by Chris Ryan
'You know what I mean,' Ben replied. At the front of the car the man was standing in the wind and the rain, waving his handgun in their direction to indicate that they should get out of the car. 'You know what I mean, Danny. She would tell you that this isn't the way. She would tell you to listen to me, to listen to Angelo. He can speak to his father. He can get the oil men to leave your island.' He narrowed his eyes. 'If you do this, Danny, the only thing your sister will be remembered for is the death of other people.'
'Shut up!' Danny screamed suddenly and so violently that it made Ben jump. 'You don't know what you're talking about. Just shut up and get out of the truck!' His face was filled with rage; his hands were shaking. For a terrifying moment Ben thought he was going to fire the gun; instead he nudged it sharply into his ribs, winding him and forcing him to catch his breath.
At that very moment the door opened. Ben's ears were filled with the sudden rush of the wind and the rain sheeted ferociously into the cab of the truck. He felt himself being pulled out of the pick-up by the scruff of his neck. While Danny had been screaming at him, the man outside had clearly had enough of waiting. He pulled Ben roughly from the truck and then, with a sharp crack, whacked him across the side of the head with the handle of his gun. Blood flowed into Ben's eyes, blinding him momentarily. He was pushed to the floor and then kicked harshly in the stomach.
His body curled up into a protective ball and he looked up. The man was staring down at him with a severe, uncompromising look on his face. He looked deeply sinister with his hair blowing in the wind and backed by the thick, unrelenting rain; and as Ben lay there in agony, one thing became very, very clear to him.
He might suspect Danny of having doubts; but this new stranger had none whatsoever. He was here to do a job, and he wouldn't be leaving until it was fully accomplished.
Chapter Sixteen
The next thing Ben knew he was being pulled to his feet again, before Angelo was dragged unceremoniously out of the pick-up.
'I'll take it from here,' the new man barked at Danny. 'If you want my advice, put some distance between yourself and the refinery. Several miles. When it blows, it's really going to blow.'
Danny didn't reply. He seemed uncomfortable as he moved into the driving seat.
'You should head south, down to the Keys. The storm's moving north so things should be less dangerous there.'
Danny made no sign that he was even listening. He just breathed deeply and stared straight ahead. The man shrugged. 'It's up to you,' he shouted. He looked at his watch. 'You've got an hour before I detonate. Maybe a few minutes longer.' He slammed the door shut.
The thought of being left with this man made all the strength sap from Ben's body. It took a superhuman effort to summon up the energy to throw himself towards the pick-up and bang his fist against Danny's window. He shouted out at him one last time. 'Think of Basheera, Danny!' he yelled. 'Think of what she'd say! Think of—'
He never finished his sentence, because the man thumped him on the side of the face for a second time. It sent an agonizing, stinging pain down one side of his body and he felt dizzy. He fell to the floor again. The man started shouting. 'Get to your feet!' he bellowed.
Ben could barely move; but just then he felt the unmistakable clunk of cold steel against his head. 'I said, get to your feet. You've got five seconds.' The man was having to scream over the wind and the rain.
Ben groaned as he forced himself to stand up. As he did, he watched, with a horrible sinking feeling, as the pick-up truck started to move. Danny reversed in a semi-circle so that the vehicle was pointing back the way they had come. He came to a brief halt and stared at them through the window. Ben stared back, jutting out his chin defiantly and trying to ignore the pain from the bleeding wound on his face. Danny's expression hardened. He nodded to himself, and then drove off.
Ben watched the pick-up truck trundle away, its rear lights becoming blurred and hazy from the rain. He wasn't allowed to wait until they disappeared, however. Their new captor clearly had plans for them. And he was obviously in a hurry.
'Move,' the man told them. He rapped Ben on the back of the head with his gun to underline his command. Ben's eyes flickered to his right. Angelo was there, his hands still tied behind his back and his head bowed. He looked exhausted and dejected, as if he wasn't even aware of the howling gales and pounding rain around them. Just then there was an ominous creek. It was the sort of noise Ben was used to hearing at home in the middle of the night, only this was a hundred times louder. It sounded like the huge tower ahead of them was being forced from its roots, as though it was about to split in two and empty its oily guts all over them at any moment.
