Deacon pulled his arm away and stepped back, looking at the scientist with renewed respect. ‘Make sure he doesn’t step out of line again or I’ll kill ’im.’ Deacon picked his pack off the floor and went to the door.
‘Where to?’ Binning asked, picking up the G43.
‘A lifeboat. I’ll tell the team to close in.’
‘Let’s put all this behind us, Jordan,’ Binning said, helping the former SBS man to the door. ‘Think about the money you’ll have to spend in just a few days.’
Outside it wasn’t just the storm that was waiting for them.
12
‘All call signs to the crane,’ Deacon shouted into his radio. ‘All call signs to the crane immediately!’
The wind howled over the metal deck as the three men walked across it. The energy of the storm hadn’t dissipated since it had reached its peak a few hours earlier and as they moved into the light falling from the deck above everything seemed to be coming loose. Spotlights shuddered in their housings and rattled on the ends of poles. The dead worker’s corpse swung from the crane’s hook in the gale.
Deacon stopped beside the crane to look down at a lifeboat in its cradle suspended over the side of the deck below. ‘We’ll take that one,’ he said. He glanced across to the stairs that led up from the accommodation block. ‘Where are those blokes? You’d think they’d be ’ere like a shot.’
‘Nobody move.’ The voice came from the darkness.
Jordan and Binning recognised it instantly and Deacon did not take long to guess who was speaking.
‘Let’s have a show of hands. I have a light trigger finger.’
Binning released the G43 bag, letting it hang from his shoulder, and put up both hands. The other two men held their hands away from their bodies, palms out.
Stratton stepped from the shadows, the muzzle end of his SMG leading the way. He positioned himself where he could see each of them, his back to the rails. ‘Why do I get a bad feeling about this picture? You don’t look or sound much like a prisoner, Jordan. Nor you, Binning.’ Stratton looked at the third man. ‘How many of you are there?’ he asked.
Jordan stuck his chin up stiffly, trying to be assertive despite his feeling of extreme guilt. ‘There’s six more guns out there.’
Stratton wondered if they knew about the Somali or the other four he’d killed. If not, that meant only one armed man was still at large. One was enough to kill him, though. He put the thought to one side, comfortable for the time being with his back close to the rails. He needed some back-up. Flown onto the platform. That would mean he’d have to be able to contact ops. He was going to have to secure these three, and that might not be simple. ‘Do you want to tell me what’s going on?’
Jordan glanced at the others, wondering what they were planning, knowing that the ticking-bomb countdown would provoke an act of desperation sooner or later. ‘We don’t have time for talk right now.’
‘Why’s that?’ Stratton asked, sensing a tension in all three.
A figure appeared, hurrying across the deck towards them.
‘This place could get pretty crowded soon,’ Deacon said, his tone cocky.
‘Not with your people,’ said Stratton, shrinking back into the shadows.
Deacon’s smile faded. He wondered exactly what the man meant.
‘I don’t advise anyone to try and take advantage of any distractions. I don’t need to bring any of you in alive. That goes for you too, Jordan.’
‘Boss,’ Banzi called out, unable to make out the individuals in the poor light. ‘Something’s wrong,’ he said as he got to them, his assault rifle gripped firmly in his hands. ‘I saw Viking and the Bulgarian on the floor. I’m sure they were dead. I think the workers have weapons. They must have the other two inside the galley.’
Banzi realised something else was wrong when Deacon and the others remained still.
‘Put the gun down,’ Stratton ordered. His own was pointed at the Japanese man.
Banzi turned to look at the figure emerging from the shadows.
‘Put it down,’ Stratton repeated.
Banzi crouched, lowered his gun to the deck and held out his hands as he stood upright again.
‘You were saying,’ Stratton said to Jordan.
Jordan was about to answer when two more figures moved across the deck, walking stealthily, flitting between the light and shadows.
Stratton started to shrink back once again, wondering if it was more hijackers or perhaps even workers. He suddenly recognised Rowena and then Jason. ‘Over here,’ he called out.
The pair recognised Stratton’s voice and made their way towards the group.
‘Don’t get too close,’ Stratton warned. ‘They’re still armed.’
