by Chris Ryan
In Danny's feeble, dreamlike state, he did not realize that this was impossible.
For a brief moment, he heard the wind again: a highpitched wail. Or was it the wind? His eyes flickered open. For the second time that day he thought he heard his sister's voice in the air. He couldn't work out what it was saying; indeed it didn't really sound like it was saying anything. It was howling, furiously, impatiently.
And then it all came back to him.
Ben. Angelo. The detonator. He allowed his head to roll in the direction in which the pick-up truck had moved off and it was at that precise moment that the pain in his stomach returned with a vengeance. He gasped.
The howling of the wind grew angrier. Danny felt he had to do something. He tried to push himself up, but his body couldn't do what his mind had instructed and he simply fell back down uselessly onto the hard road.
His eyes started to grow dim as the shrieking overhead became more intense.
He coughed again, and then he spoke. His voice was weak, barely audible. Even if there had been anyone by his side, they would have struggled to hear him.
'I'm sorry, Basheera,' he whispered in his native language. 'I'm so, so sorry.'
And then his eyes closed again. He lay there for a few agonizing seconds before exhaling a long, rattling breath.
Danny could hear nothing any more. Nor could he feel a thing. He would not be able to whisper his sister's name ever again, and he would be able to do nothing to help Ben and Angelo in this, their final, desperate mission.
As the wind howled furiously over Danny's body, his dark hair blew around slightly. But that was the only part of him that moved.
Danny's limbs were already growing cold now. He was quite dead.
'We need to keep the headlamps off,' Ben had shouted to Angelo as he started the engine of the pick-up. Leaving Danny alone at the side of the road was the most difficult thing he'd done all day and that, he realized, was saying something. It was almost a reflex action that made him concentrate on the job in hand to keep his mind from more distressing matters. 'If he sees us approaching, he'll detonate.'
Angelo moved Danny's shotgun a bit further along the seat, then slammed his door shut. 'Er, Ben,' he said dubiously, 'won't that make it a bit difficult to drive? It's very dark out there, you know.'
Ben shrugged, determination in his face. 'We haven't got a choice,' he replied.
'Maybe he'll just think it's a different truck.'
Ben turned to look at him. 'Is that a risk you want to take?' Angelo thought about it for a few seconds, then shook his head silently. 'I didn't think so,' Ben murmured. He started the truck and moved forward, taking care to circle around Danny as he proceeded.
Every instinct Ben possessed shrieked at him to go slowly but that wasn't a luxury he had. The mercenary would be going as fast as he dared now; Ben had to go faster if he was ever going to catch up. He held his breath, gripped the steering wheel firmly and put his foot down.
It was like being on a roller coaster in the dark. The road itself was straight, but Ben still had to strain his eyes to keep a watch out for any twist in its path. Come off the road now, he knew, and it would all be over. Just keeping the truck straight, however, was a job in itself. He was used to it being buffeted by the winds, but now there was a new urgency – and a new difficulty – to what they had to do. Each time the pick-up veered from its course, he felt a sickness in his stomach as he desperately tried to hold the vehicle straight.
Ben could feel waves of nervousness coming from Angelo. His Italian friend didn't say anything, but he didn't need to. He clutched onto the passenger door with both hands. Ben couldn't see them, but he imagined that Angelo's knuckles were as white as his face. Every time the wind blew them off course and the Italian's body jolted, he would gasp. But still he kept quiet. They both knew Ben was doing the only thing he could. The way they were going, the pick-up could end up a jumble of steel on the highway, but that was a risk they just had to take.
With his eyes firmly fixed on the gloomy road ahead, Ben did not even try to look to either side of him.
When Angelo shouted out 'Water!' therefore, it came as something of a surprise. He allowed his eyes to flicker left and right. There was very little ambient light, but he could just about make out what looked like the foam on huge waves in the distance. It looked like they were surrounded by sea.
'We must be on the Overseas Highway,' Angelo shouted.
'The what?'