'Move! ' the man repeated. He pushed Angelo, who stumbled forward. Ben instinctively grabbed his friend's arm to stop him from falling, then looked back at the man behind them, the rain almost blinding him.
'Where?' he demanded.
The man used his gun to reply, pointing it towards the tower. Ben's face set into an expression of grim concentration and, still holding Angelo's arm, he walked in that direction.
The cold rain and the wind didn't even affect him now. He hardly noticed them. His mind was on other things: on Danny, and the way he had betrayed them; on his own stupidity for not listening to Brad the bodyguard and being suspicious of absolutely everyone on that plane. He tried his best not to think about what was awaiting them, because every time he did that, he felt horribly sick.
It took them less than a minute to reach the foot of the tower. It stretched above them into the darkness like a giant, and the creaking sound – like the giant's roars – now dwarfed even the sound of the storm.
'Stop!' the man shouted from behind them.
They did as they were told and Ben turned to look at him again.
He was skirting round them, his gun still firmly pointed in their direction. The man edged towards the door of a low building that was situated below the tower. Ben couldn't really make out what it looked like from this distance – it was too dark, and the rain hampered his vision. He could see what the man was doing, however. He tried the door: it was locked. He banged against it with his foot as though he might be able to force it open with a good kick, but it only made a dull, metallic echo. And so he stood back, a good two metres, and pointed his gun towards the door.
Now's your chance, Ben urged himself. If he could rush the guy while his gun was pointing in a different direction . . .
Too late. The man fired at the lock of the door. The crack of the gun seemed to echo all around the refinery like a sudden crack of thunder. The bullet sparked against the door and there was a second, less obvious bang as it ricocheted off. It had done its work well, however. The door shuddered from the impact and then slowly, as if being opened by some sinister and unseen butler, swung open.
Without hesitation, the man strode back towards them. He grabbed Angelo's free arm and pushed him in the direction of the building. Ben followed. As he did so, he felt the man's gun against the back of his head once more. It was warm this time. Warm from use. It was the sort of warmth that made Ben shudder.
They were hustled through the open door and into the building where, for a moment, they stood in darkness. Ben felt the water dripping from his clothes as he heard the man clattering around. Suddenly he squinted as the lights were switched on – two flickering strip bulbs on the ceiling that flooded the room with a harsh, unnatural brightness. It took several seconds for him to be able to open his eyes properly: when he did, he looked around to get his bearings.
They were in some sort of control room. Along the far wall, opposite the open door, there was a bank of instruments, dials and levers. There were also a couple of computer screens with keyboards, but these were switched off, and some swivel chairs. The chairs were not pushed neatly against the control panel, but instead were dotted around messily. It looked like whoever had last been in this room had left in a hurry. There were no windows; instead the walls were covered with complicated charts and m
easurements, which would have made Ben glaze over a bit even if he felt like looking at them.
He didn't feel like looking at them, though. And he didn't have the time, because at that precise moment he felt a sharp blow just behind his knees. His legs collapsed beneath him and he fell with a heavy thud to the ground. He was joined moments later by Angelo, who had just received the same treatment and who called out in pain as his knees cracked against the hard floor.
Their dripping wet clothes had already made a small puddle around them and briefly Ben caught sight of his own reflection in it. He looked terrible: exhausted and scared. Hardly surprising, he thought to himself. His reflection disappeared as the puddle wavered slightly. A rope suddenly appeared in front of him and he gasped as he felt it being tied tightly around his waist, then coiled several times more, despite the fact that he had started to struggle violently. The man behind him was breathing heavily as he gripped the rope firmly; he grunted with satisfaction when Ben had to catch his own breath as the rope was tightly tied. Ben's arms were immobile – there was no way he was going to get out of that.
