by Chris Ryan
'There's something up ahead!' Angelo cried, his voice hoarse as it battled with the noise of the engine and the wind. 'I can see its lights.'
Ben stretched his neck over the edge of the truck and looked forwards. Sure enough, in the distance he saw some lights. He couldn't tell how far away they were — the rain meant that distances were a bit hazy — but he reckoned it couldn't have been more than a couple of hundred metres.
'Get down!' he shouted at Angelo. 'We can't let him know we're here.'
Angelo nodded and the two of them flung themselves down into the water that was sluicing around the back of the truck. It was deeply uncomfortable. With nothing to hold onto, they slid around uncontrollably. Ben felt the engine accelerating and as a result they were pushed further to the back: clearly Danny had also seen the vehicle up ahead and was risking the dangers of travelling even faster in the high winds to catch up with it.
Suddenly the truck slowed down.
Ben wished he could peer out to see what was happening but that was out of the question. Instead he stayed well hidden. Angelo was looking at him intently.
'Ready?' the Italian called grimly.
'Ready,' Ben replied. His skin was tingling with anticipation of what was to come.
The pick-up truck ground to a halt.
Ben tried to imagine what would be happening. He pictured the pick-up truck driving alongside the other vehicle, whatever it was; he imagined Danny leaning out of the window and flagging the attention of the mercenary. Now the two of them had stopped.
A car door slammed. Then another one.
Both men would be approaching each other.
Ben held his breath. It was all in Danny's hands now. All in the hands of a man Ben still couldn't be sure whether he could trust. A man who had already double-crossed them once that day. And there was nothing he or Angelo could do but wait and see what happened.
The mercenary had been keeping his eye on the road and his hands on the steering wheel. It was a difficult drive with the wind buffeting the truck from all sides, but he was in no hurry. He could afford to take it easy. To stay safe. He maintained a slow but steady speed as he continued down US Route 1. It wouldn't be long before he approached the Overseas Highway, a long road bridge that jutted up through the ocean and carried Route 1 from the Florida mainland to the Keys. He would use it to cross to Key Largo, the largest of the Keys and the nearest to the mainland. Once he was there, he estimated, he would be far enough away from the refinery and any damage the explosion might cause.
That was when he would detonate.
The roads were satisfyingly deserted. He hadn't seen a single car since he left the refinery. The evacuation process must have been swift; those that were still left would have battened down the hatches and prayed that the storm didn't cause them or their property too much damage. It suited him. It meant he had the road to himself.
Or did he?
He blinked as he looked in the rear-view mirror. Behind him, through the thick rain, he saw the unmistakable glare of a set of headlights.
He shrugged. It didn't matter. If somebody was fool enough to be out on the roads in this weather without good reason, that was their business, not his. He directed his attention back to the road ahead and concentrated on keeping the truck steady.
It was a minute or so later that he noticed the headlamps again. This time they were much closer. He furrowed his brows. Whoever was driving the vehicle must be going very quickly. Another look in the mirror verified this: the headlamps seemed to waver from side to side. The driver was obviously having difficulty keeping the truck on the road. In response, the mercenary slowed down. He didn't want to come off worse in a collision if the idiot behind him couldn't control his vehicle. Better to let it pass than try and outrun it.
His attention was split now, half of it on the road ahead, half of it on the approaching vehicle. It was close now — blindingly close. He could not look for too long at the headlamps in the mirror for fear of dazzling himself. He cursed the driver's stupidity. He was too close. Carry on like this and it could end badly for both of them.
Suddenly the vehicle pulled out as if to overtake, then drew alongside him. It was a pick-up truck with an open back, he saw. It looked vaguely familiar, but then there were thousands of pick-up trucks across America. He slowed slightly to allow it to pass more quickly, but to his amazement the pick-up kept level with him.
Alarm bells sounded in his head. What was this? Was someone onto him? He removed one hand from the steering wheel and grabbed the handgun that was on the seat next to him. Clutching the weapon, he peered through the side window at the pick-up that was steadily driving alongside.
He was too high up to see into the cab, but as he glanced down he saw an astonishing thing.
A man was leaning out of the driver's side of the pick-up and peering above the roof. How on earth he was keeping the vehicle straight was anyone's guess — with difficulty, by the look of it. It was swerving dangerously. The mercenary's first reaction was to pull back again, but then he squinted. He recognized that face. He had seen him only recently after all.
Something was wrong. He didn't know what, but something was wrong. He brought the truck to a halt and watched as the pick-up stopped alongside him.
All his senses were in a heightened state of alert. This was unexpected. A surprise. And if there was one thing the mercenary didn't like, it was surprises. He clutched the handgun even more firmly, then opened the door and stepped outside into the wind and the rain. The bag containing the detonator remained safely on the passenger seat and for the moment he kept the weapon concealed inside his jacket. No point in displaying it too openly: if he needed to use the gun, much better that he had the element of surprise.
Carefully he walked round to the front of the pickup. The man calling himself Danny did the same.
'We've got a problem,' Danny shouted above the wind.
'What do you mean?' growled the mercenary. He couldn't see what could have possibly gone wrong. His eyes darted from side to side. He was keeping a lookout, even though he didn't know what for.
Danny opened his mouth to speak. 'It's—' he started to say. But he never finished his sentence, because at that very moment he hurled himself at the other man. The mercenary crumpled to the floor as he felt the sudden weight of the man's body against his, and he grunted in pain as the small of his back slammed against the hard road. In a flash he felt Danny's hands around his throat, squeezing tightly. The mercenary gasped for breath, but no breath came.