'The Overseas Highway. It's a big road that goes over the ocean. It connects Florida to the Keys.'
Ben snapped his eyes back to the road ahead. 'How long is it?'
A brief pause. 'I don't know, Ben. I've never been on it before. Just keep the truck straight, won't you?'
As if to underline what Angelo had just said, there was a sudden gust that made Ben veer suddenly and dangerously to the left. He struggled to keep control of the pick-up.
'I'll do my best,' he shouted breathlessly at Angelo once he was straight again.
Ben was almost glad it was so dark. He didn't much like the idea of being on the Overseas Highway in the middle of a hurricane; he didn't even want to think about what would happen if the tornado caught up with them. A phrase Danny had used in the pick-up popped into his head: out of sight, out of mind. Well, the roaring waves of the ocean on either side of them weren't exactly out of mind, but as long as they were out of sight Ben could pretend he wasn't running a fool's errand. He could keep his attention focused on driving straight and looking out for the mercenary's truck ahead.
It was a few minutes later that they saw it. Hazy and indistinct in the distance, the two red lights didn't seem to be moving very fast, but Ben knew they probably were. 'That's him,' he shouted at Angelo. 'It has to be.' He didn't say out loud everything that was going through his head: It has to be, because nobody else would be stupid enough to be out here in this. 'How are we going to stop him?' Angelo asked. 'We can't stay hidden for long – as soon as we get a few metres away, he'll know we're on to him.'
It was a good question. Different scenarios passed through Ben's mind. He could try and get alongside the other truck and nudge the mercenary off the road. But the pick-up was the smaller of the two vehicles: in a collision it would come off worse. He could try and overtake, then bring the pick-up to a halt at right angles across the lanes; but the road was too wide for him to block it entirely, and the mercenary would simply be able to drive around them.
It was then that an idea came to him.
'Hey, Angelo,' he shouted. 'Ever fired a shotgun before?'
Angelo hesitated. 'A few times,' he said. He struggled for a moment as he searched for a phrase. 'Clay pigeon shooting, I think you call it.' Ben sensed him looking down nervously at the shotgun by his side. 'Look, Ben,' he said, his voice wavering a bit, 'I know we have to stop this man, but I don't think I could . . .'
'Don't worry,' Ben interrupted. His voice was hoarse and sore from shouting. 'That's not what I was going to suggest. But if I get close enough, do you think you could hit one of his tyres?'
Angelo stared at him. 'In the dark?' he asked. 'Ben, I don't think I'll even be able to see them.'
Ben thought about that. 'What if I switch the headlamps on at the last minute. Reckon you'd have a chance?'
Angelo looked down at the shotgun. 'I don't know,' he said dubiously. 'It only holds two rounds. That means I'll only get two shots at it, and once we've let him know we're here . . .'
'He's going to find out sooner or later,' Ben interrupted. 'We might as well grab the element of surprise.'
There was a nervous silence. Suddenly the windscreen of the car was splashed with water. What scant vision Ben had disappeared for a moment.
'What was that?' he screamed.
'Rain?' Angelo suggested.
'I don't think so,' Ben shouted back. 'It's been raining all the time. That was something else.' He glanced out of the side window. 'I think it was spray from the sea. It must be getting rougher out
there.' An image of the tornado they had seen flashed across Ben's brain. The thought of it made him shudder, and he tried not to think of it any more than he had to.
Angelo was gingerly picking up the shotgun. 'I'll need to open my window,' he told Ben.
'OK. Wait till I get closer.' He fixed his eyes on the lights of the truck up ahead and concentrated on narrowing the gap.
It wasn't easy. More than once his vision was blinded by spray from the sea; the road was slippery too, and it became more and more difficult to regain control of the pick-up whenever the wind knocked it off course. They drove in silence, each of them knowing that when they came within firing distance of the mercenary's truck, they wouldn't have much time to bring him to a halt; and as soon as they alerted him to their presence, they wouldn't get a second chance.
