years.”

  “No,” Dahl replied. “You did that when you decided to take me and my family on. Turn left up ahead.”

  Vega slowed, took the turn, and then headed for the parking area that Dahl indicated. “Never,” he said.

  Dahl looked at him. “What?”

  “Never.”

  “Look, just park there and shut the fu—”

  Vega hit the gas pedal, deliberately crashing the car into a parked van. Dahl jerked forward. Vega jumped him again, striking at Dahl with both hands. “You’ll never . . . take me . . . alive!”

  This time, Dahl had no patience. The clock was ticking and Grant had already been out of sight for too long. Johanna and the children were vulnerable. As Vega pounced, the Mad Swede met him head on, forehead down, teeth bared. Vega’s face impacted hard with the unbreakable wall, nose breaking, lips mashing and tearing, eye-socket cracking. As he yelped, Dahl ended it abruptly with a devastating punch fueled by fury, right between the Mexican’s eyes.

  “I should kill you. Stay down.”

  Vega did.

  Why not kill him now?

  It was the particular line he didn’t like to cross. Vega was nicely immobilized, out of it for a while. Situation anesthetized; don’t make it worse.

  Dahl pocketed the gun and looked around the car. There was nothing with which to restrain Vega and he wasn’t about to let the man off the leash this time. Again, the extent of his plight hit home – he wore swim-shorts and stolen trainers; not even a belt to tie up the murderous Mexican. Not wanting to waste one more second, Dahl exited the car, grabbed Vega by the hair and pulled him into the street.

  “Stay with me,” he said. “You run, I’ll shoot you in the gut.”

  “Whatever, cabrón. I treat my men better than you treat your captives.”

  Dahl didn’t even try to decipher that kind of thinking. It bordered on the entryway to the nuthouse. He pressed through the parking area to the very back and the place where he knew a gap in the fence existed . . . the beach beyond.

  No sounds interrupted them. No tell-tale whispers or scrapes in the dark. The night arced above and the stars glittered their magic. This area of Barbados was as quiet as the grave as Torsten Dahl led Gabrio Vega, the boss of one of the world’s most brutal cartels, in search of Nick Grant, the loathsome facilitator of some of the worst crimes ever perpetrated on humanity.

  Dahl wanted so badly to be wrong about Grant’s intentions. Almost wished his vile stain had left the country.

  But it hadn’t.

  FORTY THREE

  Dahl moved like a nimble wraith, at home in the shadows, chasing one insanity while dragging another along at his side. Vega didn’t protest, stepping as well as he could. Dahl paused as he entered the tree-line and then studied the beach beyond. Swathed in darkness, he could actually make out ver
y little but dark shapes, darker mounds, and the swell of the ocean in the distance. Waves lapped at the shore. A fetid stench of rotting undergrowth and litter competed with the salty air. He swept the area with an experienced gaze.

  “Wait.”

  He stayed absolutely still. Even when he knew exactly where Johanna, the kids and Dario were, he could not see them. That set his heart to beating faster. The fatherly panic reared up, but he forced it down.

  Not now. Please, not now.

  Half a minute passed and a tiny shape moved. That would be Isabella. All was well. Dahl broke cover, urged Vega along and headed in their general direction. Still, he didn’t trust the darkness, the shadows. If Grant truly had taken the GPS receiver tracking Dario from Vega, why would he . . .

  Dahl paused.

  “Why did you send Grant?” he whispered to Vega. “Why him?”

  Vega’s eyes lit up with the knowledge of a well-kept secret. “Because Grant wants you dead. You. Not your family. You. And he has the best motivation.”

  Dahl didn’t see it coming until it smashed him on the head. Literally. Grant flew out of the darkness, a weapon raised, and brought it crashing down onto Dahl, sending him to his knees in the sand.

  “He was waiting for you.” Vega grinned. “Not your family.” Grant threw Vega a weapon, something long and rusty and raggedly sharp.

  Dahl bled from the temple. Midnight swirled around his head, blurring all focus. The sand shifted beneath him, but it wasn’t the sand, he realized. It was his equilibrium, stretching from dazed to woozy. Grant hadn’t survived and thrived so long by being stupid, so he came at Dahl again while he was down. The weapon swung from on high, this time striking Dahl’s substantial shoulder, generating pain in spears that branched off and ran the length of his body. Dahl cried out and fell sideways, grabbing his shoulder, blinded by agony. Vega suddenly came to intensely animated life, saying something about taking revenge for his men and their families.

  “My wife? Her name was Sarah.” The Facilitator spoke from above him. “Sarah Green. Hell, she was a firecracker at school. Teased all the boys.” He bent over to whisper into Dahl’s ear. “But I won her. She was mine.”