Traitor by Duncan Falconer Read Free Book Online Page B

would.

4
    A white and red Super Puma Eurocopter thundered across the blue-grey waters of the North Sea into the Beryl Oil Field, midway between the Shetlands and the Norwegian coastline. Without a cloud in the sky the sunlight reflected off the sea like the glittering of a million crystals.
    Eight people wearing dark green overalls occupied the two dozen cabin seats, spread about the craft as if they did not want to know each other. Of different races and complexions they all had one thing in common - they looked like thugs. At first glance they appeared to be typical roughnecks but a closer inspection revealed more sinister characteristics. Each bore some kind of scar or other mark of past hardship or hostility. An observer could have seen it in their eyes, too.
    A robustly built man sitting in the frontmost passenger seat got to his feet, opened the cabin door and looked between the pilots through the windscreen. He had mousy hair cropped short, his European features disfigured by a pudgy, broken-looking nose. He focused his gaze below the horizon on the only solid object in view. From a couple of miles away it looked box-like, as though dozens of giant containers had been piled randomly on top of each other and balanced on four gigantic cylindrical legs that rose from the ocean. A bright orange flame burned on the end of a derrick high up and out to one side of the main structure.
    The pilot glanced over his shoulder. ‘We’ll touch down in less than six minutes,’ he said.
    ‘Any problems?’ the man asked, his accent from somewhere close to London.
    ‘None,’ the pilot assured him. ‘We’re looking good, Deacon - don’t worry.’
    Deacon ignored the man, stepped back into the main cabin and regarded his motley crew. They had been together as a team for almost two weeks and he was still not used to the sight of the strange collection of individuals. When Deacon had mentioned it to the bosses the first time he’d seen the assembled team they’d told him that it was intentional. Deacon never really understood why, beyond the obvious theatrical value, and he didn’t enquire further. If they were as able as they were odd-looking he did not care. He was used to working with different nationalities, just not so many in the same team. ‘We’re approaching the target,’ he called out above the sound of the engines.
    Most of the others looked up at him, though not all appeared to understand fully.
    ‘Five minutes,’ he shouted, holding up five fingers. ‘Comms check,’ he mimed, reminding them that the five-minute warning indicated a prearranged order.
    Each had a large bag. Those that had not understood Deacon saw the others opening them to retrieve a radio and earpiece and caught on, doing likewise.
    Deacon produced a radio from his pocket, turned it on and placed an earphone with a microphone attached into his ear. ‘Onetwo, one-two. If you can hear me loud and clear raise your hand,’ he said slowly.
    All of them put up a hand.
    ‘Good. Final weapons check,’ he said, holding up an old Armalite M-15 carbine and extending the short plastic butt that locked into place.
    The others removed the weapons from their bags and did the same.
    ‘Put one up the spout,’ he shouted, making sure the gun’s magazine was firmly in place before snapping back the cocking mechanism and releasing it to allow the heavy internal spring to slam a round back home.
    The sound of several weapons being cocked.
    ‘Apply the safety catch and put them back into your bag.’
    Each man obeyed, except one.
    Deacon walked down the aisle to the end row and stopped to look at a familiar enough sight that he could never quite get used to. It appeared to be a woman, or at least that was a possibility. She had the athletic build of a man - angular shoulders, thick neck and muscular arms and hands - yet her complexion and make-up belied this: her unblemished Indonesian skin cared for, her eyebrows plucked to form a thin curving line, a