Darkest Hour by James Holland Page B

selected a reamer but it was too big so
he tried the smallest. That's more like it. Gently
probing with the narrow metal pin, he felt for the mechanism. He crouched down,
ear next to the padlock, turned the reamer and heard the locking mechanism
spring open. With his hand already round the padlock, he slid it from the bolt. One down.
    The second was even easier. It had, he reckoned, taken
him about twenty seconds to undo both. Not bad, he told himself, especially
considering he hadn't picked a lock in years. He drew back the bolt and
prepared to open the door, praying its hinges wouldn't squeak.
    Slowly Sykes pulled it ajar and slipped inside. He
pushed it to and got out his torch. He made sure the blackout was across the
lens, then switched it on and opened the filter until he had a sliver of light.
    The store was filled with rows of wooden shelving from
floor to ceiling and smelled of dust, canvas, oil - and, yes, petrol.
Immediately ahead he saw boxes of .303 ammunition, No. 36 grenades and Bren
magazines stacked together. Slowly he walked past two more rows of shelving,
turned down the third, and immediately smelled fuel. But there was nothing - no
barrels, no four- gallon tins. For a moment, he paused, then squatted down and
noticed circles in the dust, one of which had stained the floor. Circles caused
by fuel barrels.
    Sod it , he thought. It was evidence of sorts, but not
enough. Then he went back, turned down the last row and his heart quickened.
Halfway down, a stash of boxes blocked the passageway between the shelves.
Sykes went up to them. They were light cardboard, filled with clothing and
overalls, easily movable. He lifted down the top box, then others until he
could see beyond. He shone his torch. There, double-stacked at the back of the
storeroom, were a dozen barrels of aviation fuel.
    He was about to head back to find Tanner when he heard
a noise from the other side of the wall now facing him. Turning off his torch,
he pressed himself against the shelving. A moment later, the door creaked open
and he heard a man gasp. Then something heavy was dropped on the floor.
    'There's got to be someone in here,' said a low voice.
    Sykes froze. He heard muffled whispers, then a torch
was turned on, throwing shadows. Sykes dared not move.
    Footsteps, careful, measured. Two steps, pause, two
steps, pause, each time getting closer.
    Now Sykes wished the sergeant was with him. He had no
weapon on him, save his clasp knife. The sergeant had just seconds to rescue
him. Come on, Sarge. Where the bloody hell are you?
    Two more steps, then the man shone his torch straight
into Sykes's eyes, momentarily blinding him.
    Blinking, Sykes tried to see who it was but couldn't
tell. All he saw was a dark figure behind the torch beam. He held up a hand to
block the light, but as he did so, the man swung his fist into the side of his
head. The force of the blow knocked Sykes backwards into the stack of clothing
boxes, then onto the floor.
    With his eyes closed, he lay as still as he could,
despite the pain. The man took two more steps towards him and kicked him. Then,
satisfied that Sykes was out cold, he turned and went back. More muffled
voices, then the sound of tearing cloth and a fresh smell of fuel. Jesus, no, thought Sykes. A match being struck, a brief
pause, then the whoosh of petrol igniting. He heard the door close and the keys
turn in the padlocks.
    The stores were darker now, but a faint orange glow
came from near the door. He fumbled for his torch, switched it on and got to
his feet groggily, staggered and half fell, then recovered and hurried back to
the entrance. Flames were already licking up the first row of wooden shelving
and at its foot lay a body - Tanner's.
    For a split second, Sykes was paralysed by indecision.
Then he stepped round the flames, shoved Tanner to one side and began
frantically to pull ammunition boxes off the shelves. Already several were
blackening, but he knew that the moment they caught he was