The atmosphere inside the pick-up truck seemed thick with tension as they drew closer. They were barely twenty metres away when Ben spoke again.
'Ready?' he asked Angelo.
The Italian boy took a deep breath then nodded his head slowly. 'Ready,' he replied. 'As ready as I'll ever be, anyway.'
Slowly, he wound down the window.
It felt as though they had suddenly let the storm into the truck. Ben was blinded by a blast of spray and he almost lost control of the pick-up as he wiped the water from his face. His lips tasted salt: clearly the water that had just splashed into the truck was not rain, but sea.
'Keep it steady!' Angelo yelled, a note of accusation in his voice.
'I'm trying!' Ben shouted back. The muscles in his arms burned as he tried to keep the truck on course. 'I'm trying!' His ears were filled with the howling of the wind as, beside him, Angelo awkwardly manoeuvred the shotgun out of his window and then leaned out himself.
Keep it steady, Ben told himself. Keep it steady. Angelo was looking precarious, and it was clear that any sudden movement would risk throwing him out of the truck altogether.
Fifteen metres. The truck ahead kept a steady course: there was no indication that the mercenary had seen them approach.
'Closer!' Angelo shouted. 'You need to get closer!'
Ben set his jaw. The pick-up felt like it was wobbling over the slippery road, but he held to his course and increased his speed a little. The gap between them started to close.
'Closer!'
Ben's clothes were soaking wet, but he still found himself sweating with concentration. The gap shortened to ten metres.
'NOW!' Angelo roared.
With a sharp flick of his hand, Ben switched the pick-up's headlamps onto full beam. The back of the mercenary's truck was suddenly lit up. Its big wheels threw great lines of spray in its wake and for a moment the sudden light made Ben's eyes hurt. He kept a level course, though, and did his best to ignore the images that danced on the edge of his vision: great waves swelling up and crashing against the elevated highway that stretched improbably out into the sea. The very thought of all that water surrounding them made his stomach lurch, so he concentrated on the matter in hand.
'Shoot!' he yelled at Angelo. 'Now!'
There was a bang as Angelo fired a round from the shotgun. The bullet might even have found its mark if a huge wave hadn't crashed over the edge at that very moment and slammed into the side of the pick-up. Ben heard Angelo shout in pain as he was knocked harshly against the metal of the truck and suddenly the inside of the vehicle was filled with a gush of water. He skidded wildly; the truck ahead did the same. With a mammoth effort he managed to regain control of the pick-up but he knew, beyond doubt, that the mercenary would have clocked them.
Any second now he could reach for the detonator.
Any second now and all this could be for nothing.
They only had one more chance. And they had to grab it quickly.
Both vehicles had straightened up now. Angelo was still leaning out of the passenger window. Ben couldn't see his face, but he could tell the Italian boy was bracing his body, getting ready to shoot.
'Don't miss,' he whispered to himself. 'Just don't miss.'
Crack! The gun fired.
Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Up ahead, Ben saw one of the rear wheels of the mercenary's truck explode in a blistering cloud of shredded rubber. The whole vehicle started to wobble dangerously and Ben slammed on his brakes to avoid a collision. Angelo slumped heavily back into his seat, no longer carrying the shotgun, as the pick-up turned ninety degrees and started sliding sideways along the slippery road. They were out of control, and both Ben and Angelo started shouting in fear.
But if the two of them thought they were in trouble, it was nothing compared to what the vehicle ahead was encountering.
At first it looked like the mercenary's truck was going to veer straight towards the edge of the raised highway. As it hurtled towards the sea, however, it seemed to flip and spin in the air. It was flying away from them, but the sight of all that metal out of control made Ben automatically fling his hands over his face in a gesture of self-protection. When he dared look again, he saw that the truck had upended itself on its roof and was scraping noisily along the road, throwing up a shower of sparks as it did so. It crashed into the barrier at the edge of the highway, destroying it completely before coming to a sudden – but deeply precarious – halt.
