Torsten Dahl book 1 - Stand Your Ground (22 page)

“I’ll leave you here,” he said. “But don’t struggle. Plenty of guys I know would have cold-cocked you and left you bleeding into the carpet.” He paused, unable to come up with anything else since it felt as if he were standing still and time was passing by in a V8 muscle car, with its mad, feral brother Destiny at the wheel. He showed the woman the other side of the bed and helped situate her so that she remained hidden from the door. It was all he could do. He wouldn’t restrain her further, instead giving her a reason to stay quiet.

“I’ll be waiting both inside and outside of this room,” he said. “For the right time. No noise.”

She nodded and he walked away, cracked the door and studied the hallway. Nothing moved, but the
tick-tock
of the grandfather clock downstairs
echoed loudly through the shadowy halls. Dahl decided on a way to go and squeezed out of the room, following the solid wall to the next door and placing an ear close. Paintings hung along the walls on both sides, previous Prime Ministers probably, dozens of pairs of eyes watching him with various expressions of pride and guilt. All heads of state differed; some would fit into the corruptible camp and some wouldn’t. All were tested.

Another door and another clamorous quiet. This house was so calm a deaf man would hear a pin drop. That thought made Dahl move even more slowly and with care. It was at the end of this corridor, as a hallway branched off in both directions, that he heard the distant shuffle of feet. Not footsteps, but a shifting of weight.

He paused, listening. Eventually he decided the unknown stalemate was getting him nowhere, bent low, and slowly pushed his head forward so that he could peer around the corner at an odd angle, anomalous to the human perception in case someone was watching. Slowly, the scene unfolded – a long hallway that, by his current knowledge of the house, ran the length of two rooms, and a dogleg at the far end, running away from him. It was at this far end that a man stood, leaning against the wall and looking extremely bored, yawning even.

The rifle placed at his side, barrel against the wall, looked far less apathetic.

Dahl studied the guard a moment longer, then withdrew. The armed man’s presence at least signified the PM was down there . . . somewhere. How to get closer? He might dart across the hall, enter one of the room across there, but that was risky and a safer option had already presented itself.

The door at his side.

Dahl cracked it open and entered the room, praying it had a connecting door exactly like the other he’d seen. This time, luck was on his side. He walked across the room and then the next in total darkness, effectively walking along the corridor towards the guard but without being seen. At the end of the far room, he saw undraped windows looking out over the grounds and a door leading back into the corridor, which, to his guesstimate, stood farther along than the posted guard.

If he looked out the closer door, he just might be able to view along the length of the dogleg.

Dahl checked both guns, one at his waist and one in his hand, and placed his other hand on the doorknob, turning it with more care than he’d ever handled any explosive. Times changed, but the beast was raring to go, barely contained. Dahl wanted to attack, but now would be a foolish time. Pulling the door inward a millimeter at a time, he put an eye to the crack.

Ahead, the dogleg did indeed reveal itself: yet another plush, painting-lined hallway running for at least twenty meters with an enormous bay window at its far end. This particular hallway differed in a big way to all the others.

Armed guards stood along it, one every six feet and on both sides. Some were dressed in suits, others wearing leather jackets and hoodies, every one fidgeting and looking bored. None seemed friendly with the others. Dahl thought they might be rival factions, which made sense, seeing as Grant and Vega would have brought bodyguards along too.

From his restricted vantage point, he couldn’t see the door to the room they were guarding, but didn’t need to.
No way in there
.

But there was another way.

Retracing his steps back to the bottom of the imagined rectangle, he exited the rooms and returned to the corner around which he’d peered a minute or so earlier. A door stood across the hall, same as before. Logic told him the room was adjoined to the meeting room, and his only way of getting closer. He checked the position of the lone guard, saw him swiping at an Android phone and decided this was as good a time as any.

He leaped across the corridor, a momentary shape, passing quickly. If the guard had looked up, Dahl saw and heard no sign. Waiting for a moment, he opened the door at his back and squeezed into the room, gun ready.

