Twister cr-5

by Chris Ryan

  'Where?' he demanded.

  The man used his gun to reply, pointing it towards the tower. Ben's face set into an expression of grim concentration and, still holding Angelo's arm, he walked in that direction.

  The cold rain and the wind didn't even affect him now. He hardly noticed them. His mind was on other things: on Danny, and the way he had betrayed them; on his own stupidity for not listening to Brad the bodyguard and being suspicious of absolutely everyone on that plane. He tried his best not to think about what was awaiting them, because every time he did that, he felt horribly sick.

  It took them less than a minute to reach the foot of the tower. It stretched above them into the darkness like a giant, and the creaking sound — like the giant's roars — now dwarfed even the sound of the storm.

  'Stop!' the man shouted from behind them.

  They did as they were told and Ben turned to look at him again.

  He was skirting round them, his gun still firmly pointed in their direction. The man edged towards the door of a low building that was situated below the tower. Ben couldn't really make out what it looked like from this distance — it was too dark, and the rain hampered his vision. He could see what the man was doing, however. He tried the door: it was locked. He banged against it with his foot as though he might be able to force it open with a good kick, but it only made a dull, metallic echo. And so he stood back, a good two metres, and pointed his gun towards the door.

  Now's your chance, Ben urged himself. If he could rush the guy while his gun was pointing in a different direction…

  Too late. The man fired at the lock of the door. The crack of the gun seemed to echo all around the refinery like a sudden crack of thunder. The bullet sparked against the door and there was a second, less obvious bang as it ricocheted off. It had done its work well, however. The door shuddered from the impact and then slowly, as if being opened by some sinister and unseen butler, swung open.

  Without hesitation, the man strode back towards them. He grabbed Angelo's free arm and pushed him in the direction of the building. Ben followed. As he did so, he felt the man's gun against the back of his head once more. It was warm this time. Warm from use. It was the sort of warmth that made Ben shudder.

  They were hustled through the open door and into the building where, for a moment, they stood in darkness. Ben felt the water dripping from his clothes as he heard the man clattering around. Suddenly he squinted as the lights were switched on — two flickering strip bulbs on the ceiling that flooded the room with a harsh, unnatural brightness. It took several seconds for him to be able to open his eyes properly: when he did, he looked around to get his bearings.

  They were in some sort of control room. Along the far wall, opposite the open door, there was a bank of instruments, dials and levers. There were also a couple of computer screens with keyboards, but these were switched off, and some swivel chairs. The chairs were not pushed neatly against the control panel, but instead were dotted around messily. It looked like whoever had last been in this room had left in a hurry. There were no windows; instead the walls were covered with complicated charts and measurements, which would have made Ben glaze over a bit even if he felt like looking at them.

  He didn't feel like looking at them, though. And he didn't have the time, because at that precise moment he felt a sharp blow just behind his knees. His legs collapsed beneath him and he fell with a heavy thud to the ground. He was joined moments later by Angelo, who had just received the same treatment and who called out in pain as his knees cracked against the hard floor.

  Their dripping wet clothes had already made a small puddle around them and briefly Ben caught sight of his own reflection in it. He looked terrible: exhausted and scared. Hardly surprising, he thought to himself. His reflection disappeared as the puddle wavered slightly. A rope suddenly appeared in front of him and he gasped as he felt it being tied tightly around his waist, then coiled several times more, despite the fact that he had started to struggle violently. The man behind him was breathing heavily as he gripped the rope firmly; he grunted with satisfaction when Ben had to catch his own breath as the rope was tightly tied. Ben's arms were immobile — there was no way he was going to get out of that.

  Despite the fact that Angelo already had his arms tied behind his back he received the same treatment.

  'Get to your feet,' the man instructed. Ben struggled up painfully, as did Angelo.