'Where is it?' Danny demanded. His fingers dug deeply into the soft flesh of his neck.
'What?'
'The detonator,' screamed Danny. 'Where is it?'
It was nearly impossible for the mercenary to breathe, let alone speak. But he managed to get one word out.
'Why?'
'Never mind why,' Danny shouted. 'Just give it to me.'
The mercenary looked into Danny's eyes, then narrowed his own. He wanted to stop the explosion, that much was clear. But too much trouble had been gone to for him to allow that to happen. Far too much.
And if the refinery didn't blow now, then that would be the end of the money coming his way. Money he wanted.
The mercenary didn't speak. He just manoeuvred his hand so that the gun was pointing upwards. The bullet would go through his jacket and straight into his attacker's belly.
And then he could get on with his work.
He was quite expressionless as he pulled the trigger. The same could not be said for Danny. The dark-haired man's eyes widened suddenly, and his grip loosened immediately. It only took a gentle nudge from the mercenary to push his attacker off him, and he watched without emotion as Danny rolled powerlessly to one side.
The mercenary pulled the gun out from his jacket. His outer garment was shredded by the force of the bullet and wet from the sudden burst of Danny's blood. With a look of distaste he quickly pulled the green jacket off and cast it onto the floor. Then, without a second
look at the assailant he had just shot so calmly, he hurried back to his truck, started the ignition and drove away.
The sound of the gunshot went through Ben as surely as if the bullet itself had entered his body.
He froze; at the same time he heard Angelo gasp.
'Stay still,' he hissed. 'We don't know what's happening out there. We can't risk being seen.'
They remained as still as stones, pressed against the uncomfortable wet metal of the pick-up with the rain sheeting down on top of them. Ben strained his ears to listen to what was happening, but it was almost impossible to hear anything above the howling of the wind.
It felt like they had to wait for ever, their hearts in their throats.
And then they heard it. The low rumble of the truck moving off again.
A deathly chill seemed to freeze Ben's limbs. Only one person could be driving that truck, and that person wasn't…
'Danny!' Ben whispered. Angelo looked at him in shock and it was clear that the same thing was going through both their heads. They pushed themselves up from their crouching position and jumped over the side of the pick-up. The mercenary's truck was already disappearing into the distance. Ben looked around, desperately hoping to be able to see Danny standing, fit and well.
But that was a hope too far.
It was Angelo who saw him first. The Italian cursed under his breath in his native language as he tugged on Ben's sleeve and pointed to the ground in front of the pick-up.
Danny's body was lit up by the headlamps of the pick-up. He was lying with his face to the sky, clutching his belly, as the rain poured down on his now-pale face. He was shaking violently and Ben could see something dark seeping through his clasped hands.
Ben ran to his side and knelt down. With obvious difficulty, Danny turned to look at him. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a coarse coughing sound. A thin trickle of blood oozed from the corner of his mouth; the rain smeared it at first, then washed it clean away. Ben looked over his shoulder at Angelo.
'Help me!' he shouted. 'We need to get him into the truck.'
Angelo ran to his side; but as he did so, Danny finally managed to speak.
'Ben,' he croaked, 'you have to leave me here.'
Ben felt hot tears of anger rising in his eyes. 'I'm not leaving you anywhere,' he said from behind gritted teeth.
'He's getting away, Ben.' There was another bout of feeble coughing. 'You won't catch him if you don't leave now.'
Ben looked furiously down the road. The lights of the mercenary's truck had completely disappeared.
'He's right, Ben,' Angelo whispered. 'We don't have any time.'
Still Ben hesitated. He had forgotten all the bad things Danny had done that day: at that moment he was just a wounded human being who needed their help.
Danny spoke again. 'Listen to me,' he hissed weakly. 'I woke up this morning expecting to die. If it happens, it's no more than I deserve. I was wrong — I understand that now. But you have to help me undo everything that's been put in motion. You have to stop him, both of you. For me. And for my sister.'
Danny stared at them. Somehow his pale face managed to look urgent.
And then, slowly, as if in a dream, Ben stood up. It was clear what he had to do.
'I'm coming back for you,' he told Danny hoarsely. 'Stay here, because I am coming back for you.'
Danny didn't reply. He didn't even look as if he had heard. His body started shaking more violently and the coughing came back. It was a pitiful sight.
Ben felt another tug on his sleeve.
'We have to hurry, Ben,' Angelo urged him. 'He's getting away.' The Italian's voice had a high-pitched note of panic in it.
Ben allowed himself one more look down at Danny before nodding his head, reluctantly but decisively.
'All right,' he said quietly. 'Let's go.'
An absolute determination surged through him as he headed round to the driver's side of the pick-up truck.
This had to stop, he told himself. It had to stop now.
Chapter Nineteen
Danny lay on the ground. The pain in his stomach, which had been acute at first, had become numb. In fact, his whole body was numb.
It was strange. For the first time since the storm had started he found he could not hear the wind. He couldn't hear anything, actually: just the unsteady beating of his heart, and even that was getting weaker. He coughed. Something warm entered his mouth and spilled out of the sides. He supposed it should worry him, but it didn't. He was past worry now.
Danny closed his eyes. It was a peculiar thing, but he found he could almost imagine he was back home. Somewhere in the corner of his mind he heard the voices of his mother and father, as if they were in a different part of the house while he was on the brink of sleep. He couldn't quite hear what they were saying, but they sounded happy. Danny smiled weakly. That was good. It meant Basheera had returned to them.
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?'