It was a library, hugely impressive with dark oak bookshelves all packed to the rafters, moveable stepladders and a large table complete with reading light. The overhead light fully illuminated an incongruous single bed tucked away in one corner. Perhaps Sealy worked so hard he could only make it that far at bedtime? Dahl shrugged. To each their own. The most likely scenario was that he frequently ended up blind drunk and then managed to claw his way to the cot.

Wall to wall silence greeted him. If anyone had been in the room, they would surely have frozen. He saw no place to hide and quickly moved over to the connecting door. This time when he put his ear to the polished wood, he immediately picked up the deep timbre of voices.

Footsteps too. Impossible to guess how many men stood or sat on the other side, but it was several. Placing all other concerns aside, he focused on the voices, knowing he would recognize both Vega’s and Grant’s. The deep Bajan tones and booming laughter probably came from Sealy, but then the unmistakable voice of an Englishman rang out, with quick, rhythmic Spanish-accented English cutting across it.

This was it then. At last.

Dahl had found them, tracked them down. Now only a dozen or so armed guards stood between him and the men who wanted to hurt his family, to pillage Barbados in some clandestine but destructive way, to expand their degenerate empire at the expense of an awful lot of innocent people.

Dahl was so close he could almost smell the rot of the men’s souls; like a soiled halo, it hung over the entire house. The problem now was quite concrete, at least, but it did involve a dozen or more soldiers.

With exquisite care, he reached out and checked the interconnecting door to the meeting room.

Locked.

How did he gain surprise entry to a room effectively surrounded by a deep security layer, each man trained to kill and happy to oblige? The problem fizzed around his brain like a mad bull destroying its corral, concentrating all his thoughts on the problem rather than the solution.

Then the penny dropped.

You do it like they’d do it in New York,
he thought.

That’s
how you do it.

THIRTY EIGHT

The Facilitator sat with legs crossed, bespoke trousers still showing their creases, both hands on his knees. He presented a sedate figure, easily forgotten, hard to recognize, which still was and always would be his greatest achievement in life.

To date, at any rate. Barbados might just top that . . .

His dealings with Sealy went back a ways, something the Prime Minister never admitted to and no doubt tried to forget. It had been a while since they’d bought the man and then slowly elevated him to this position and, on occasion, he’d thought they would never return to call in their rather large marker. Payday though – it always came sweet to Grant.

He smiled, remembering the sniveling weasel Sealy had been when the Facilitator recognized the opportunity to mold a future tool. Corruption and greed rolled off the man in waves back then – any act, any deal – he’d become a useful machine. Grant had seen the light, or rather the darkness, in Sealy, and helped slough off all the past dealings. He invented a new man. And then went to work. Sealy could bluster and pretend to whomever he wanted, but everyone who mattered knew the stark truth behind it all.

Vega spoke up. “It has not been a good day so far,” he spread his hands. “Son lost. Enemy lost. Men to bury. Families to inform. Finally, we come to the reason I am here. It’s easy from here on in, Sealy. Do the job you were put here to do. Repay in hard work the funding I gave you.”

“Barbados will be the new capital.” Sealy smiled. “You have my word.”

They owned Sealy and Barbados. Grant had laid the foundations years ago. Sealy was here only to help facilitate a huge increase in the cartel’s drug-distribution and money-laundering capabilities, seeing to it that Barbados and its waters became a safe-haven and hub for Vega’s international network. From Barbados, product moved easily and efficiently to Europe, North America, and South America. Even Africa, as that still-growing market matured. The island’s popular tourist trade made it all work more easily, with Grantley Adams airport handling more than 80 flights a day.

Likewise, when you owned its Prime Minister, Barbados served as the most secure and discreet money-laundering service imaginable. Moving and storing enormous amounts of cash became an eternal albatross for all large-scale narcotics operations. Few cartels had found a solution such as Sealy’s small country offered.

Would the island be overrun by the criminal classes and junkies? Grant didn’t care. Soon, he’d be moving along to the next job.