  The man walked towards the control panel. 'Over here,' he said. The two boys followed him. Ben watched as he took the end of the rope that bound Angelo and tied it to the sturdy metal leg of the control bench. He then pushed Ben to the other end of the bench and tied him to another leg. He and Angelo were out of reach of each other and Ben could tell that he'd have had enough trouble untying the fiendish knots the man had made even if his hands were free; now they were tied behind his back, he'd have no chance.

  The man took his rucksack from his back, placed it on the floor and bent down to get something from inside. 'What are you doing?' Ben asked, his nervous voice croaking; but the man didn't answer. Instead he pulled what looked like a small video camera from the bag and started tinkering with it. When he was satisfied that it was working, he turned to Angelo.

  'I'm going to film you,' he said curtly. 'When I nod, you say your name for the camera, and that you are currently at the South Miami Oil Refinery.'

  Angelo raised his bowed head and fixed the man with a look of hate. He curled his lip. 'And if I don't?' he demanded.

  The man's eyes narrowed. He let the camera fall to his side, then approached Angelo with the gun. He held it to the Italian boy's head.

  'You may be under the mistaken impression,' he whispered, 'that I'm the kind of person who likes to be messed with. That's not a mistake people make more than once. Understand?'

  Terrified and trembling, Angelo nodded his head.

  'Good,' the man continued. 'Now listen carefully. I'm not a very patient film director, so you only get one shot at this. No retakes.'

  He stepped back a few paces, raised the camera again and pressed a button. A little red light appeared at the front as the man nodded at Angelo.

  The Italian boy tried to speak, but his voice failed him at first. When he finally did manage to get the words out, they were weak and wavering. 'My name…' he stuttered. 'My name is Angelo Bandini.' He took a deep, trembling breath. 'I am in the middle of the South Miami Oil Refinery.' He stared, white-faced at the camera. 'Please don't kill me,' he begged quietly. 'Please don't kill me …'

  But the man had already stopped recording and was stashing the camera back in his rucksack. Once it was stowed away, he turned his back on the two of them and made to leave. He strode towards the door and was just about to walk out when Ben shouted.

  'Wait!'

  The man stopped in his tracks. He paused, as though deciding whether to answer Ben's call or not, then slowly turned. He had one eyebrow raised, and he stared at Ben with a dead look in his face.

  'What?'

  Ben looked at him urgently. 'Think about what you're doing. Think about what it's going to mean. This isn't going to help the people on Danny's island — it's not going to do them any good at all!'

  The man blinked at him, expressionlessly. Then his lip curled and he let out a small snort of laughter. 'Help them?' he demanded in his upper-class English accent. He looked back over his shoulder. 'Help him? You think I'm doing this because I want to help the inhabitants of some godforsaken place thousands of miles away? You must be stupider than you look.'

  Ben ignored the insult. The lights flickered off and on again.

  'Then why?' he whispered. 'Why are you doing this?'

  The man smirked, then walked up to him. He put his face only inches from Ben's and spoke in a slow, clear voice. He sounded patronizing, as though he was explaining something to a particularly idiotic child. 'For money,' he rasped. 'I'm being very well paid. Now if you'll excuse me, I've a little more work to do.'

  He stepped back a
nd headed for the door once more.

  'If it's money you want,' Angelo shouted at him, 'I can pay you. I'm rich. Just name your price.'

  The man turned round and his eyes widened. 'Really?' he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. 'And I suppose you wouldn't even think about going back on your word once you're safely in Daddy's arms, would you?' He sneered. 'Don't be so stupid.'

  'Stupid?' Ben demanded angrily. 'Who's the stupid one? How many people do you think you're about to kill?' Now the man looked annoyed, but Ben didn't care. 'There's me and Angelo,' he pressed. 'That's two. But then there's everyone else who'll die when the wind spreads the flames and the smoke. How much are their lives worth to you?'

  The man didn't answer. Instead, he raised his gun and pointed it directly at Ben. 'You're a noisy kid,' he announced. 'Maybe I should just silence you right now.'

  The threat hung between them for a few long seconds. Ben jutted out his chin defiantly. If this was the end, he wasn't going to give the man the satisfaction of having him beg for mercy.

