Twister cr-5

by Chris Ryan

  'This is an emergency broadcast. All residents of southern Florida who have not yet evacuated the area are now advised to take refuge in low-rise buildings. Repeat, all residents of southern Florida who have not yet evacuated the area are advised to seek shelter in buildings of less than two storeys. This is an extreme storm warning. Hurricane Jasmine has made landfall. The National Hurricane Centre has labelled this a Category 5 hurricane. Wind speeds are in excess of 160 miles per hour and a state of emergency has been declared. In addition, Hurricane Jasmine has spawned a severe tornado, category F3, currently approaching the south-eastern Florida area. It is fast-moving and extremely destructive. A tornado of this severity has the ability to tear the roofs off buildings, which is why we advise remaining in low-rise shelters. The storms are predicted to last another twelve hours. Updates will continue to be broadcast on this frequency.'

  There was a pause, and then the broadcast started to repeat itself.

  'You hear that?' Ben shouted accusingly at Danny. 'A tornado. This is madness, Danny. It can't happen.'

  'Just keep driving,' Danny instructed. 'Turn right here. The road will take you out of Florida City and towards the refinery.'

  His words were uncompromising, but the tone of his voice wasn't. He sounded unsure of himself. Unsettled. This was not, Ben sensed, going the way he thought it would. Maybe now was the time to act, to jump on Danny's insecurity. Ben started to speak, but he was interrupted by Angelo. Until now, the Italian boy had simply sat there in shocked silence, gazing expressionlessly out of the window. When he spoke, though, it was with a sudden passion. 'Does anybody want to tell me what's going on here?'

  Ben shot a glance over at Danny and imperceptibly shook his head. The truth, he knew, was too much for Angelo to handle at the moment. If Ben was going to do anything to stop Danny, the last thing he needed was his Italian friend panicking. Much better for him to give his own version of the events to come.

  'Danny's got a little plan,' he shouted without taking his eyes from the road. 'He still wants to make your father's oil refinery go bang. The fact that we managed to stop the plane from doing it hasn't really put him off.'

  Angelo looked aghast at Danny. 'Non capisco,' he breathed. 'I don't understand why you would do such a thing.'

  Danny's lip curled. 'Weren't you listening on the plane?' Then he shook his head, as though the question he had asked was a stupid one. 'Of course you don't understand,' he muttered. 'Nobody understands. What is the phrase you people have? Out of sight, out of mind. The island of my people is a long way from here. Why would you care what happens there?'

  'You might find we care more than you think, Danny,' Ben yelled. 'Angelo, the little girl who died. It was Danny's sister.'

  Angelo's eyes widened. He seemed lost for words.

  'You know, Danny,' Ben continued, 'Angelo isn't his father. I think we can safely say he's as shocked as anyone else by what we've all learned today. You're right — your sister shouldn't have died. But this isn't the way to deal with it. It's not going to bring her back.'

  'Shut up!' Danny screamed. 'Just shut up!'

  A silence.

  And then, as if he could not hold back the flood of emotions, 'I know it will not bring her back. That is not the purpose of what we are doing.'

  'Then what is?' Ben demanded. 'Just what is the purpose, Danny?'

  'To make the world understand that we cannot be treated like this. That there are more important things than your precious oil. And, yes, revenge. To make Angelo's father feel the pain that my own parents are suffering.'

  Ben swerved the truck sharply to avoid something that was hurtling along the road towards them. As he straightened up again, Angelo spoke. 'So you mean to kill me,' he asked quietly. 'That is why you are taking me to the refinery.'

  Danny nodded curtly, and Ben noticed that he avoided Angelo's eye. He took a deep breath, worried about what Angelo's reaction to this new information would be. Angelo, however, seemed to be taking it calmly. He nodded his head, as though accepting something he could not change. 'My father was always worried that something like this would happen,' he announced. 'I guess he always knew that his business interests harmed lots of people.' He turned to Danny and gave him a hard stare. 'But you don't know him,' he said. 'This will not stop him. It will just make him angry. It will be like the opening shot of a war — a war you cannot win.'

