Fleming is sent back to his seat as the female terrorist marches towards his office.

  A minute later she returns holding a thin file.

  Sharon doesn’t think the file will be of much use to the terrorists, Boulder has always been guarded about his past. She’d had a few conversations with him, but he always ducked her questions about his background.

  All she’d learned was that he’d moved to Utah when his mother remarried, and that he’d found work tossing drunks from a bar. His lack of knowledge about TV and films had been explained away by his love of reading.

  Sharon had felt an instant kinship with him when they’d talked books. His knowledge of crime and thriller novels dwarfed hers, and she loved that he’d asked about her favourite reads and then recommended similar books that he thought she’d enjoy. She’d tried a couple of his recommendations and had been captivated by the stories.

  Like her, he’d read right across the genre, taking in police procedurals, thrillers, historical fiction, and novels about ordinary people thrust into extraordinary situations.

  That’s how she feels now: like a character in a story. The arc of her narrative isn’t hers to control, it’s in the hands of others. Tonight, the female terrorist is the author and Sharon’s fate is in her hands.

  If there’s as little in Boulder’s file as she suspects, the next obvious move is to put the gun back against Fleming’s head to find out who Boulder is friendly with.

  Sharon knows hers is the only name that will feature. She’s the only one Boulder had allowed to get anything like close to him, and she suspects if it hadn’t been for the fact they are both weegies – as Glaswegians are known – and avid readers, she would have been kept at the same arm’s length as everyone else.

  What little she does know about Boulder won’t help the terrorists, but Sharon doesn’t plan to give up that information easily. Every minute she keeps her mouth shut is a minute the terrorists are dealing with her and not looking for Boulder.

  She doesn’t know how she can be so sure, but she’s certain the fate of all the customers and staff of RidgeTop Resort lies in his hands.

  Chapter 42

  I try the helicopter door that the pilot exited from and find it’s unlocked. When I climb in, I go pistol first in case there’s someone waiting to ambush me. The pilot said there wasn’t, but it’s better to play safe than trust a man’s word when you’ve just kneecapped him.

  It turns out he was telling the truth as the helicopter is empty.

  The cockpit is festooned with knobs and levers that mean nothing to me, but I find the one I asked the pilot about right where he said it would be.

  There’s a stale smell in here that tells of anticipation and men jacking up their nerves ready for battle. It’s the stink of a locker room, and I’m sure there were ribald comments and a certain amount of mickey-taking as they made their way here.

  Hannah’s presence may have curtailed their comments to some degree, but soldiers are soldiers the world over, and all of them have a bawdy, black humour they use as a coping mechanism. For all I know, Hannah could be worse than any of her men.

  I pull the prescribed lever and make my way into the rear of the helicopter where I find the wingsuits the pilot had told me about.

  Their escape plan is a simple one. They’d fly the helicopter straight up, until they reached five thousand feet, and then set a course for Montpelier. With the highest point of Vermont being less than four and a half thousand feet, they wouldn’t have to worry about crashing into a mountain.

  Then it would be a case of using wingsuits to carry them from their jumping point over Roxbury, to where their getaway vehicle was located near Brookfield.

  The helicopter’s automatic pilot would fly it over Montpelier and onwards until it ran out of fuel.

  I don’t know a lot about such things, but there’s every possibility the terrorists in their wingsuits wouldn’t be large enough to be picked up by anyone manning air traffic control stations. Maybe a military grade radar would detect them, but I’m guessing Hannah’s plan doesn’t involve anyone looking for them until long after they’ve made their getaway. Hence the explosives, which would have eliminated all the witnesses.

  In case my plan gets interrupted, I remove the knife on my hip from its sheath and use it to slash at each of the wingsuits that are arranged in the rear of the helicopter. There’s also a box containing what appear to be wrist-mounted GPS sets. This makes sense as the terrorists would need some way of homing in on their destination.

  Whichever way I look at it, donning wingsuits and leaping from the helicopter in the middle of a snowstorm shows each terrorist has the proverbial nerves of steel.

  It also shows a lot of planning, which tallies in with what I have already worked out. Hannah and her cohorts must have a definite goal in mind, which again makes me wonder what was going on in the office.

  My next move is to grab the map and flight plan from the cockpit and make my way outside the helicopter.

  When I’ve found the fuel cap, pulled it back and removed the screw top, I roll the map into a tube and stuff it in the opening. I’m sure there’s a valve of some kind in there to prevent fumes coming out, but I poke and prod until the valve is fooled into thinking the helicopter is being refuelled.

  The smell of the aviation fuel is like nothing I’ve experienced before. It reminds me of gasoline, but more potent. It’s like gasoline’s bigger, angrier brother.

  My intention at this point was to light the end of the map, but I realise the folly of that before I blow myself up with the helicopter.

  A quick change of plan sees me dashing back to the maintenance shed where I fumble around in the dark until I find what I need.

  I take a length of timber and tape the packet of cigarettes to it. Next, I wrap an old rag around the cigarettes and pick up a can of gasoline.

  The can of gasoline isn’t as heavy as I’d like it to be, which means it’s about half full. There’s maybe two to three gallons in it, which should be more than enough for my purpose.

  I return to the helicopter and splash half of the gasoline over the map. Next, I make a trail of gasoline from the ground below the fuel cap and the map, until I have travelled around ten feet.

  The last half pint of gasoline in the can gets poured onto the cloth I’ve tied over the end of the stick.

