Whichever it is, I’m sure there will be a detailed plan for the terrorists’ escape.

  That’s why I’m here: it’s my plan to disable the helicopter in the most permanent way. With no escape route available to them, the terrorists are far more likely to surrender when the police get here.

  However, the presence of Mr Pilot means I either have to either take his life or remove him from the helicopter before I start playing with fire.

  I’m wondering how to get him out of his seat when I see something move out of the corner of my eye.

  There are a pair of terrorists patrolling the area. They’re looking everywhere, examining every possible hiding place.

  I don’t have to be a rocket scientist to work out who they’re looking for.

  As I slink further behind the ski lift’s control booth, watching them approach, I pay attention to the way they’re moving.

  They’re covering each other at every step, making it virtually impossible for me to ambush them.

  I’d tried a suicidal charge once and gotten away with it, the only cost to myself being a flesh wound, but I know I can’t use that tactic again. I won’t be so lucky a second time, especially if there are two people shooting at me.

  I don’t have a lot of time to find a new hiding place, or formulate a plan of action, so I retreat to the far end of the structure and climb the stairs until I’m in the control booth.

  It’s a bare, uncluttered space with glass windows on all four sides. There’s nowhere to hide apart from behind the control desk.

  As soon as I’ve ducked into a crouch, I curse myself. The flashlights used by the terrorists are bound to pick out the tracks I’ve left in the snow. By coming into the control booth, cornering myself is all I have achieved.

  I need a new plan, and I need it in a hurry.

  Chapter 39

  I reach up to the control desk and turn the key to power it up. Next, I move the gearing lever from neutral to reverse.

  The normal movement of the lift sees the chairs slide alongside the control booth to a level area where passengers can dismount, before the cable goes around a horizontal wheel and sets off down the mountain for the next load of passengers.

  When I’d rounded the booth, I had to dodge one of the chairs. I press the button that sets the gears into motion and hope my plan works. I hear nothing, which could be good or bad.

  I charge down the stairs and around the corner in time to see the two terrorists grappling with the chair, which is pushing into their backs. They hadn’t heard it coming due to the storm and the fact that the ski lift is powered by electricity.

  As I run at the terrorists, I assess the threat levels they each present, as well as which man offers me the best opportunity of striking a telling blow.

  The man nearest to me is the shorter of the two and the chair is banging against the back of his head. He’s ducking to avoid it, while his taller companion has bent himself at the knees to allow the chair to pass clear over his head.

  As the taller one has taken the wiser option, he’s more of an immediate threat, so I concentrate my attention on him first. Because there’s two of them, I have to take one out and be ready to fight the other by the time he’s let the ski chair past and got himself re-orientated.

  I charge forward and launch into a dive that sees me grab the rail at the front of the ski chair. My weight and momentum thrust it backwards as I throw my legs underneath it. The rear edge slams into the top of the shorter terrorist’s head with a thump that causes a spurt of blood to fly upwards until it’s swallowed by the blizzard.

  This is an unexpected bonus, but I’ll take it. Sometimes, you have to accept a spot of good luck. When fighting armed terrorists, I won’t just accept good fortune, I’ll buy it dinner and make sure it gets home safe.

  My feet land exactly where I’ve aimed them: right in the centre of the taller man’s chest.

  He flies backwards until he’s sprawled on his ass.

  He shakes his head as he tries to recalibrate his brain.

  I release the chair and run at him. A glance to my right tells me the shorter guy isn’t a threat. He’s out cold. I don’t know whether he’s stunned or dead but, as he’s not reaching for a weapon or clambering to his feet, he’s of no concern to me.

  The taller one has sat up by the time I get to him, and he uses crossed arms to block the kick I aim at his face.

  It’s a good tactic, but this isn’t the first time I’ve been in a fight.

  I lean my weight back and plant my foot on his chest.

  He can’t help but be levered onto his back.

  I shift my balance onto my right foot so all my weight is on his chest. My left foot is arcing at his head when he slams a fist into the back of my knee.

  My leg buckles. I don’t want it to, but I can’t do anything about it as the tendons take the kind of hit that decides their fate for them.

  The kick I aim at his face is way off target as I fall backwards and flump into the soft snow.

  I try to slam my heel towards his head but he’s already on the move. His hands are clawing at my body as he clambers over me.

  A fist slams into each of my cheeks and then my mouth.

  I can taste blood and feel a tooth loosen, but those are minor details. He’s on top of me and has weapons. I need to change the narrative of this fight before it comes to the kind of sudden end that involves him getting the better of me. Should that happen, I’m a dead man. The terrorist will either kill me outright, or he’ll take me inside and Hannah will make me suffer before she kills me.

  Neither option appeals so I writhe around, trying to buck his body off me while attempting to grab his wrists.

  I manage to get my hands round his left wrist.

  He realises what I’m trying to do and reaches backwards with his right hand.

  Whether he’s reaching for his knife or his pistol doesn’t matter, either one will kill me.

