by Ryan, Chris
‘Slow down,’ Raf said, his voice suddenly very calm. ‘When we get there, let me do the talking.’
The driver’s hands were shaking even as he held the wheel. He slammed his foot on the brake and the car skidded to a halt just metres in front of the barrier.
Silence. Two East Side Boys swaggered up to the driver’s window, clutching their weapons. The remaining two stood by the barrier, their eyes narrow with suspicion.
The driver lowered his window. At a command from one of the sour-faced East Side Boys, he then opened the door and stepped outside. Suddenly he started babbling, his words tripping over each other. Neither Raf nor Gabs could understand the dialect, but they certainly understood its meaning. The driver started pointing at them, and rubbing his fingers to indicate a wad of money.
‘He’s turning us in!’ Raf hissed.
In an instant, he and Gabs had opened both passenger doors and were lunging out of the car.
But too late. The East Side Boys had spotted them. They raised their weapons and started screaming: ‘HANDS AGAINST THE CAR! HANDS AGAINST THE CAR!’
Raf and Gabs looked all around, desperately trying to spot an exit strategy. But there was no cover nearby. If they ran, the East Side Boys would shoot. They had no option but to do as they were told.
As Raf put his palms against the burning metal of the beige VW, he glanced at his watch.
11.47hrs. Thirteen minutes to go.
They were never going to get to the hotel.
It was going to be a bloodbath.
22
SPITFIRE
The road to Banjul Airport was in the opposite direction to the city itself. It did not pass through the town of Serrekunda. But it did pass some tiny, poor-looking shanties on either side. Zak observed families milling nervously around huts with corrugated-iron roofs. Occasionally he caught sight of frightened children crying.
Cruz might have disabled the communications systems for the entire area, but it was clear that word was travelling the old-fashioned way that all was not well in Banjul. He gritted his teeth and looked straight ahead.
As they approached the airport, Zak saw several military trucks. They were parked up by the side of the road and their occupants stood next to them, arguing. They clearly had no idea quite what was going on, or what to do.
He looked at his watch. 11.48hrs. Twelve minutes to go. An icy feeling trickled down his spine. ‘Can you go any faster?’ he asked the driver.
The driver gave him a dark look in the rear-view mirror, but Zak felt a lurch and saw their speed edge up from fifty kilometres per hour to sixty.
The car itself was disgusting. Empty drinks cans were littered all over the place, and the driver had left various musty-smelling items of clothing in the back seat. Zak was sure he felt something scurrying around his feet – cockroaches, maybe. He tried to put his mind off it by peering through the front window. He saw four planes spiralling above the airport and he had a sudden flashback: Raf’s Cessna spluttering above the jungle, and the dreadful noise it made as it crash-landed. These spiralling aircraft had limited fuel. They couldn’t spiral for ever. And if they came crashing down to earth, they’d make a much bigger noise than the Cessna had.
And cause a lot more death and devastation.
‘There!’ he said out loud. From his left-hand window he could see, about 500 metres away, a concrete tower. It had a cluster of radar dishes and aerials sprouting from the top and was surrounded by a wire perimeter fence. The entrance gate in the fence was 100 metres to his ten o’clock. ‘Drop me here,’ he said.
The driver screeched to a halt and looked over his shoulder at Zak. ‘What? Why? The airport terminal is this way, crazy English boy.’
Zak ignored him. He looked round the back seat and picked up a brightly embroidered but rather dirty hooded top. ‘I’ll buy this,’ he said. Without waiting for an answer, he added another hundred-dollar bill to the wad he already had in his fist and thrust it at the driver. The driver accepted the money with a look on his face that clearly said: this kid is mad.
Zak pulled on the hooded top. It stank of stale sweat, but he ignored that and pulled the hood over his head, nodded at the driver, and left the car. He didn’t watch the driver zoom off – just heard the screech of his tyres as he put some distance between himself and the crazy English boy.
Zak didn’t hesitate. With his head down and his face concealed by the hood, he strode towards the perimeter fence.
