of several houses – these too had ladders on them – and everywhere there were more of the little breeze-block office buildings that he was using to hide behind. A main road led up into the centre of the refinery, and lines of lorries were parked along it in neat little groups. He supposed that ordinarily there were fewer trucks here, but no one was going to be delivering oil at the moment. Not until the storm had passed.
Just as that thought crossed his mind, there was a sudden howling of the wind. It threatened to knock him over so, quite calmly, he pressed his back against one of the breeze-block walls and waited for it to pass. Then he continued on his way.
For five minutes he headed towards the refinery. He was going to have to be careful here. He wasn't dressed for this area.
He stopped, caught his breath, and looked around.
At the base of one of the towers he saw what he wanted: an oil-refinery worker. They were few and far between, and he knew how important it was for him not to get away. The worker wore jeans and a luminous green jacket. His head was covered by a yellow hard hat.
Quickly, the man rummaged in his rucksack before pulling something out and hiding it inside his leather jacket. Only then did he step out into the main road.
'Hey!' he called. 'You there. You heading out?' Ordinarily the man's accent was English, but for the purposes of this conversation he put on an American accent.
The worker turned to look at him. He shook his head and pointed in the air as if to say that he couldn't hear what the man was saying because of the wind.
'You heading out of the refinery?' the man repeated himself, his voice louder now. 'I could use a lift.' As he spoke he hurried across the road towards where the worker was standing.
The worker looked at him curiously as he approached, clearly surprised that someone dressed in jeans and a leather jacket should be this far into the refinery. But he seemed on edge, keen to get off the site and away to a place of relative safety – so if he was concerned about the man's presence here, he didn't say so. Instead he jerked his thumb over his shoulder. 'This way, pal,' he called. 'I'm parked up back here. You're in luck – I was just leaving.'
He turned and walked in the direction he had pointed.
Now that the worker's back was turned, the man worked quickly and deftly. The Beretta 92FS that he pulled from inside his jacket was his favourite pistol, and he would only need one of its fifteen rounds to carry out the job in hand. He swiftly raised it so that it was pointing at the back of the man's head.
And then he fired.
The shot rang out, echoing around the refinery. It was loud, but somehow it didn't seem out of place here, and he wasn't worried that anyone would come running. They would probably just think it was something to do with the wind.
The shot itself was well placed: just below the rim of the hard hat, just above the line of his luminous green jacket. The worker fell instantly to the ground. The man didn't waste any time: he dragged him out of sight of the road and quickly, before the blood could spoil his clothes, he started to undress him. Moments later he was wearing the regulation uniform of a South Miami Oil Refinery employee. He left his own clothes in a bundle by the corpse before, without a moment's remorse for what he had done, he slung his rucksack back over his shoulder and started hurrying further into the refinery.
There was a job to do.
There was money to be earned.
Everything was going according to plan. He just prayed that it would continue to do so.
Ben, Angelo and Danny gripped on tightly to the side of the boat. It was still being jostled and blown around by the wind, but for the moment they had something else to worry about. It wasn't far to the shore and in any other circumstances they'd have made straight for it. But there was no way they could do that. No way at all.
Just as that thought crossed his mind, there was a sudden howling of the wind. It threatened to knock him over so, quite calmly, he pressed his back against one of the breeze-block walls and waited for it to pass. Then he continued on his way.
For five minutes he headed towards the refinery. He was going to have to be careful here. He wasn't dressed for this area.
He stopped, caught his breath, and looked around.
At the base of one of the towers he saw what he wanted: an oil-refinery worker. They were few and far between, and he knew how important it was for him not to get away. The worker wore jeans and a luminous green jacket. His head was covered by a yellow hard hat.
Quickly, the man rummaged in his rucksack before pulling something out and hiding it inside his leather jacket. Only then did he step out into the main road.
'Hey!' he called. 'You there. You heading out?' Ordinarily the man's accent was English, but for the purposes of this conversation he put on an American accent.
The worker turned to look at him. He shook his head and pointed in the air as if to say that he couldn't hear what the man was saying because of the wind.
'You heading out of the refinery?' the man repeated himself, his voice louder now. 'I could use a lift.' As he spoke he hurried across the road towards where the worker was standing.
The worker looked at him curiously as he approached, clearly surprised that someone dressed in jeans and a leather jacket should be this far into the refinery. But he seemed on edge, keen to get off the site and away to a place of relative safety – so if he was concerned about the man's presence here, he didn't say so. Instead he jerked his thumb over his shoulder. 'This way, pal,' he called. 'I'm parked up back here. You're in luck – I was just leaving.'
He turned and walked in the direction he had pointed.
Now that the worker's back was turned, the man worked quickly and deftly. The Beretta 92FS that he pulled from inside his jacket was his favourite pistol, and he would only need one of its fifteen rounds to carry out the job in hand. He swiftly raised it so that it was pointing at the back of the man's head.
And then he fired.
The shot rang out, echoing around the refinery. It was loud, but somehow it didn't seem out of place here, and he wasn't worried that anyone would come running. They would probably just think it was something to do with the wind.
The shot itself was well placed: just below the rim of the hard hat, just above the line of his luminous green jacket. The worker fell instantly to the ground. The man didn't waste any time: he dragged him out of sight of the road and quickly, before the blood could spoil his clothes, he started to undress him. Moments later he was wearing the regulation uniform of a South Miami Oil Refinery employee. He left his own clothes in a bundle by the corpse before, without a moment's remorse for what he had done, he slung his rucksack back over his shoulder and started hurrying further into the refinery.
There was a job to do.
There was money to be earned.
Everything was going according to plan. He just prayed that it would continue to do so.
Ben, Angelo and Danny gripped on tightly to the side of the boat. It was still being jostled and blown around by the wind, but for the moment they had something else to worry about. It wasn't far to the shore and in any other circumstances they'd have made straight for it. But there was no way they could do that. No way at all.
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