Despite the fact that Angelo already had his arms tied behind his back he received the same treatment.
'Get to your feet,' the man instructed. Ben struggled up painfully, as did Angelo.
The man walked towards the control panel. 'Over here,' he said. The two boys followed him. Ben watched as he took the end of the rope that bound Angelo and tied it to the sturdy metal leg of the control bench. He then pushed Ben to the other end of the bench and tied him to another leg. He and Angelo were out of reach of each other and Ben could tell that he'd have had enough trouble untying the fiendish knots the man had made even if his hands were free; now they were tied behind his back, he'd have no chance.
The man took his rucksack from his back, placed it on the floor and bent down to get something from inside. 'What are you doing?' Ben asked, his nervous voice croaking; but the man didn't answer. Instead he pulled what looked like a small video camera from the bag and started tinkering with it. When he was satisfied that it was working, he turned to Angelo.
'I'm going to film you,' he said curtly. 'When I nod, you say your name for the camera, and that you are currently at the South Miami Oil Refinery.'
Angelo raised his bowed head and fixed the man with a look of hate. He curled his lip. 'And if I don't?' he demanded.
The man's eyes narrowed. He let the camera fall to his side, then approached Angelo with the gun. He held it to the Italian boy's head.
'You may be under the mistaken impression,' he whispered, 'that I'm the kind of person who likes to be messed with. That's not a mistake people make more than once. Understand?'
Terrified and trembling, Angelo nodded his head.
'Good,' the man continued. 'Now listen carefully. I'm not a very patient film director, so you only get one shot at this. No retakes.'
He stepped back a few paces, raised the camera again and pressed a button. A little red light appeared at the front as the man nodded at Angelo.
The Italian boy tried to speak, but his voice failed him at first. When he finally did manage to get the words out, they were weak and wavering. 'My name . . .' he stuttered. 'My name is Angelo Bandini.' He took a deep, trembling breath. 'I am in the middle of the South Miami Oil Refinery.' He stared, white-faced at the camera. 'Please don't kill me,' he begged quietly. 'Please don't kill me . . .'
But the man had already stopped recording and was stashing the camera back in his rucksack. Once it was stowed away, he turned his back on the two of them and made to leave. He strode towards the door and was just about to walk out when Ben shouted.
'Wait!'
The man stopped in his tracks. He paused, as though deciding whether to answer Ben's call or not, then slowly turned. He had one eyebrow raised, and he stared at Ben with a dead look in his face.
'What?'
Ben looked at him urgently. 'Think about what you're doing. Think about what it's going to mean. This isn't going to help the people on Danny's island – it's not going to do them any good at all!'
The man blinked at him, expressionlessly. Then his lip curled and he let out a small snort of laughter. 'Help them?' he demanded in his upper-class English accent. He looked back over his shoulder. 'Help him? You think I'm doing this because I want to help the inhabitants of some godforsaken place thousands of miles away? You must be stupider than you look.'
Ben ignored the insult. The lights flickered off and on again.
'Then why?' he whispered. 'Why are you doing this?'
The man smirked, then walked up to him. He put his face only inches from Ben's and spoke in a slow, clear voice. He sounded patronizing, as though he was explaining something to a particularly idiotic child. 'For money,' he rasped. 'I'm being very well paid. Now if you'll excuse me, I've a little more work to do.'
He stepped back and headed for the door once more.
'If it's money you want,' Angelo shouted at him, 'I can pay you. I'm rich. Just name your price.'
The man turned round and his eyes widened. 'Really?' he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. 'And I suppose you wouldn't even think about going back on your word once you're safely in Daddy's arms, would you?' He sneered. 'Don't be so stupid.'
'Stupid?' Ben demanded angrily. 'Who's the stupid one? How many people do you think you're about to kill?' Now the man looked annoyed, but Ben didn't care. 'There's me and Angelo,' he pressed. 'That's two. But then there's everyone else who'll die when the wind spreads the flames and the smoke. How much are their lives worth to you?'