He glanced at his watch. 11.51hrs.
Nine minutes to go.
With his hands up against the car, Raf felt the barrel of a gun at the back of his head.
‘What’s the hurry, my friend?’ said the rasping voice of the gunman.
‘Lunch date,’ Raf said from between clenched teeth. ‘Old friend. You know how it is.’
‘Raf!’ Gabs hissed quietly. She was standing immediately next to him on the right, but none of the other gunmen seemed to think she was a threat, so she wasn’t at gunpoint. ‘Don’t antagonize him.’
But the gunman didn’t sound antagonized. He laughed a mirthless laugh and jabbed the gun harder into the back of Raf’s head.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ Gabs sighed.
She moved so fast that even Raf was surprised. Her left hand shot out and grabbed the barrel of the boy’s gun, yanking it upwards so that now it pointed above Raf’s head.
A shot rang out. The bullet fired harmlessly into the sky and Gabs yanked her arm round, twisting the gun so that now it was positioned across the East Side Boy’s body. She thrust it upwards with colossal force and there was a massive crack as it hit the underside of the gunman’s chin. The boy’s eyes glazed over. As he slumped into Gabs’s arms, she spun him ninety degrees and took charge of the weapon that was still slung round his neck. She fired a burst of rounds at the feet of the remaining East Side Boys. They shouted in alarm as the bullets thundered into the road surface, throwing chunks of stone up into the air.
Then they ran.
The driver had watched all this happening with bulging eyes. He staggered backwards. Then, at a fierce look from Raf, he turned and ran too. He didn’t get far. Raf ran after him and grabbed him by the arm. ‘You’re coming with us,’ he said. ‘We need directions.’ He dragged the man over to the waiting car and bundled him into the back, before taking his place behind the wheel.
Gabs let the gunman slump to the ground. She helped herself to his gun. Then, following Raf’s lead, she jumped into the back of the car. Raf pressed his foot down on the accelerator and the car screeched forward.
‘This way?’ she asked the terrified man cowering next to her.
He nodded violently, unable to take his eyes off the weapon.
‘What time is it?’ Raf shouted at Gabs.
She checked her watch. ‘11.54 hours,’ she said. A pause. ‘The bombs go off in six minutes. We’re not going to make it, are we?’
Raf stared straight ahead. ‘Maybe we can help with the wounded,’ he growled.
‘If there are any,’ said Gabs quietly.
Zak sweated heavily under the thick hood. He kept his head down but his eyes up as he approached the concrete communications tower.
There was a black Range Rover parked ten metres from the foot of the tower. To its right there was a dead body lying on the ground. But the area was otherwise deserted. He knew from Malcolm’s message that he was being held at gunpoint by two armed guards. But Zak himself was unarmed. He couldn’t just walk in there. He needed to draw the East Side Boys out.
He headed straight for the Range Rover. The keys were still hanging in the ignition. He silently thanked his Guardian Angels for all the driving instruction they’d given him back on the island, then jumped behind the wheel and turned the engine over. Before knocking it into gear, he revved the accelerator several times. The engine screamed loudly – loud enough, he reckoned, for it to be heard inside the tower. Then, with one eye in the rear-view mirror, he started to drive off.
He t
ook it slowly at first. He didn’t think it would take long for the East Side Boys to come running out of the tower to confront the hooded figure who had just stolen their vehicle.
He was right.
Zak was barely twenty metres away from the tower when they appeared. They both burst out of the door and although he couldn’t hear them, he could see that they were shouting.
He could also see that they were raising their guns.
In a flash, he leaned over so his head was almost lying in the passenger seat. Just in time. Two shots rang out, and there was a sudden, splintering sound as the rear windscreen shattered violently. Unable to see where he was going, Zak yanked the steering wheel down sharply to one side and pressed hard on the accelerator. The vehicle spun round, its engine screaming because he was still in a low gear. He heard two more shots, but there was no impact: the East Side Boys had missed the Range Rover this time.
