Twister (15 page)

Danny opened the door of the pick-up. 'Get out,' he told Ben curtly. Ben struggled from the truck, jumping over the terrified man, who was lying just by it, his hands on his head. He realized that Danny was now training the gun on him. 'He's awake,' he said shortly. 'Help him out of the back and take him to this guy's car.'

'I can't do anything with my hands tied,' Ben shouted.

Danny's eyes narrowed momentarily. 'Turn round,' he said. Ben did as he was told, and he felt his captor untying the knot that was binding him. It was an untold relief to have his hands free, but the sense of relief didn't last long because immediately Danny put the gun to his head. 'I mean what I say, Ben. Try anything and I'll shoot.' Danny was shouting, but that didn't stop his voice trembling slightly.

Ben cast him an ugly look but nodded his head in obedience. Then he walked round to the back of the truck. The doors were open and Angelo was sitting with his legs dangling out of the back. The Italian boy was a mess. His hands were tied behind his back just like Ben's had been and he had obviously been thrown around a lot when the pick-up crashed. His face was bruised and bleeding and he had a distant, pained look in his eyes. He looked up at Ben and it seemed to take a moment for him to realize who he was.

'Ben,' he croaked finally. '
Che succede?
What's going on? Why am I tied up?'

Ben took a deep breath before replying. 'It's Danny,' he said as quietly as he could while still being heard over the wind. 'He's, er . . . he's not quite who we thought he was.'

Angelo's face screwed up in concentration as he tried to process that piece of information. 'What do you mean?'

Ben chose his words carefully. 'You remember what Brad said? About there being a second terrorist on the plane? It's him.'

Angelo shook his head groggily. 'That doesn't make sense. Danny's been—'

He didn't finish, because suddenly Danny reappeared, holding the bearded man at gunpoint. 'Get in the truck,' he ordered his new hostage.

As the man climbed into the back of the crashed pick-up, Danny pulled Angelo out. The Italian's knees buckled, but he just about managed to stand as the doors of the pick-up were slammed shut and locked, trapping the bearded man inside. Then Danny waved the gun in Ben's direction once more. 'The car,' he shouted. 'Now.'

Ben took Angelo's arm and helped him walk, using his other arm to shield their faces. As they approached the vehicle, its headlights still glowing in the darkness, Ben saw it was another pick-up, though this time the rear of it was not covered with a canopy and was exposed to the elements. He directed Angelo round to the passenger side, opened the door and helped him in, all the while aware that Danny had his gun firmly pointed at his back.

Once Angelo was safely in the new truck, Ben started to climb in. As he did, however, he felt Danny's hand on his shoulder, pulling him back.

'Not you,' Danny instructed.

Ben turned round. Danny was still pointing the gun at him, but in his other hand he held the car keys up.

'I can't keep an eye on you both if I'm driving,' he instructed. 'You'll have to do it. Take the keys.'

'I don't know how to drive,' Ben lied.

Danny raised a disbelieving eyebrow. 'You can fly a plane, but you can't drive a car? I don't think so, Ben.' He nudged the gun against Ben's shoulder. 'Take the keys,' he repeated.

Ben looked around him. The wind was worse than ever and he really didn't know if he was going to be able to keep control of the truck. Still, it didn't look like he had much choice. Reluctantly, he took the keys from Danny's fist and walked round to the other side of the truck. He opened the door and climbed in.

By the time Ben was settled behind the wheel, Danny was sitting in the far-side passenger seat with Angelo, bruised and bleary and with his hands still tied behind his back, between them. Their captor had his body half twisted towards Ben; the shotgun, which he held firmly, stretched across Angelo's torso and was pointed directly at Ben. 'There are two rounds in here, Ben,' Danny reminded him. 'It only takes one to kill you.'

Again, the thought flashed through Ben's mind: if Danny was prepared to kill him, why hadn't he done so yet? Was he really up to it?

It wasn't a question, though, that he really wanted to put to the test. Nor did Danny give him the chance to do so.

'Drive,' he said curtly. 'Now.'

Controlling the truck was more difficult than Ben could have imagined.

It took several false starts before he got going and started to grow used to the feel of the pedals. Once they were moving, it felt for all the world as if there were people outside trying to knock the vehicle over. It was just the wind, of course, but no less scary for that. The rain had started up again – huge, pellet-like drops that slammed against the windscreen causing a flood of water that the windscreen wipers barely had a chance to scrape away. He felt as if he would be unable to keep the truck going in a straight line for any period of time, but somehow, with all his effort, he managed it.

They travelled the main highway into Florida City. None of the road lights were lit, and all the buildings they passed had also been plunged into darkness. Ben assumed the storm had caused some sort of power outage. The roads became busier and Ben found that sweat was dripping down his forehead as he concentrated on the road ahead. More than once he considered crashing the truck on purpose; but one look at the shotgun pointed in his direction soon put him off. It wouldn't take much for the loaded weapon to go off accidentally and the barrel was pointing straight at him. Occasionally Danny uttered a curt instruction, telling him which way to go. He seemed to know these streets well, and Ben really had no choice other than to do as his captor said.

They had been going for about ten minutes when, seemingly on an impulse, Danny switched the car radio on. A blank crackle came from the truck's speakers as he twisted the dialling knob to try and find a station. It took a while – clearly many of the stations were down because of the storm – but after a minute or so a voice, indistinct but just about understandable, came over the airwaves. Ben struggled to hear what the urgent voice was saying over the noise of the car engine and the storm outside.

'
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:

D
EVICES PRIMED
. I
NFORM 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.