if Grant had tracked Dahl here from the start, Dahl couldn’t imagine him marshalling such resources for the hunt. Not alone. Not unless he expected payment in return.
The real Dahl rose up in him then, the Mad Swede, perfectly controlled rage pounding at his gut, inciting him to action. But the Mad Swede would already have weapons in hand. The Mad Swede wouldn’t have been caught out on the open beach with his family. In truth, the gunmen were too far away anyway, and his family too exposed.
He ran on, encouraging Johanna along, sensing rather than seeing the pursuers picking up their own pace now, closing the gap. In his peripheral vision, he saw the two downed cops still crawling, still alive with survival instincts kicking in. A minute later and four more shots rang out.
The cops had been executed in cold blood, right there on the hotel beach. An unnecessary execution by men who – more than uncompromising – were cruel.
Ahead, the jumble he’d seen earlier on the horizon grew clearer, confirming his hopes.
Boats .
With an escape plan now firmly in mind, he ran harder, ignoring the spasms in his strained arm muscles, urging Johanna to greater speed with every charging step.
ELEVEN
Dahl practically threw Isabella and Julia feet-first into the last speedboat on the strand, the one closest to the ocean. He yelled at Johanna to jump in, already spying the keys dangling from the ignition, and understanding why. Hearing gunfire, a panicking man might abandon the boat and run away on foot, seeking town and the safety of buildings and police stations rather than heading straight out to sea, where safety was just as fragile.
No gunshots split the day apart, but Dahl didn’t have to look back to know Grant and his men remained hard after him. If they wounded Dahl, it was all over, but even that option appeared to have been ruled out by Grant . . . or whoever was calling the shots. Still . . . best not to test them.
He pushed the rear of the craft hard across the sand, telling Jo to get ready at the ignition. Isabella and Julia hunkered down, fitting their bodies almost beneath the seats, their tiny forms so fragile that Dahl experienced a rash surge of helplessness. He turned his panic for them into fury, driving his shoulder into the boat’s stern, shoving it across the wet sand and into the foaming breakers. Water splashed him. Wet sand squeezed between his toes. An incoming wave almost toppled him, but Dahl held on.
“Nowhere to run, Dahl!” A voice rang out. “Might as well stop there.”
Dahl ignored it, still pushing.
“We’ll get you sooner or later. The city is ours.”
Dahl ignored Grant’s call, concentrating on his family. Johanna perched over the wheel as if searching for a portal to another world. At a word from Dahl, she turned the key, bringing the small engine to life.
“Now get us going.”
Johanna’s shoulders slumped, the sobs echoing like admissions of defeat.
Dahl raised his voice. “Jo! Get us going!”
“I can’t,” she whispered, shuddering. “I just can’t.”
He cursed silently, understanding that his wife was suffering the mid stages of shock, the trauma of panic and fear immobilizing her. He pulled himself over the stern, leaped over the seats and nudged her gently aside. One twist and the engine roared to life. A tweak of the throttle and the craft surged ahead, surfing the rolling waves. For the first time, Dahl had at least a partial way out. The next decision would be pivotal.
“Can you pilot the boat?” Dahl asked Jo.
One look at her red, tear-streaked face told him the truth much more clearly than the mumble that escaped her lips. Here they were, alone in their swimsuits, pursued by assassins on an unfamiliar island, not knowing whom they could trust. The outlook was bleak. Understandable that his civilian wife could not function.
He kept the boat close to shore, taking a quick glance back to shore at the crew chasing them. Grant was clearly
The real Dahl rose up in him then, the Mad Swede, perfectly controlled rage pounding at his gut, inciting him to action. But the Mad Swede would already have weapons in hand. The Mad Swede wouldn’t have been caught out on the open beach with his family. In truth, the gunmen were too far away anyway, and his family too exposed.
He ran on, encouraging Johanna along, sensing rather than seeing the pursuers picking up their own pace now, closing the gap. In his peripheral vision, he saw the two downed cops still crawling, still alive with survival instincts kicking in. A minute later and four more shots rang out.
The cops had been executed in cold blood, right there on the hotel beach. An unnecessary execution by men who – more than uncompromising – were cruel.
Ahead, the jumble he’d seen earlier on the horizon grew clearer, confirming his hopes.
Boats .
With an escape plan now firmly in mind, he ran harder, ignoring the spasms in his strained arm muscles, urging Johanna to greater speed with every charging step.
ELEVEN
Dahl practically threw Isabella and Julia feet-first into the last speedboat on the strand, the one closest to the ocean. He yelled at Johanna to jump in, already spying the keys dangling from the ignition, and understanding why. Hearing gunfire, a panicking man might abandon the boat and run away on foot, seeking town and the safety of buildings and police stations rather than heading straight out to sea, where safety was just as fragile.
No gunshots split the day apart, but Dahl didn’t have to look back to know Grant and his men remained hard after him. If they wounded Dahl, it was all over, but even that option appeared to have been ruled out by Grant . . . or whoever was calling the shots. Still . . . best not to test them.
He pushed the rear of the craft hard across the sand, telling Jo to get ready at the ignition. Isabella and Julia hunkered down, fitting their bodies almost beneath the seats, their tiny forms so fragile that Dahl experienced a rash surge of helplessness. He turned his panic for them into fury, driving his shoulder into the boat’s stern, shoving it across the wet sand and into the foaming breakers. Water splashed him. Wet sand squeezed between his toes. An incoming wave almost toppled him, but Dahl held on.
“Nowhere to run, Dahl!” A voice rang out. “Might as well stop there.”
Dahl ignored it, still pushing.
“We’ll get you sooner or later. The city is ours.”
Dahl ignored Grant’s call, concentrating on his family. Johanna perched over the wheel as if searching for a portal to another world. At a word from Dahl, she turned the key, bringing the small engine to life.
“Now get us going.”
Johanna’s shoulders slumped, the sobs echoing like admissions of defeat.
Dahl raised his voice. “Jo! Get us going!”
“I can’t,” she whispered, shuddering. “I just can’t.”
He cursed silently, understanding that his wife was suffering the mid stages of shock, the trauma of panic and fear immobilizing her. He pulled himself over the stern, leaped over the seats and nudged her gently aside. One twist and the engine roared to life. A tweak of the throttle and the craft surged ahead, surfing the rolling waves. For the first time, Dahl had at least a partial way out. The next decision would be pivotal.
“Can you pilot the boat?” Dahl asked Jo.
One look at her red, tear-streaked face told him the truth much more clearly than the mumble that escaped her lips. Here they were, alone in their swimsuits, pursued by assassins on an unfamiliar island, not knowing whom they could trust. The outlook was bleak. Understandable that his civilian wife could not function.
He kept the boat close to shore, taking a quick glance back to shore at the crew chasing them. Grant was clearly
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