A voice entered his head. It belonged to Michael, his handler. Zak remembered word for word what Michael had said to him in the Cessna as they were flying towards Senegal.
If a Spitfire pilot got hit by an enemy plane – a Messerschmitt or similar – his best bet was always to fly directly at the oncoming aircraft. That way, the enemy craft would be too busy trying to avoid a collision to spend time aiming accurately at the Spitfire.
Zak sat up straight again. He knocked the car into a higher gear, but kept the turning circle tight. Now he was pointing directly at the tower. He could see the two gunmen clearly. They stood about three metres apart on either side of the door. Although their guns were raised, they looked uncertain, and glanced anxiously at each other.
Zak continued to accelerate. He was no more than fifty metres from the tower now, and was heading directly at the entrance.
One of the boys fired a shot. It pinged off the chassis of the Range Rover. Zak kept his trajectory straight.
Thirty metres.
Twenty.
He could see the boys’ faces clearly now, could pick out the alarm in their expressions. They lowered their weapons and got ready to run. But at the last moment, one of them got brave. He raised his gun again and fired out a single shot. The front windscreen of the Range Rover splintered into a spider web of cracks so that Zak could barely see out of it. He was only just aware of two forms sprinting out of the way as, with another solid yank, he twisted the steering wheel down and to the right, slamming his foot on the brake pedal and pulling up the handbrake as he did so. The Range Rover spun ninety degrees clockwise, its tyres screeching against the tarmac. Zak’s nostrils filled with the acrid smell of burning rubber. Then, with a sudden, brutal crunch, the side of the Range Rover slammed against the entrance to the tower.
Zak’s whole body jolted painfully. He looked to his left. The crunched-up driver’s door was right against the open entrance to the tower.
He didn’t allow himself time to recover. The bullets would start flying at any moment. It was impossible to open the door – he was too close to the tower. Instead, he slammed his elbow sharply into the passenger window. It shattered and Zak clambered quickly out of it, and into the tower.
More bullets: thunderous bursts of rounds now, and shouting from the East Side Boys. Zak grabbed hold of the door to the tower. It was made of heavy iron, covered with painted rivets. There was a solid iron bar on the inside which he could lower across the door to lock himself in. He slammed the door shut, plunging himself into darkness, then lowered the bar.
Gunshot.
A round pierced the iron door. A narrow beam of bright sunlight shot in from outside. It lit up a staircase leading to the top of the tower. Zak sprinted towards it as a second round pierced the door, forcing a second laser-like shard of light to illuminate his way. He thundered up the stairs and emerged, blinking and sweating into the control tower.
It was littered with blood and dead bodies. They were already starting to smell in the heat.
Malcolm was there. He was crouched on the ground, hugging his knees and rocking to and fro, utterly terrified. There was no time for small talk. Zak strode towards him and pulled him to his feet.
He checked his watch.
11.57hrs.
Three minutes to go.
‘We’ve got work to do,’ he said.
11.58HRS
The tyres of the car Raf and Gabs had commandeered screeched as they hurtled down a broad road in the opposite direction to almost every other car. They could see more plumes of smoke on the horizon now – sure signs that the city was being plunged into chaos.
‘How far?’ Gabs shouted at the sweating owner of the car she was holding at gunpoint.
‘Two minutes,’ he jabbered. ‘Perhaps three.’
Raf and Gabs both glanced at their watches. They said nothing as they continued to burn towards the hotel.
For a moment, Malcolm didn’t speak. He looked like he couldn’t speak. Like he was in a daze. Zak raised one hand, ready to slap him across the face and bring him back to his senses. But suddenly Malcolm caught Zak’s wrist. His eyes flashed. ‘Don’t you dare,’ he said.
‘Get the cellphones up and running again,’ Zak instructed. ‘Quickly!’
Malcolm nodded. He turned to his computer terminal, and the tower was filled with the clackety-clack of his fingers on the keyboard. Lines of code appeared on the screen. Zak found himself holding his breath.
