"All five men are wearing stocking masks."
Dermott said, "Which they wouldn't bother with if they intended to dispose of the hostages." His husky murmur dropped to a whisper. "Keep low. Keep quiet."
A rectangle of light had appeared at the side of the cabin. A figure walked through the opened doorway and headed toward the smaller building. Moments later lights came on there.
"One of them," Brady said. "Hardly likely to let one of the operators stroll across there and send off an S.O.S. Perfect. Come, George, this is where you earn your congressional medal of honor or whatever."
Brady moved out, traveling quickly and silently, no trace of the comfort-loving fat man left. Arriving at the main cabin door, Brady looked over his shoulder to check the smaller cabin. The light was still on, the door still closed. Brady turned back to the cabin door, gripped the handle, opened the door and walked inside, 38 in hand, closely followed by Dermott and Mackenzie, with their guns leveled. Brady advanced on the four stocking-masked men sitting around the table. Several started up.
"Keep your hands on that table," he said, "if you're not entirely mad. We're just looking for an excuse to shoot you through the head. One of you turn that radio off ― the good news you're waiting for has just arrived."
"Jim! Jim!" Jean Brady was on her feet. "You've come!"
"Of course." Brady's voice held a curious mixture of irritation and smug self-satisfaction. "You thought I wouldn't? Brady Enterprises always delivers." As his wife made to approach him, he raised his left hand. "Just a minute. Don't come too close. These are desperate men. Mr. Reynolds, Stella. Sorry we took so long about this but ― "
"Dad!" Stella was on her 'feet, a desperate urgency in her voice. "Dad, a man ― "
"Drop your guns." The deep voice came from the doorway. "Don't turn around or you're dead."
"Do what the man says." Brady set the example. Within a second the other two guns had clattered to the floor.
"Stay where you are," the same voice ordered. "Billy."
Billy didn't have to be told what to do. His search was quick but thorough. He stepped back and said, "Clean, boss."
"So." The door closed and a burly man appeared before them. Like the others, he was masked. "Sit on that bench there." He waited until they had done so, seated himself by the table and said, "Watch them." Three of his men produced pistols and covered the three seated men. He put away his gun.
"The 'ladies, I must say, seem very disappointed. They shouldn't, really."
Brady looked at them. "What he means is that things could be worse. If his plan had worked, we three would be dead. As it is, Ferguson is critically ill and two others seriously injured." He looked at the leader. "You placed that bomb in the plane?"
"I can't take all the credit. One of my men did." He lit a cigarette and stuck it through a hole in the stocking mask which had been cut out for that purpose. "So now I have Mr. Jim Brady and his two invaluable associates. A full hand, one might say."
Brady said, "Designed to blow our tail off at thirty thousand feet?"
"What else? It would be interesting to know how you're alive."
"We're alive. But one man's probably dying, and two are seriously injured. God, man, what are you ― a psychopathic killer?"
"Not psychopathic. Just a businessman. How come you didn't die?"
"Because we landed before the bomb went off." Brady sounded very tired. "We got a report from a forest ranger saying that an off-white helicopter had been seen in these parts. Nobody paid attention except us ― we knew you had a white helicopter."
"How did you know that?"
"A lot of people saw it around the plant at Athabasca."
"No harm done." He waved a hand. "All the aces in the pack."
"Whoever placed that explosive charge in my plane made a lousy job of securing it," said Brady sarcastically.
"I can vouch for that. He was interrupted."
"The package moved forward and jammed the controls ― the tail ailerons. The pilot had to land ― it was on the way down that we caught a glimpse of your helicopter. We crash-landed on another lake. Pilot told us to get out. He tried to remove the charge, and the two others stayed with him. I guess they felt they had to ― they were cops."
"We know that, too."
"So they were expendable. You had no compunction about murdering them, too?"
"Compunction is not a word in my vocabulary. Why did you come here?"
"For your helicopter, of course. We have to get those injured men to hospital."
"Why hold us up?"
"Don't be so stupid. We can't fly the damn thing."
The leader shrugged. "Sorry about that."
"And of course, you people killed Crawford."
"Crawford?" He turned to another of his men. "Fred, that lad you attended to ― "
"Yeah. That was him."
"And you critically wounded Grigson, Sanmobil's president, and a policeman?"
"Seems to have been an awful lot you didn't prevent."
"And, of course, it was you who blew up the plant and destroyed the dragline. A pity you had to kill and wound so many in the process."
"Look friend, we don't play kiddies' games. Too bad if someone gets in our way. This is a man's world, and we play for keeps."
Brady bowed his head in apparent acceptance, raised his hands to cross them behind his neck. His fingers touched.
What should have been the tinkling of shattered glass was lost in the crash of three shots that sounded almost as one. The masked men with the guns yelled out in agony and stared in shocked disbelief at their shattered shoulders. The door was kicked violently open and Carmody jumped in, machine gun steady in his big hands. He moved a couple of steps forward. Willoughby ran into the cabin carrying a revolver.
Dermott said, "Your words. This is a man's world, and we play for keeps."
Carmody advanced on the masked leader and thrust the barrel of his machine gun hard against the man's teeth. "Your gun. By the barrel. Do you know what is my one ambition in life right now?" The man, apparently, did. Carmody pocketed the gun and turned to the remaining and unwounded member of the quintet, who had his gun on the table before Carmody could even speak to him.
Brady said, "Satisfactory, Mr. Willoughby? The floor is yours."
"An Oscar, Mr. Brady. They sang beautifully." He advanced to the table. "I think you all know who I am?"
Nobody spoke.
"You." He indicated the person who had so hastily placed his gun on the table. "Towels, cotton wool, bandages. Nobody's going to mind very much if your three friends bleed to death, but personally I would sooner see them die legally. After they've been tried, of course. Let's see your faces." He walked around ripping off masks. The first three /aces apparently meant nothing to him. The fourth, belonging to the man he'd just appointed to first aid duty, clearly did.
"Lucky Lorrigan," Willoughby said. "Erstwhile helicopter pilot, more recently a murderer on the run from Calgary. Severely wounded a couple of officers in your breakout, Lucky, didn't you? My, aren't they going to be pleased to see you again!"
He tore the mask from the leader's face. "Well, well, would you believe it? No less than Frederick Napier himself, second senior supervisor in Sanmobil security. You've strayed a bit from home, haven't you, Freddie?
"All five of you are hereby taken into arrest and charged with murder, attempted murder, kidnapping and industrial sabotage. I don't have to remind you about your legal rights, silence, access to lawyers. You've heard it all before. Not that it will do any of you the slightest good. Not after the beautiful way Napier sang."
Brady said, "Would you say he was the best singer of the lot, Mr. Willoughby?"
Willoughby stroked his chin. "A moot point, Mr. Brady." He had no idea what Brady was talking about, but had learned to listen when he suggested something.