  I pull his left hand away from his body and try bucking him that way.

  He braces himself against my efforts, which is what I’d expected him to do.

  My next buck throws him the way he’s leaning. I twist my grip and force his arm to my left and his right. He doesn’t have time to correct his balance before I’ve got him falling towards the snow.

  He extends his right hand to break the fall, which means he’s not reaching for his weapon any more.

  So far, so good.

  As he leans, unable to move either way, I twist his forearm behind his back. It’d be easy to get him in a painful armlock and pin him to the ground but, while that move works well with drunks, this situation requires less finesse and a tad more brutality.

  When his forearm is pointing straight across his back, I plant my left hand on his elbow and yank his hand up and away from his body. The movement is akin to that of a mechanic loosening wheel nuts.

  He screams in agony as the cartilage and tendons in his elbow are torn apart by the unnatural movement. I dare say some bones break as well, but that’s his problem rather than mine. I might not plan to kill any of the terrorists, but after seeing how they intended to kill everyone at the resort, I have no compunction about breaking them a little.

  I release his arm to grab his weapons and toss them out of his reach.

  My next move is to slam punches into his temple until his howls of pain stop.

  I rise to my feet mindful there may be another ski chair coming my way.

  There isn’t, so I cross over to the shorter guy. He doesn’t react when I push a finger into his eye, so he isn’t conscious.

  He could have irreparable brain damage or may just be out cold; there’s nothing I can do except neutralise the other terrorists and let the emergency services pass their judgement on him. My fingers are too numb to check for a pulse, but when I stare at his chest I can see it rising and falling.

  Rather than leave the terrorists lying in the snow to freeze to death, I drag each of them into the control booth.

  It’s a struggle getting the taller one in there, but I manage. He’s starting to come round as I get him there, but another punch to the temple solves that.

  When the two men are laid side by side, I pull the roll of duct tape from my pocket. There’s only a foot or so of it left, which isn’t enough to bind them both.

  A quick stab to their hearts, or a slash across their throats, will make sure they’re neutralised, but I’m not yet ready to resort to murder again. I hope I never am.

  To make sure I don’t have any trouble from them, I pick up the short one’s right leg and lay his foot on the taller one’s chest.

  A stamp on his shin makes sure he’s out of the game.

  I do the same with the taller one’s left leg.

  As I’m closing the door to the control booth, I realise I should have replaced my dress shoes with their boots. I could go back and get a pair from them but, while I have no compunction in breaking their bones if it prevents them from coming after me, I’m not cruel enough to exacerbate their injuries by pulling off boots from broken legs.

  Chapter 40

  With the two terrorists dealt with, I turn my attention back to the helicopter. I’m convinced it’s key to the terrorists escaping the resort. Part of me wants them to have the facility to leave, but a greater part of me knows if they decide to go they won’t leave any of their hostages alive.

  It’s my intention to disable the helicopter, thereby shutting off their escape route. If they can’t leave they’ll be less likely to murder their hostages. If they’re faced with a stark choice between going down in a hail of bullets or limiting their crimes when faced with a police SWAT team, my thinking is they’ll pick the wise option and accept a life in jail.

  Maybe Hannah and one or two of her closest aides will make something of a stand as ringleaders, but if they do that, I reckon they’ll want live hostages.

  I know I could be well off target, but until the cops get up the mountain I’m the only one who can put even the slightest dent in their plan.

  What their plan actually is, I’m still unsure. All I know is it involves every one of the resort’s paying customers, as they were all being taken into the office. I’d like a bit of time to sit and think about what the terrorists are up to, so I can try and work out what their plans are, but that’s not going to happen for a good while – if ever.

  The helicopter sits dark and malevolent in the snowstorm. I can see the shape of the pilot sitting in the cockpit. He’ll be cold and bored. Whether he’s armed to the teeth or carrying nothing more dangerous than a flight plan doesn’t matter. I have to presume he’s got the same weapons as the other terrorists. To think any other way would be naive and little more than suicidal.

  I circle the helicopter keeping enough of a distance from it that it’s a shadow in the snow. I’m sure it’ll have doors to allow passengers and cargo in and out, but I’d be surprised if they weren’t locked.

  When I consider the number of terrorists who’ve come looking for me and haven’t returned, it’s fair to assume Hannah will be taking all precautions necessary to protect her interests. A key one of these being the helicopter.

  I need a ruse to get the pilot out so I can take him down. I’d also like to spend a few minutes questioning him about his flight path. Wherever Hannah wants him to fly, there must be a way the terrorists can land and get away without detection from the law enforcement agencies that will be going after them.

  This has to be the most crucial part of their plan, for I don’t believe they’re on a suicide mission. Hannah is too smart not to have figured out a way to get herself and her troops to a place of safety when their mission is over.

  If I can find out where they’re due to land, the police can also mop up any getaway drivers that may be waiting for them.

  I’m thinking of ways to get the pilot out of the helicopter when he does the job for me.