  Then, gradually, the man lowered the gun.

  'No,' he whispered. 'I don't think so. I've gone to a lot of trouble to arrange this evening's little spectacular. It would be a dreadful shame if you weren't around to witness the fireworks.' He looked at his watch. 'Showtime,' he said, 'in about an hour. Unfortunately I won't be able to watch it as I have a prior appointment elsewhere — once I've found myself a decent vehicle in which to get out of here. But don't worry — the little remote detonator in my bag has a very long range. I'm sure everything will go with a bang.'

  He furrowed his brow a little before continuing to speak, this time in a far less sarcastic voice. 'I really don't know who you are,' he addressed Ben directly, 'or how you got involved in all this. But you seem like the kind of lad who's happy to poke his nose into other people's business. Nobody likes a nosy kid, so I don't suppose you'll be terribly mourned.'

  Ben looked at him defiantly. 'I've just been trying to help my friend,' he retorted. 'I don't suppose it's something you'd understand.'

  A look of mock surprise crossed the man's face. 'A friend?' He sneered. 'Oh, how sweet.'

  And with that, he turned for the final time. He switched off the light to the control room, plunging Ben and Angelo into darkness, before closing the door ominously behind him.

  Think of Basheera, Danny! Think of what she'd say!

  Ben's words echoed in Danny's head. He tried to get rid of that silent sound, but he couldn't. In a burst of anger he thumped his fist against the steering wheel as he tried to empty his mind.

  Even with the weather, everything important was going according to plan. Why, then, did Danny feel so empty?

  The lashing of the wind and the rain against the pick-up truck had taken him by surprise. It was difficult to manoeuvre the vehicle. Very difficult. Young Ben had done well. He was a strong boy. Brave too. The things he had done that day would have been hard for almost anyone, even if they'd had the guts to do them. Danny regretted having to leave Ben at the oil refinery. He regretted it deeply.

  The pick-up truck trundled away from the centre of the refinery. The headlamps illuminated the sheeting rain and then, by the side of the road, the dead body of the refinery worker that they had seen on the way in. It looked just as gruesome now as it had then. More so, perhaps. Danny averted his eyes. He was not used to the sight of death. Strange, then, that he had woken up that morning expecting the day to bring his own death, as well as that of many others.

  In his mind it had seemed noble and glorious. It had seemed like he was striking a blow for the oppressed. It seemed like the right thing to do. But now, as he crept away through the dreadful storms, leaving Ben and Angelo at the hands of the mercenary who was being paid a great deal of money to carry out the wishes of his people, he felt far from noble. Far from glorious. He felt like a sneak.

  'Shut up,' he whispered to himself in his own language. These were harmful thoughts, creeping into his brain like the roots of a poisonous plant. He was being distracted from what he had set out to do that morning: to avenge his sister and bring the plight of his people to the attention of the world. He glanced left and right at the huge construction of pipes and machinery that surrounded him like the intestines of some great metal beast. When it exploded, it would be like a beacon, appearing on the television screens of people around the world and making them realize that the oil men could not continue to behave as they had been doing. That it would not be tolerated. And if Ben and Angelo had to be sacrificed to make that point, so be it…

  Ben and Angelo.

  As Danny approached the exit of the refinery, a picture filled his mind. It was of the two boys, tied up and frightened in the moments before the explosion. The image needled his confused mind and he thought of Ben's accusation: that Danny could not shoot him in cold blood. That he didn't have the stomach for it. That by doing things this way, he was pretending that he was not a murderer. Somewhere, deep inside, a little voice was telling him that this was true.

  Think of Basheera, Danny! Think of what she'd say!

  What would she say? Would she thank him for this? Would she even understand what was happening? His little sister was only nine years old when she died, but there was something in those big eyes of hers that made her seem older. Made her seem like she understood. Would she realize that her brother's actions — that the actions of everyone in their village — were on her account?

  Would she let it happen?

