If you think we went to all the trouble to hijack this bloody platform to be jacked around by its staff you must be on drugs.’
One of the men began to get to his feet, though he struggled to gain his balance with hands tied behind his back. It was more than this that hampered him. One of his legs was giving him trouble.The man was Jordan Mackay, Stratton’s old mate. He gritted his teeth and dragged his faulty leg beneath him, making a determined effort to get upright.
Jordan breathed deeply with the exertion and set his stare coldly on Deacon.
Another five men got to their feet.
‘Good,’ Deacon said, stepping back through the hostages to the galley entrance. ‘Now follow me.’
They paused in the corridor to await further instructions. ‘That way,’ the Lebanese thug said to Jordan, giving him a firm shove.
With his short temper Jordan did not appreciate the push but he controlled his anger and headed along the corridor. Deacon took up a position in the rear and followed the line of men.
The Lebanese led them through the swing doors and along to a staircase, which he climbed. He pulled on a foul-weather jacket, pushed open a door at the top and stepped into a narrow airlock that led to another door that required an effort to open. The fierce wind ripped into the structure, tugging and chilling the men in their jeans and T-shirts as they filed outside.
Jordan stopped once again, waiting for further instructions.
The Lebanese thug pushed him on, this time more aggressively. ‘That way,’ he snarled.
Jordan almost fell over and when he regained his balance he faced the hijacker, baring his teeth. ‘Don’t push me again,’ he warned in a low, deliberate voice.
Jordan’s impudence astounded the Arab, who slammed him in the gut with the butt of his weapon. The ex-SBS man doubled over as the wind went out of him, his face spasming. The thug wasn’t finished with him and took a firm hold of his hair. ‘You don’t talk to me, ever.’
As Jordan pulled away the thug belted him across the face, sending him sprawling across the metal decking.The sea was visible far below through the grillework. Blood seeped from a cut on his mouth. He rolled onto his face, his hands tied tight behind his back. Using his forehead to support his weight, he brought his knees underneath him in order to stand up.
‘Stay down if you know what’s good for you,’ the Arab growled.
Jordan ignored him and fought to get to his feet. He had never been a man to bend easily.
The Arab poised himself to deal Jordan another severe blow with the stock of his weapon.
‘Easy, shit-for-brains. You need to chill out. No one dies unless I say so,’ said Deacon from behind them. He looked at Jordan as the man finally managed to get to his feet.
Jordan was out of breath with the effort and the blow to his gut but his eyes found the Arab’s and stared into them. The thug smirked at him.
Deacon felt like remonstrating with the idiot but knew that he couldn’t in front of the prisoners. He had orders not to harm the rig’s workers unless it was absolutely unavoidable, and if he did he would have to prove that there’d been no alternative. An unsatisfied client meant a reduction in pay. He had already lost one hostage to the Lebanese fool, which he felt he could get away with by docking the Arab’s pay. The man was a liability, no question.
Deacon decided to use the situation to his advantage. ‘I warned you people not to step out of line,’ he said, addressing Jordan and then the others. ‘We’ve already had one execution.’ He pointed to the body swinging from the crane. A look of revulsion came over the faces of all the prisoners except one. Mackay’s. ‘Don’t give me a reason for another. As you can see, my men are enthusiastic . . . That way.’
Jordan glared at the Lebanese hijacker before shuffling off. The others followed him across the deck towards the crane where Viking was setting up a video camera on a tripod.
‘Stand in a line along here,’ Deacon said, positioning them between the camera and the crane.
Some of the men began to shiver. Jordan refused to.
Viking looked through the lens. ‘Put your hood up,’ he told the Lebanese thug. The Arab reached for the hood at the back of his jacket and pulled it over his head. Viking struggled to