‘Binning?’ Rowena exclaimed on seeing her fellow scientist with his hands out. ‘I thought something had happened to you.’
‘I don’t think Binning’s on our side any more,’ Stratton said.
Rowena noticed the G43 container hanging from his shoulder.
Jason stared at Binning in disbelief.
‘Sorry, Jason,’ Binning said. ‘I meant to tell you I was leaving but I didn’t have the chance.’
‘What is this, Jordan? More than just a hijacking?’ Stratton asked.
Jordan couldn’t see the sense in keeping quiet now. As far as he was concerned, the game was up. ‘A lot more. The platform was just a front.’
‘That’s disappointing. I came all the way here just for you, old friend.’
Jordan’s feeling of guilt deepened further.
Stratton looked over at Deacon. ‘Who’s your mate?’ he asked Jordan.
‘Ex-regiment. I never met him before. He took the platform.’
Stratton kept the muzzle of his weapon trained on Deacon, sensing that he was the most dangerous. ‘And you, Binning?’
Binning became his usual light-hearted self. ‘Unlike your friend here, I don’t think this is the time to start revealing facts and admitting guilt. There’s more of this game left to play, just in case you happen to think it’s all over because you currently have the upper hand. As your friend keeps trying to warn you, we don’t have a great deal of time. You should think about taking him seriously.’
Stratton was not about to be manipulated. ‘Before we do anything else I want you all to get down on the deck . . . on your bellies.’
‘You’re not listening,’ Jordan pleaded. ‘We don’t have time for that.’
Stratton took his old friend seriously. ‘Why not?’
‘Charges have been critically placed. We’ve just enough time to get to the lifeboats. I’m serious,’ Jordan assured him, seeing the doubt in Stratton’s face. ‘I was never in agreement with that part of the plan but it’s done—’
‘Don’t be such a wuss,’ Deacon interrupted.
‘Explain the explosives,’ Stratton commanded Deacon.
The man shrugged. ‘Like he said. And there’s an anti-lift built into both dets that’ll take you longer than you ’ave just to find ’em.’
‘He has the initiator,’ Jordan said.
‘I ’ave to say, Jordan, I’ve lost all respect for you.’
Stratton levelled his SMG at the former SAS man. ‘Give me the initiator.’
Deacon shook his head. ‘I start a job, I finish it.’
‘I’ll kill you in five seconds if you don’t hand it to me and then he’ll search you for it,’ Stratton said, indicating Jason. He raised the business end of the SMG.
Deacon knew that a round leaving the gun’s barrel would strike his head. And he had no doubt that Stratton was about to pull the trigger. ‘It’s in my pack.’
Stratton didn’t move.
Deacon reached into the bag and removed the safe-box that had contained his secret instructions. ‘It’s in here,’ he said, a smirk on his lips. He tossed the box to Jordan who caught it. ‘I’ll let the rat give it to you.’
Binning was the first to take advantage of the distraction by suddenly grabbing Rowena, pulling her in front of him and drawing his pistol. He held its muzzle to the back of her head. ‘That’s enough,’ he said, stepping backwards, putting distance between himself and Stratton’s lethal SMG. ‘I don’t have time to play these games any more. I’m going to walk down to one of the lifeboats. If anyone tries to stop me I’ll kill her. Please don’t doubt me. Time is running out.’
‘Stand still,’ Stratton said coldly. The confidence of his tone checked Binning. ‘Take one more step and I’ll shoot. You won’t make it to the boat whether you kill her or not,’ Stratton said. With finality.
Whatever Binning thought about Stratton he suddenly had no doubts that the man would kill him. He couldn’t let go of Rowena but neither could he take another step towards the lifeboats.
‘What’s the number?’ Jordan asked Deacon.
‘Could take you a while to open that without it,’ Deacon chuckled.
‘I’m going to start shooting in three seconds,’ Stratton growled.
‘One, two, three, four, then the open button,’ Deacon said quickly. ‘I don’t have a memory for complicated numbers.’
Jordan punched in the first number on the digital keyboard.
Deacon watched. He took a quick glance at Stratton, who was watching him, jaw tight and finger on the trigger. If Deacon moved he knew the SBS man would shoot him.