The man didn't answer. Instead, he raised his gun and pointed it directly at Ben. 'You're a noisy kid,' he announced. 'Maybe I should just silence you right now.'
The threat hung between them for a few long seconds. Ben jutted out his chin defiantly. If this was the end, he wasn't going to give the man the satisfaction of having him beg for mercy.
Then, gradually, the man lowered the gun.
'No,' he whispered. 'I don't think so. I've gone to a lot of trouble to arrange this evening's little spectacular. It would be a dreadful shame if you weren't around to witness the fireworks.' He looked at his watch. 'Showtime,' he said, 'in about an hour. Unfortunately I won't be able to watch it as I have a prior appointment elsewhere – once I've found myself a decent vehicle in which to get out of here. But don't worry – the little remote detonator in my bag has a very long range. I'm sure everything will go with a bang.'
He furrowed his brow a little before continuing to speak, this time in a far less sarcastic voice. 'I really don't know who you are,' he addressed Ben directly, 'or how you got involved in all this. But you seem like the kind of lad who's happy to poke his nose into other people's business. Nobody likes a nosy kid, so I don't suppose you'll be terribly mourned.'
Ben looked at him defiantly. 'I've just been trying to help my friend,' he retorted. 'I don't suppose it's something you'd understand.'
A look of mock surprise crossed the man's face. 'A friend?' He sneered. 'Oh, how sweet.'
And with that, he turned for the final time. He switched off the light to the control room, plunging Ben and Angelo into darkness, before closing the door ominously behind him.
Think of Basheera, Danny! Think of what she'd say!
Ben's words echoed in Danny's head. He tried to get rid of that silent sound, but he couldn't. In a burst of anger he thumped his fist against the steering wheel as he tried to empty his mind.
Even with the weather, everything important was going according to plan. Why, then, did Danny feel so empty?
The lashing of the wind and the rain against the pick-up truck had taken him by surprise. It was difficult to manoeuvre the vehicle. Very difficult. Young Ben had done well. He was a strong boy. Brave too. The things he had done that day would have been hard for almost anyone, even if they'd had the guts to do them. Danny regretted having to leave Ben at the oil refinery. He regretted it deeply.
The pick-up truck trundled away from the centr
e of the refinery. The headlamps illuminated the sheeting rain and then, by the side of the road, the dead body of the refinery worker that they had seen on the way in. It looked just as gruesome now as it had then. More so, perhaps. Danny averted his eyes. He was not used to the sight of death. Strange, then, that he had woken up that morning expecting the day to bring his own death, as well as that of many others.
In his mind it had seemed noble and glorious. It had seemed like he was striking a blow for the oppressed. It seemed like the right thing to do. But now, as he crept away through the dreadful storms, leaving Ben and Angelo at the hands of the mercenary who was being paid a great deal of money to carry out the wishes of his people, he felt far from noble. Far from glorious. He felt like a sneak.
'Shut up,' he whispered to himself in his own language. These were harmful thoughts, creeping into his brain like the roots of a poisonous plant. He was being distracted from what he had set out to do that morning: to avenge his sister and bring the plight of his people to the attention of the world. He glanced left and right at the huge construction of pipes and machinery that surrounded him like the intestines of some great metal beast. When it exploded, it would be like a beacon, appearing on the television screens of people around the world and making them realize that the oil men could not continue to behave as they had been doing. That it would not be tolerated. And if Ben and Angelo had to be sacrificed to make that point, so be it . . .
Ben and Angelo.
As Danny approached the exit of the refinery, a picture filled his mind. It was of the two boys, tied up and frightened in the moments before the explosion. The image needled his confused mind and he thought of Ben's accusation: that Danny could not shoot him in cold blood. That he didn't have the stomach for it. That by doing things this way, he was pretending that he was not a murderer. Somewhere, deep inside, a little voice was telling him that this was true.
Think of Basheera, Danny! Think of what she'd say!