  Danny scowled. 'Quiet,' he ordered. He shook the barrel of the gun at Ben who, as Angelo had been speaking, had gradually slowed the truck down. 'Keep driving,' he said. 'Faster.'

  As Ben put his foot on the accelerator, there was a sound inside the truck — five short beeps, like an alarm clock going off. Ben took his eye off the road momentarily to see what it was: there was nothing on the dashboard and for a second he was perplexed. To his astonishment, however, he saw Danny start to unbutton his shirt with his free hand. Strapped to his chest was a leather pouch: when the beeping repeated itself, it was clear that this was where it was coming from. Danny opened the pouch and removed a small plastic case, which he opened. He pulled out what looked like a mobile phone, only bigger and slightly thicker. It beeped for a third time.

  Ben snapped his attention back to the road. But at the same time he wondered how the little device could have survived Danny's spell in the water. The plastic case must have been waterproof, he decided. 'What's that?' he demanded.

  'A telephone.'

  'It won't work,' Ben said. 'We tried, remember? The phone lines are down.'

  'It's a satellite phone,' Danny replied as he used the device's small keyboard to type a message with one hand, all the while keeping his gun firmly trained on Ben.

  'You mean you had that all the time we were stranded in the Everglades?' Angelo asked acidly. He received no reply from Danny, who just continued to type his message. When he had finished, he carefully packaged the phone up, first into its plastic case and then back into its carrying pouch.

  'We're not far,' he announced. 'We should see the refinery up ahead any time soon.'

  And with that the three of them fell into a deep, uncomfortable silence.

  It was the final explosive device that had given him trouble.

  He was soaked now from the constant rain, but that was all right: everything had gone perfectly up until then. The first four devices were firmly attached to their targets, and as the refinery was deserted he hadn't come across anyone to hinder him in his plans. It was as he was climbing the ladder to the final tower, however, that the winds knocked him off. Even as he fell he cursed himself for not holding on more tightly, but with the bomb in one hand, climbing the ladder was always going to be a difficult business.

  He fell about five metres. Well-trained, he managed to land in such a way that, while it certainly hurt, it didn't cause any serious injury. But it was with a sick feeling, however, that — just before he hit the ground — he realized he had let go of the bomb. The moment he was on the ground he closed his eyes, then covered his head with his hands.

  As if that's going to do any good, he told himself. If the device accidentally detonated that close to him, he'd be a goner; and if it ignited any part of the refinery, he'd make Guy Fawkes look like a snowman.

  He held his breath.

  Nothing. Just the constant screaming of the winds. For the first time that day the storm began to rile the mercenary. It wasn't like him — normally he was so cool, so calm. But when would the storm be over? He didn't much relish having to escape from the area of the refinery under these conditions.

  He looked up. The device was lying a few metres away. The plastic explosive had come away from the fuse and was lying in the rain, harmless for now. He pushed himself up to his feet and retrieved the two parts of the device, carefully drying the prongs of the fuse before reinserting them into the C-4. Then he looked up at the tower again, a determined look on his rain-soaked face. He wasn't going to let the wind get the better of him a second time, and without any further hesitation, he strode up to the ladder and
started to climb again.

  The rungs were slippery, and the wind was as strong as ever. But he held fast and within a minute the device had been attached. With a sense of relief — and with both hands now available to cling onto the ladder — he descended.

  Job done.

  He looked around for a place of shelter. Over at the other side of the tower there was an articulated lorry. He ran towards it, opened the passenger door and climbed into the dry cab. His clothes were soaked and the vehicle was being buffeted alarmingly by the winds; even so, it felt good to be out of the elements for a little while. He opened his bag and pulled out the small plastic case holding his satellite communicator. Switching it on, he started typing a message:

  DEVICES PRIMED. INFORM ME OF YOUR STATUS.

  He sent the message and then waited.