  He climbs out, takes a quick look around, and wanders across towards the maintenance shed. Rather than head for the door, he stands at the sheltered side and arranges himself in the universal stance men adopt when facing a urinal.

  As opportunities go, it’s gilt-edged and far too good to pass up. I sneak up behind him, slowing from a crouched run to a brisk walk. With every step I take I’m afraid the crump of my feet on the snow will give me away, but the howling wind covers my approach and allows me to sneak up on the pilot.

  He goes to turn round so I introduce his temple to the butt of my pistol. My pistol is happy at the meeting, his temple not so much.

  He staggers a little and mumbles something incomprehensible. I didn’t put maximum power into the blow as I want him conscious. He’s a little stunned but that won’t last long.

  To further the effect of his brain rattling around inside his skull, I grab the front of his jacket with my left hand and draw his face onto my forehead.

  Headbutts are a primitive form of fighting, but they’re sure as hell effective. His nose is busted, which means his eyes will be watering and he’s now blind and disorientated. A minute ago he was taking a whizz, now he’s in a state of confusion and is about to be in a world of pain.

  My knee slams into his groin. It’s not what you’d call fighting fair, but he’s an armed terrorist. I could just as easily have put a bullet in the back of his head, but that would have been homicide.

  The funny thing about homicide is it makes people uncommunicative, and I need the pilot to talk.

  It’s also illegal, immoral and just plain wrong.

  I repeat the knee to the crotch. It’s not necessary as the fight has gone out of the pilot, but I want him to understand I’m more than happy to hurt him.

  He crumples to his knees and I accept his inability to move as an invitation to frisk him. He’s got a pistol holstered at his waist, but otherwise he has no weapons. What he does have though is a packet of cigarettes and a lighter.

  It’s a filthy habit and one I managed to quit several years ago. In light of the evening’s events I’m tempted to have one for old times’ sake, but the idea disappears as soon as I realise I’m re-enacting the cliché of the condemned man being given a last cigarette.

  I stuff them in my pocket for later. In the right hands, cigarettes have more uses than just being a nicotine delivery system.

  Give the pilot his due, despite the agony of his crushed groin, he’s trying to mount a counter-attack. He wraps his arms around my legs and tries to drag me down into the snow with him.

  A solid punch to the side of his head dissuades him.

  I take a step back and kick his shoulder, causing him to fall face-down.

  Now he’s where I want him, I put my pistol at the back of his knee and pull the trigger once.

  He’ll never walk again, without a stick, and I’m pretty sure he’ll never pilot another helicopter, but that’s not something I can worry too much about. If he’d been unarmed I’d have been less inclined to cripple him; although, I’m now of the thinking that every terrorist I encounter must be neutralised, and as I’m not killing them, I have to make sure they can’t come after me.

  His agonised howls are whipped away by the wind, but I don’t need to hear his screams to know how much he’s hurting.

  When I place the pistol against the back of his other knee he stops howling and starts begging.

  I ask him a series of questions and he answers them without hesitation. My dominance has been established and he knows full well he’s powerless against me.

  What he tells me explains an awful lot and, in a weird way, I find myself respecting Hannah’s ingenuity and bravery, while despising her cold-hearted nature.

  To save him from any more agony I crash my pistol into the side of his head, and then go through his pockets.

  I don’t find any keys, which means at least one of the helicopter’s doors is unlocked.

  I leave him to be covered by the falling snow.

  Chapter 41

  Sharon does as she’s told and assembles with the rest of the waiting staff. The female terrorist has her gun to Fleming’s head and is asking him if all staff are present. She can see the little knots of people that represent each department and knows it’s Fleming’s way of giving an accurate count.

  It’s only a matter of time before he realises it’s Boulder who is missing and gives his name to the terrorists.

  While she doesn’t like the manager in any way, the man is being put in an impossible situation. Fleming can’t be expected to gamble with his own life to protect Boulder, a guy he’s only known for a couple of weeks.

  Therefore, Boulder’s identity will soon be known to the terrorists. The question that’s puzzling Sharon is how will that information be of use to them? With all the communication signals blocked they can’t find out anything about him, and if they are able to contact him, they’ll also be able to shoot him, meaning the information is useless to them.

  That they’re asking the question tells Sharon there must be a reason. Maybe they plan to look at his personnel file to see if he’s ex-military or ex-law enforcement.

  This indicates to Sharon that Boulder’s still at large, that the terrorists who’ve been sent after him haven’t found him.

  Sharon almost dares to hope that Boulder has gotten away, until she sees Fleming looking at the bar staff. His face tightens and his lips clamp together.

  The female terrorist sees this and screws her gun against his ear with enough force to push his head to the side.

  Fleming’s mouth opens and a few words spill out.

  Sharon can’t hear what he’s said, but she doesn’t need to, to know what they are. The smug triumphant smile on the female terrorist’s face tells her everything she needs to know.

  Some more questions are put to Fleming and they’re answered with short sentences interspersed with the odd shrug.