Deacon’s finger hovered over the final key. If that was true, how had they planned to kill the rest of the team? He decided that killing just him would not make sense and so he pushed the key. Nothing happened. He could not help giving a small sigh of relief as he turned the handle on top of the box and raised the lid.
A lump of plastic explosive had been fixed to the inside of the lid. The detonator was wired to a battery and a small circuit board was attached to the keypad. An envelope rested in the bottom of the box. Deacon removed it and put the box into his bag.
The envelope contained a single sheet of instructions and a photograph of a man was stapled to a corner of the paper. The man was Jordan Mackay.
As Deacon read the instructions his brow creased into a frown. Jock stepped back into the room. ‘I take it we’re moving right along, then.’
‘It would seem so.’ Deacon put the envelope into his pocket. ‘I’m going down to the galley.’
Jock watched him go and glanced at the technician, who was looking at him. When he saw Jock’s hostile expression, the nerd could not get back to work quickly enough.
Deacon entered the accommodation block and wiped the rain from his face as he made his way down the stairs. He strode purposefully along the corridor, through a door and along another corridor towards the galley. The Lebanese thug slouched outside the entrance to the food hall. He gave Deacon a glance but no more.
‘What you doin’ out ’ere?’ Deacon asked.
‘I think some of them have shit their pants,’ the Arab said.
Deacon pushed open the galley door and scanned the room. It smelled like a foul toilet, and the workers were crammed into every inch of floor space. Some of them appeared to be sleeping. Banzi, the Pirate and the Bulgarian were sitting on the long serving counter, guns across their laps.
‘Why aren’t you letting these blokes do their business?’ Deacon called out.
‘We are,’ Banzi answered. ‘Some of ’em couldn’t wait. The she-he is making food for them now.’
Deacon scanned the faces of the hostages. He saw the one he was looking for. The man was staring straight at him. Deacon checked the photograph to confirm the man’s identity, realising he was one of the men they had filmed on deck. ‘You,’ he said, pointing. ‘Get to your feet.’
Jordan struggled to comply.
Deacon indicated the entrance doors. He stepped aside to let Mackay pass into the corridor. When the doors had closed behind them he said, ‘What’s your name?’
‘Don’t you know?’ Jordan said coldly.
‘I know a name.’
‘Jordan Mackay.’ He turned his back to Deacon and offered his bound hands. Deacon took a knife from a sheath on his belt and cut the plastic bonds. The Lebanese wondered what was going on.
Jordan rubbed his chafed wrists. ‘Give me your pistol.’
Deacon looked at the man questioningly.
‘You were given instructions about me.’
‘They said nothing about you being in charge.’
‘You were told to give me anything I asked for.’
‘They said nothing about a weapon.’
‘A weapon comes under “anything I ask for”,’ Jordan said, holding out his hand. ‘You all have weapons. You have them for a reason. Give me one.’
Deacon considered the brief instructions on the sheet of paper. As the man said, anything meant anything. He reached inside his coat, took his pistol from its holster and put it in Jordan’s hand. Mackay removed the magazine, pulled back the top slide enough to see the round in the breech and replaced it.
‘So. What’s your part in this?’ said Deacon, curious.
Jordan levelled the pistol at the Lebanese thug’s face and pulled the trigger. The deafening report of the gun reverberated along the corridor as the bullet went through the Arab’s head and into the wall behind, followed by a spout of blood. His body went limp and dropped to the floor.
Deacon stiffened at the sight and sound but kept cool, wondering immediately if he was going to be next.
Jordan stuck the pistol into his trouser belt. ‘You can have his,’ he said.
The doors slammed open and Banzi crouched in the opening with his M-15 at the ready, his gaze flicking between the two standing men and the Lebanese thug’s corpse on the floor. ‘Is all okay?’ he asked, confused.