Binning held Rowena tightly to him, desperately wondering how to get out of this situation. Freedom was only metres away but Stratton would kill him and maybe Rowena if he moved, he was sure of it.
Deacon’s stare flicked back to Jordan. There was less explosive in the box than in a hand grenade and since it was made of toughened plastic, which the heat would soften, there would be less lethal shrapnel. But the blast would be enough to injure all of them, perhaps seriously. Jordan would die, of course. All Deacon had to do was survive it, get the upper hand and escape. There was time.
Jordan touched the number three on the pad. Deacon tensed himself for four.
Jason was watching Jordan but a glance at Deacon suddenly warned him of something. The way the man’s stare bored into Jordan’s fingers, his body trying to lean away.
Jordan had pressed the four button. Only ‘open’ to go now. Deacon was trembling with the urge to dive away. If he did so too soon Jordan could stop, and Stratton would shoot him.
The operative saw the change in Deacon, the tension in his expression and the way he was leaning backwards. He didn’t know whether to shoot him or shout at Jordan to stop. Either alternative would have been too late to save Jordan.
As Jordan’s finger hit the final button Deacon launched himself backwards. Stratton crouched instinctively and tightened his finger on the trigger. The explosion lifted each of them away from Jordan, a wall of heat sending them reeling across the deck.
Jason came to crumpled against a piece of machinery, his head spinning, unsure of where in the world he was. All he knew was that he was in a dangerous place. He fought to pull his thoughts together. The seconds before the blast came back to him and he pushed himself up onto his hands. He realised that he couldn’t see out of one eye and in a fit of panic he felt for it, expecting to find that he had lost it. The skin was sticky but the eyeball felt like it was there. He wiped it and blinked furiously. He realised blood was flowing from a cut across his forehead.
Jordan lay still, his smouldering upper body cruelly distorted by the blast. It had taken off both his arms and removed his face completely. Against the rails Stratton heaved in lungfuls of air and tried to bring his knees beneath him, to get up. Deacon was on all fours, shaking his head like a deranged drunk. The Japanese mercenary lay planted across a tool bench and, although dazed, his face peppered in bloody cuts, he was stretching an arm towards his weapon that was a foot away.
Jason could see no sign of Binning and Rowena. He got shakily to his feet and saw the Japanese man going for the weapon. If either thug regained control of the situation it would not be ideal.
Jason aimed himself at the man, put a foot on the weapon as Banzi took hold of the barrel to pull it closer, then dropped onto him. The mercenary was no slouch when it came to self-defence and with a lift of his knee somersaulted Jason over him and onto his back. Banzi got to his knees and picked up the weapon but Jason kicked him in the face from where he lay and sent the mercenary rolling.
Both men scrambled for the gun, both grabbing it at the same time, and a fierce battle for its control ensued.
Stratton had absorbed a heavy impact from the explosion. His vision was askew and he fought to control it. Oddly the blast brought back memories of other explosions that he had survived. In a strange way the memories helped him. He knew it had only been seconds since the detonation and that he had to get to his feet. If he did not gain control of himself, someone else might. He became aware of two men slamming into a piece of nearby machinery, fighting over possession of a rifle. As the rain pelted his face he saw a man on his knees a few metres away reaching for a backpack on the soaked metal deck, his hand rooting inside it. Deacon. Stratton had to get to him before he got what he wanted out of the pack.
The operative put all his weight onto his toes and hands and shoved off like a sprinter. He managed to stay on track after tottering slightly and barrelled into his target, hurting himself in the process but sending the man reeling. The pistol that Deacon had in his hand clattered along the gridded floor and dropped through a gap to the deck below.
Stratton pressed home the attack with little ambition beyond smothering his adversary and controlling him. But Deacon had taken less of the blast. He flipped over and swung a punch that connected with Stratton’s face. Stratton held him like a boxer hanging on to an opponent to gain breathing space. But the man fought feverishly, raining blow after blow onto Stratton and, finally freeing himself, rolled away to the top of a stairway and scrambled down the steps.
Despite the blows, Stratton could feel his senses returning, perhaps due to a combination of the cold rain and the adrenalin shooting through him. He grabbed a rail and pulled himself to his feet at the top of the steps.