  As he sat there, the mercenary considered the events of the past few hours. He had been informed that the plane containing his employer's targets had been infiltrated and had kept tabs on the progress of the aircraft using his surveillance systems. When the flight had disappeared from his screens, he assumed that the plane had gone down. But his employers wanted the refinery to be blown up with or without the boy in it, so he had gone ahead with his business. None of them could have predicted these storms, but he wasn't going to let that get in the way of a pay day.

  He was a methodical man. Painstaking. He left nothing to chance. He had seen the plane disappear from his surveillance screen, but he had not yet received any confirmation that it had crashed. That was why he was sending his message. He would give the man calling himself Danny five minutes to respond. If not, he would have to assume he was dead. The mercenary would not mourn him — he'd just carry on with his job regardless.

  He sat in silence, listening to the wind outside and imagining how he was going to spend his money when all this was over.

  And then his satellite communicator beeped.

  The mercenary's eyes widened. He hadn't expected this. He hadn't expected it at all. For all his Western ways, he had Danny down as a savage, a refugee from some distant land he had neither heard of nor cared about. How he had managed to survive a plane crash like that was beyond him. He looked down at the screen of the communicator.

  EXPECT US WITHIN HALF AN HOUR. ITALIAN BOY IS INTACT. THERE IS ONE OTHER HOSTAGE. ADVISE RENDEZVOUS POINT.

  The mercenary shook his head in disbelief. There was more to this guy than he imagined. He had fully expected to leave the refinery without the inconvenience of having to deal with his hostage. But now there was not one hostage, but two. He narrowed his eyes and sat there for a good few minutes while he collected his thoughts and constructed a plan. Finally he typed another message.

  TAKE MAIN ROAD INTO REFINERY. THE SITE IS DESERTED BUT DO NOT LET YOUR GUARD DOWN. DON'T LOOK FOR ME — I WILL FIND YOU.

  He sent the message and closed the communicator. It seemed like this was going to be more complicated than he thought. But that was OK. He could deal with it. The devices were ready — all he had to do was take delivery of the hostages, make sure they couldn't escape and then put enough distance between himself and the explosion to ensure that he wouldn't be harmed by the scenes of absolute devastation that would most surely follow.

  Ben, Angelo and Danny were well outside Florida City now. The roads had once again become deserted. All was dark thanks to the power outages, the wind was slamming blindingly against the windscreen and Ben's tired arms were hurting from the effort of keeping the car on the road. He was desperate to stop, but he knew Danny wouldn't have it: the shotgun pointed directly at him made that perfectly clear.

  Suddenly, however, there was a gust of wind that blew him completely off course. He slammed the brakes on to stop the truck veering into the side of the road that was shrouded in darkness. The vehicle skidded and turned a quarter circle on the wet road, coming to a sudden stop.

  'What are you doing?' Danny yelled. His voice was a strange mixture of fury and panic. 'Keep driving.'

  'I'm trying to stop us crashing, OK?' Ben shouted out. 'The winds are too strong — can't you feel what they're doing to the truck?'

  It was a fair enough point. The vehicle was rocking from side to side.

  'Anyway,' Ben continued, 'it's hard work driving this thing. My arms are in agony. I need a rest, otherwise we're not going to make it.'

  Ben was just trying to buy time, and Danny could obviously tell. He looked at Ben suspiciously, and Ben fully expected him to force him to keep driving. But for some reason he didn't.

  'You've got two minutes,' he said curtly. 'Then we carry on.'

  Ben nodded grimly, then edged the truck to the side of the road. When the vehicle came to a halt again, there was an awkward silence. Ben tried to clear his mind. There was no way he and Angelo could fight their way out of this situation — not while Danny had a fully loaded shotgun. All he could do was try and talk their captor round, to appeal to a better nature that he was sure lurked somewhere under the surface.

  Angelo had clearly come to the same conclusion, because it was he who broke the silence.

  'I can speak to my father,' he announced, his voice frightened, desperate — yet somehow determined. 'He will listen to me. I can get him to make amends.'

  Danny sneered. 'Unless he can bring people back from the dead, there are no amends your father can possibly make.'

  Angelo looked down at his lap, crestfallen.