Both vehicles were suddenly still. Deadly still. It felt as if time itself had stopped. Even above the noise of the storm outside, Ben could hear his heart pumping and his breath came in short relieved bursts. His body was demanding a rest, but there was no time for that. The detonator was still in the possession of the mercenary, so Ben opened his door.
'Come on!' he shouted at Angelo.
He didn't wait for his Italian friend to reply before he jumped out into the road.
Chapter Twenty
The minute his feet hit the ground, Ben could sense the immense, billowing waves on either side; and as he ran to the overturned truck, he found himself choking on the thick, salty spray that had filled the air.
The mercenary's truck was lucky not to have fallen into the sea below. The vehicle's cab was dangerously close to the edge and the back wheels, which were positioned a little behind the cab, were actually overhanging. It wouldn't take much, Ben realized, for the truck to go over. He had no idea if contact with the water would activate the detonator, but that was a risk he wasn't prepared to take. Even though he felt scared to approach the edge too closely, he ran towards the upturned truck, vaguely aware that Angelo was following him.
The windscreen, which was facing into the centre of the road, had shattered; so had the passenger windows, and the door that he approached was dented and crumpled. When Ben crouched down to look into the upside-down vehicle he saw the mercenary. The man was a mess. His face was pierced with the broken glass, and blood oozed out of each one of those many wounds. He was still strapped into the seat, but his body had slumped so that his head was pressed up against the roof of the truck.
But most alarmingly of all, he was still conscious.
To one side of him, lying on the upturned roof of the truck, there was a black bag – a rucksack. The mercenary didn't even seem to have noticed Ben: he was focusing all his attention on retrieving that bag, which was just out of reach.
The detonator, Ben thought to himself. It's in there – it has to be!
He moved on pure instinct. Grabbing the handle to the door, he pulled it open with a mighty tug. Only then did the mercenary appear to become aware of Ben's arrival. He turned his head and looked at him with an expression of pure hatred that was all the more sinister for the fact that he was upside down. No words were spoken, but a kind of spiteful hiss came from the mercenary's lips before he turned his attention back to the rucksack. He seemed to stretch for it with all his might.
Ben plunged his arm into the cab of the truck, past the mercenary's head and towards the rucksack. He wasn't trying to grab it so much as push it out of the man's reach.
In the end, however, he managed neither.
At first he co
uldn't work out what the mercenary was doing, or why. He had grabbed Ben's arm and seemed to be sizing it up, as if feeling for something. And then he jerked his arms sharply.
It was only when Ben felt his bones snap that he finally understood what was happening.
The pain was indescribable. Ben let out a shriek of agony as he lost all control of the limb, and he offered no resistance at all as the mercenary pushed him out of the way. He fell heavily to the ground, then watched helplessly as the mercenary's fingers clasped the fabric of the bag. There was a look of triumph on the man's face: he plunged his hand into the bag and started to pull something out.
'NO!' Ben roared. He tried to push himself up, but the devastating pain in his broken arm stopped him from doing anything. 'Don't do it!' he yelled. 'Just don't do it!'
But the mercenary ignored him. He had it in his hands now, a small metal object no bigger than a mobile phone.
That was it. Ben stared in frozen horror, realizing there was nothing more he could do to stop what was going to happen.
He'd played his last card.
He had lost.
He opened his mouth to shout again, but the sound never left his throat, because just then he saw Angelo.
The Italian boy appeared on the other side of the truck. The mercenary hadn't clocked him – he was too busy clutching the detonator, gazing at it with a look of greedy elation as he prepared to activate it. But from his position on the wet ground Ben watched, heart in mouth, as his friend ripped the other door open and dived into the cab of the truck.
The mercenary was completely taken by surprise. He roared in anger and started to struggle, but it wasn't enough. Angelo's fingers curled round the detonator. He snapped it away and then wriggled back outside.
The man squirmed as he tried to release himself from the truck's seatbelt while Angelo sprinted round the front of the vehicle to Ben. 'L'ho preso!' he yelled. 'I've got it! I've got—'