  Danny's lips narrowed. He was out of the refinery now, back on the main road. He should speed up. Get away from there as quickly as possible. But something was stopping him, and it wasn't just the storm. He drew a deep breath, then thumped the steering wheel again. The horn sounded, but there was no one there to hear it.

  You must keep driving, he told himself. It is your duty to keep driving. Your duty to the village. Your duty to your grieving mother and father. Your duty to yourself. And most of all, your duty to Basheera.

  Basheera.

  He pictured her. She was such a happy little girl. So full of fun and full of love for everyone. He pictured her sitting there next to him, in the place where Angelo had sat with his hands tied behind his back. And in his mind she began to speak.

  'It is not their fault, my brother,' she said softly, her childlike voice firm but kind. 'I do not want them to come to harm.'

  Danny blinked. Basheera's voice had been quite clear, as though she really were sitting there next to him. Or at least her ghost.

  He shook his head. It was the storm. The wind shrieking. It was making him uneasy, now that he was all alone. His mind was playing tricks on him. He pressed down on the accelerator.

  The wind howled again, and with it came Basheera's voice once more.

  'And what of the others?' she asked lightly. 'The others who will die.'

  Danny's head shot round. There was only an empty seat next to him, but it had sounded for all the world like Basheera was there. As he took his eyes off the road, the car veered and he was forced to slam the brakes down and come to a screeching halt. He sat there for a moment, panting and sweating, as the wind outside continued to sing to him.

  How like the wailing of a human voice it sounded. It was as though the very earth was lamenting what was about to happen.

  Suddenly he could take it no more. Hardly knowing what he was doing, he opened the door of the car and jumped out. The rain stung him as it pelted into his face, and the door — blowing in the wind — almost knocked him over. But he kept his footing and looked up to the sky.

  He shouted in a loud voice. A voice that made him hoarse. Had anyone been there on that deserted road to hear him, they would not have heard what he said above the wind. But it was a loud voice nevertheless.

  'Do not lecture me!' he screamed in his own language. 'Do not lecture me, and do not disapprove! Do you think I woke this morning prepared to give my life lightly? This is for you, Basheera. Understand that. This is for you.'

  Chapter Sev
enteen

  Ben sat in the darkness. His muscles were frozen — not with cold, but with fear.

  It was pitch black. There wasn't even a glimmer of light, so his night vision failed to alleviate the darkness. Inside the control room, the two of them were silent; but there was noise all around. The wind, for a start — it howled and shrieked like some demented banshee. The rain hammered down on the roof of the building. Ben hadn't seen what it was made of, but it sounded like corrugated iron — the water echoed as it hit, resonating like an immense drum. The noise of the rain came in fits and starts: loud first, then soft, then loud again. Ben pictured it being blown in erratic swirls by the wind.

  And above everything else — above the dreadful sounds of the storm — there was the creaking of the refinery around them. It was as if the whole area was groaning from the battering of the elements. And it sounded like it was at breaking point. No wonder the place had been deserted, Ben thought to himself. Only a fool would stay here in these conditions.

  'He's going to do it, isn't he?' Angelo interrupted Ben's morose thoughts. 'He's actually going to do it.' The Italian's voice was hushed, barely audible above the noise outside.

  'Yeah,' Ben replied solemnly. 'Yeah, I think he is.'

  A pause.

  'You know what the stupid thing is?' Angelo asked.

  'No. What?'

  'I actually agree with Danny. I hate my dad's business. It's so…' He searched for the word. 'Greedy.'

  Above them there was a sudden groan. Ben held his breath — it sounded like something was on the brink of collapsing. After a few seconds, though, it stopped, to be replaced once more by the sound of the hurricane.

  'How long do you think we've got?' Angelo asked.

  Ben thought about it. In the darkness, time meant very little. It could have been five minutes since the man had left them here; it could have been half an hour. On balance, he thought time had probably been passing slowly. 'I reckon we've been here about ten minutes. He said an hour, so…'