  Ben breathed deeply. He was only going to get one shot at this, and now was the time. 'Tell me, Danny,' he asked. 'How come your English is so good?'

  Danny looked confused by the question, but he answered it anyway. 'I have lived and worked in America for many years, always sending money back to my family. I have always longed to return, but I will do anything to make sure that they are well.'

  Ben nodded with satisfaction. 'Years?' he repeated. 'I suppose, over that time, you've met quite a lot of people.'

  Danny shrugged. 'Some.'

  'Ordinary people. People with children.'

  Danny didn't reply.

  'They're the people you're going to harm, Danny, if you go through with this. You know that, don't you?'

  Again, Danny kept silent.

  'If that oil refinery blows, Danny,' he persisted, 'who knows how many people will die? The winds will make the fire spread. Perhaps even worse, they will spread the smoke. Smoke kills people. They may not die today, or even tomorrow, but it will kill them, Danny. Just ordinary families. Families with children.'

  He paused.

  'Children, Danny. Like your sister.'

  Danny was breathing deeply now, and his breath was shaking as though he was trying to keep control over some pent-up emotion. He's got doubts, Ben thought to himself. He doesn't know if he can go through with it.

  A particularly fierce gust hit the truck. They jolted in their seats and Ben waited for it to pass before he continued.

  'You can stop this happening, Danny. You're the only one in the world who can stop it from happening. Think of the lives you could save.'

  Another pause. Danny's face was stony-still.

  'It's in your hands, Danny. It's all in your hands.'

  Both Ben and Angelo were staring intently at their captor now, and he seemed unwilling to catch their eye. For a few brief seconds, Ben was deaf to the sound of the winds and the rain outside. Adrenaline pumped through him as he waited for Danny to speak.

  But Danny didn't speak. Not yet. Instead, his communicator beeped. It sounded unnaturally loud as it punctured the silence in the car. Danny fumbled for the device and, without changing his blank expression, read the message that had just come through.

  He gazed at it, and his breathing remained heavy.

  'Think of the lives you could save, Danny,' Ben repeated hoarsely.

  And then, slowly, Danny turned to look at him. His face was set, and he fixed Ben with a determined steely expression.

  'Drive,' he said. 'Drive now. If you say another word, I'll shoot you.'

&n
bsp; Chapter Fifteen

  Russell Tracey couldn't sleep.

  The grey light of morning was beginning to come to Macclesfield. He rolled over in bed and looked at the digital clock on the table next to him. 4.03 a.m. He sighed. There was no way he was going to nod off now. His wife, Bel, lay beside him. Ex-wife, actually, but since Russell's brush with death in the Congo, they'd been making a go of things. For Ben's sake, they had said at first; but as time passed they had realized it was for their sake as well.

  Ben. The thought of his son brought a faint smile to Russell's face. He'd be home in a couple of days, and they were both looking forward to him coming back. Neither of them slept well when he wasn't under their roof. He was an independent lad, though, who had proved enough times that he was able to look after himself. They had to allow him his freedom, allow him to spread his wings bit by bit. The holiday with Alec in Grand Cayman was a good way of doing that.

  4.04 a.m. Sleep seemed like only a distant possibility now. Quietly, so as not to disturb his slumbering wife, he climbed out of bed, put on his dressing gown and slippers and padded downstairs.

  Russell liked the early morning. He liked the stillness. The dawn chorus was just beginning, and looking out of the kitchen window he felt like he had the world to himself. Leisurely, he set about making a cup of tea; as the kettle boiled he switched on the radio.

  At first he winced. It sounded like there was some kind of interference in the background and the urgent shouting of the World Service correspondent grated against his ears. He nearly switched off, but then he realized that it wasn't interference he was hearing, it was wind and rain; and what the correspondent had to say grabbed his attention and made his eyes widen.

  'Meteorological experts are calling this the worst storm since records began. Wind speeds of up to 200 miles per hour have been recorded and we've had unconfirmed reports that an aircraft originating from Grand Cayman and bound for Miami has disappeared from air traffic screens. The intensity of the hurricane has made it impossible for search and rescue teams to approach the area.'