He checked the time. 11.58hrs. Malcolm stopped typing and turned to look at him.
‘Is it done?’
Malcolm nodded.
Zak waved one arm vaguely at the roof of the tower to indicate the satellite dishes and aerials above them. ‘Can you reverse engineer these things?’ he asked.
Malcolm blinked.
‘We haven’t got time to waste, Malcolm!’ Zak hissed. ‘I need you to send a text message to every mobile phone in the vicinity. Is that possible?’
Malcolm pressed his glasses further up his nose. He nodded. Then he jumped as a burst of gunfire rattled into the door downstairs, before stepping towards his computer terminal.
‘Wait,’ Zak said, grabbing him by the arm. ‘Do you have mobile numbers for Cruz and Sudiq? Can you block their phones – stop the message getting through to them, and them only?’
Malcolm nodded again.
‘Then let’s do it!’ Zak shouted. ‘NOW!’
Molly Middleton had covered herself with her beach towel to protect her legs from the midday sun. She was lying on her sun bed with her mum’s pink mobile, trying to beat the high score on Angry Birds that her mum had managed that morning. She’d thought it might take her mind off the strange boys with the scarred faces she’d seen earlier, but somehow it didn’t. Normally she was brilliant at this game, but today she couldn’t get her eye in.
Which was hardly surprising. Something was wrong.
The guests in the hotel had heard shouting from outside the hotel’s boundaries. The noise of traffic on the road outside was much louder than usual. And the grown-ups – most of them, at least – were huddled in little groups, talking in low, urgent voices. It was obvious that they didn’t want the kids to hear what they were saying. Many of the little ones were still splashing around in the pool.
But Molly was a bit smarter than most kids. And a bit better at eavesdropping. She’d caught snatches of their conversation. Unrest in the city . . . gunshot . . . a coup . . . no mobile phone service . . . not safe on the streets . . . better to stay in the hotel . . .
She lowered the phone and looked around. No sign of the scar-faced boys. She told herself to calm down. To forget about them. It was nothing. She was inventing problems that didn’t exist.
All of a sudden the phone vibrated. But it wasn’t just her phone. All around the swimming pool, within a window of about five seconds, thirty or forty other phones vibrated and jingled. Single tones to indicate that a text message had just arrived.
The buzz of conversation among the little groups of anxious grown-ups died away. The hotel guests looked perplexed. Then, as one, the
y reached for their phones.
Molly felt like she was in a dream as she looked at the screen of her mum’s pink mobile. Sure enough, there was a message.
A bomb will explode at the Palace Hotel at 12.00hrs. Evacuate immediately. EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY.
There was, for a few seconds, a strange silence.
Then the air was filled with screams.
Molly jumped up from her sun bed, her eyes desperately searching for her mum and dad. She saw them running towards her, Mum’s sarong flapping, Dad barefoot and still in his trunks. He grabbed her hand, and together the little family of three sprinted towards the hotel’s exit along with crowds of other holidaymakers and hotel staff.
Molly’s ears were full of the sound of screaming. Of panic. She stumbled with her mum and dad out of the swimming pool area and into the atrium with its tiled floors and fake palm trees. The wide glass doors of the hotel were twenty metres ahead of her.
They stopped suddenly and a cold sickness twisted round in Molly’s stomach.
The exit was blocked. Four of the scar-faced boys stood there, with wicked leers on their faces. They stood several paces back from the hotel entrance but they were holding guns, which they aimed directly at the hotel doors.
Molly screamed, just as her dad stepped directly in front of her and her mum to protect them.
And then she screamed again at the thunderous sound of gunfire from outside.
The glass doors shattered. Molly felt her knees go beneath her. But as she sank to the ground in terror, she peered round her dad. The bullets had not been fired by the scar-faced boys guarding the hotel. They looked as surprised as anybody. They turned and looked outwards. Then there was another burst of fire. Bullets sparked around the feet of the young gunmen, and they shouted out in alarm. Another burst of fire.