The only hitch was that bastard Swede. Grant didn’t care that Vega had lost his son and a surprising number of men. He would gladly ignore his own thirst for revenge, if it meant the operation’s success. No, Dahl was a problem only because he was a tenacious man and – no matter how isolated – posed a dire threat to the Barbadian operation.

Thoughts of Dahl triggered memories of his family and the Russians. Grant fixed an easy smile on his face but it was merely a Halloween mask, hiding the worst of truths. In reality, he would have traded the entire operation for Dahl chained to a table in a remote location.

“It’s time I moved on,” he said aloud. “This deal is brokered and now followed to completion. At last,” he gave them a perfunctory laugh. “I really don’t need to be involved in what comes next.”

“Ah, but you should stay.” Vega flicked at his suit, removing dust. “One problem remains, does it not?”

Grant glanced around the room, wondering for a moment . . .  They sat in the PM’s study, a large, square space, dominated by one of the biggest desks Grant had ever seen. A half-full decanter of bourbon sat in pride of place, the amber liquid undulating slightly as Sealy moved.

The PM came around the desk. “Have another drink.” He lifted Grant’s glass. “The night is long and this moment well anticipated. Where else would you go?” He looked around and let out a deep-toned laugh.

Grant tried to hide his disdain for the man. “You’re far from my only client. Name the problem, Gabrio.”

“You know his name.”

“Ah, well, I know men who can deal with that problem.”

Vega looked a little injured. “My men are not good enough?”

Grant remained diplomatic. “Considering all we have worked for and now achieved in Barbados with the Prime Minister, I believe drawing the fight away from here is the best thing to do. Let Dahl alone. Chase us elsewhere if he likes. As we will him. Catch him later.”

“Later?”

“A week. A fortnight. A month. Does it really matter, as long as it happens?
Soon
.”

“I looked into his eyes,” Sealy said. “He did not scare me. And he could not know the truth.”

Grant sighed inwardly.
Nothing quite like having an idiot for a business partner
. . .  Now that Vega had lost Vin, dealing with the cartel boss and his allies looked more hazardous than ever.

All the more reason to leave sooner.

Grant doubted Dahl would leave this island before uncovering the truth. Which
meant Grant should be long gone already. The undetermined factor here was the knowledge that Dahl couldn’t be both soldier and father, the Swede was struggling to switch between both, but the moment that thorny problem solved itself, which it would, Grant expected madness and Armageddon to descend. In that order.

What exactly would Dahl do?

Fight. The Swede would fight. He’d know all the players involved wanted him silenced, so he’d seek to eliminate them. All of them.

Grant experienced a sudden surge of anxiety, looking around the suddenly claustrophobic study. The fact that four of his black-clothed men stood by a couple of Vega’s suited thugs didn’t help. Sealy’s own two bodyguards were there too, stationed at the interconnecting door and the window, hands never more than 50 millimeters from their weapons. Still, the room, while exuding comradeship and success, could easily descend into anarchy at the onset of a bad sneezing fit.

Typical for criminals. They were a hot-tempered lot and one of the many reasons he usually kept them at arm’s length. Tonight was unusual for him, the culmination of years of effort.

“You hate Dahl, no?” Vega said. “He might as well have butchered your family himself. Why do you not wish him dead now?”

Grant found it better to say less in these situations. “It feels wiser.”

“Wise?” Vega shrugged. “Wise is destroying the man from my office, a digital keystroke at a time. What we did today was not wise. It was revenge ruled by the heart, not the head. If we let him go now . . .” Vega sighed.

Grant drained half his bourbon. “He’s in the wind, Gabrio. The trackers are gone. What do you suggest?”

The hidden fury deep within Vega simmered a little, betrayed by a subtle tightening of his jawline over the hard gaze.

“I pay
you
to suggest and to win.” Vega said. “Where are your
cojones
? Are you not the man who organized the tracking down of the very same Russians who murdered your wife and child? Are you not the man who dictated every torture visited upon them? Even in prison? Have you forgotten?”

“I am that man, and I never forget,” he answered softly. “Never.”