‘Did you hear what I said?’ Deacon called out as he approached.
The red-headed warrior glanced at his Arab colleague and then back at Deacon.
‘Yeah, you,’ Deacon said, looking at Viking.
‘I answered,’ Viking explained.
‘So what are you still doing here? Go set up the bloody camera!’
The Norseman understood, grabbed his foul-weather jacket off a hook and hurried away.
‘Viking idiot,’ Deacon muttered as he pushed in through the door they had been guarding. The Lebanese thug jammed it open with his foot, his weapon at the ready.
Inside the large dining room a hundred and sixty-four platform workers minus those maintaining the rig’s life-support systems sat on the floor, hands secured behind their backs with heavy-duty plastic cuffs. They were a variety of shapes and sizes, many of them big or just overweight, dressed in dirty clothes and looking dishevelled. Among them were the rig manager and the security supervisor. They all eyed Deacon, their expressions ranging from curious to self-pitying, from coldly calculating to angrily malevo - lent. The room felt uncomfortably warm with that number of bodies crammed into it and the smell of sweat and other body odours was almost overwhelming.
Banzi and Pirate squatted on the edges of the counter in opposite corners of the room with guns held easily in their hands. Queen walked between the hostages, offering water which he squirted none too accurately from a plastic bottle into their open mouths. He looked approvingly at one handsome young man and gave him an extra helping.
Deacon took a moment to look them all over before stretching out a hand and pointing to one after another. ‘You, you, you, you, you, you. Stand up.’
The randomly selected six men looked from one another to Deacon, each waiting for the others to make the first move. Several of them looked concerned about their possible fate.
‘Come on. Hurry up. Get to your feet,’ Deacon called out.
‘Piece o’ shit,’ someone grumbled loudly.
‘Who was that?’ Deacon asked, not particularly annoyed and even somewhat admiring of the man’s spirit. He managed a smirk. ‘You six selected men. Stand up and file out of the room. Nothing’s gonna happen to you. The only shootin’ we ’ave planned, for the moment at least, is a little TV show.’
‘Lying bastard,’ another voice called out.
The men still did not move.
‘If you make it difficult for me, I’ll make it difficult for you,’ Deacon assured them.
‘Gutless bastard,’ another man muttered.
Deacon pulled out his pistol, walked over to the outspoken hostage and stopped behind him. The man was suddenly horrified about the outcome of the move. He had good reason to be. The hijacker slammed the pistol into the side of the man’s head, almost knocking him senseless. The man fell onto a colleague, blood pouring from a wound across his ear.
‘If you men don’t stand up in five seconds I’ll kill this gobshite,’ Deacon snarled, placing the muzzle of his pistol an inch above the man’s skull. ‘And then I’ll kill another, and another . . . 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 adjust the settings on the camera with his oversized fingers. ‘You,’ he called out, pointing to Jordan on the end of the line-up while looking through the lens. ‘Move a little over.’
Jordan did as he was told. The wind suddenly picked up and whipped at them all.