  If the cloth burns away, the cigarettes beneath it will carry on burning.

  When I’ve added another ten feet to my distance from the helicopter, I pull the pilot’s lighter from my pocket and flick the wheel.

  Its sparks ignite the makeshift torch in my hand. The sudden brightness is blinding for a moment, but I don’t have a lot of time to allow my eyes to adjust.

  I use an underarm throw to send the flaming torch to the end of the gasoline trail.

  It rotates once before landing in the snow.

  My throw is off and the torch lands three feet from the end of the trail; it’s obvious I haven’t allowed enough correction for the wind. Either that, or the thick layer of snow on the ground has absorbed enough of the gasoline to dilute its flammability.

  I now have to decide between making another torch and trying again or going to the existing one and dropping it on the trail of gasoline.

  As I stand there, trapped by indecision, I feel an extra hard gust of wind.

  It must have blown some gasoline fumes towards the torch as there’s a flash and the gasoline trail ignites. There is a fair chance that the snow will prevent the gasoline from reaching too high a temperature, but so long as it burns it’ll do its job.

  The row of flame shoots forward until it’s underneath the helicopter.

  When I see the flames start to climb, I turn on my heel and dash for the cover of the maintenance shed.

  There’s a huge boom and, all of a sudden, the flow of air changes direction. Instead of fighting to run into the wind, it’s at my back, picking me up and throwing me forward. It’s no longer cold – the air propelling me is heated like a super-charged summer breeze.

  I know I’ve landed in a snowdrift, but there’s little I can do about it. My ears are ringing, and every last scrap of air has been removed from my body.

  Chapter 43

  Daniel hears the explosion and reacts the same way as everyone else: he flinches, afraid for his safety, then he looks to his nearest and dearest for reassurance they’re unhurt, and finally, he looks in the direction of the explosion.

  Four of the terrorists are running towards the back of the hotel with their guns drawn. There’s no clue as to what has caused the explosion, but the terrorists’ reaction is a sure indicator that it’s not part of their plan.

  Therefore, it must be something to do with the bartender who slipped away earlier. Daniel hopes he’s got a good hiding place as the four terrorists looked murderous when they ran out of the room.

  Try as he might, Daniel can’t imagine what could have caused the explosion. He wonders if it’s the fuel supply for the generator that powers the resort, but he soon dismisses that as there’s power for the emergency lights.

  He’s still puzzling over the explosion when one of the terrorists returns and goes straight to the woman who’s in charge of them.

  The terrorist says a few words to the woman and she screws up her face in anger. There’s a potted plant near where she’s standing and she delivers a vicious kick at it, toppling the plant over.

  As it rolls, she aims a few more kicks at it until she regains control of herself.

  The way she’s so angry means the explosion has had a profound impact on her plans. Daniel considers what it might be, until he remembers how he got here.

  The ride in the helicopter over the mountains had been super cool, even if his mom had sat staring ahead on the few occasions she’d opened her eyes. His arm still has the bruises from where her fingers had gripped him. It was a small price to pay, as she’d been brave enough to confront her fear of flying just so he could take the helicopter ride.

  They’d got here by helicopter, which means the terrorists could have arrived the same way. Their helicopter must also have been their escape route. This explains why the woman is so angry. Now the terrorists are trapped at the resort, the same way their hostages are.

  While the hostages are held by the terrorists, the terrorists are isolated because of their location. The remoteness and inaccessibility of the resort that started off working in their favour, was now a factor against them.

  Daniel isn’t sure whether this is a good or a bad thing. Now the terrorists’ escape route has been cut off, their plans will have to change if they are to get away with their crime. He figures this may be a good thing, that it will make them leave sooner than they’d intended so they can get away before morning comes and the people at the bottom of the mountain raise the alarm after hearing nothing from the resort.

  So far as Daniel can work out, the only way the terrorists can get down the mountain now is to ski. In the current snowstorm, it would be stupid to try, but the more he thinks about it, the more he realises that if they wait until first light, and take it carefully, they may be able to slip away.

  The storm is supposed to peter out during the night. He knows this because the one thing everyone focuses on at a ski resort is the weather. There are concerns there’ll be too little fresh snow, and worries there will be snowstorms that make it unsafe to go on the mountain. The wrong temperatures, or type of snow falling, can increase avalanche risks, and if the mountain is deemed unsafe, everyone has to hang around waiting until conditions improve.

  As much as there are things to do in the resort, everyone is here to ski, and that’s why there is such an interest in the weather.

  Daniel doesn’t like the idea of the terrorists hanging around until first light, but as he can’t figure out another way for them to leave the mountain, he knows he has to accept the situation and deal with it.

  The man with the clipboard ushers the woman towards the office and turns to face the crowd.

  Daniel’s blood chills when he hears his mom’s name called out. What had happened in the office the first time was bad enough, but now the woman terrorist is so angry anything could happen.

  As he walks forward with his mom he gives her hand a squeeze. His intention is to give her reassurance, while also warning her that she has to comply. He knows the fact that she’d do anything to protect him is a given, but she is also headstrong and more than a little stubborn.

  If the woman terrorist pushes her buttons the wrong way, there is no telling how far his mom will dig her heels in.

  Chapter 44

  The walkie-talkie in my pocket buzzes static at me. I thought I’d turned it off, but my frozen fingers must have failed to twist the tiny knob all the way to the off position.

  After the helicopter exploded I forced myself to move – to get myself to a position where the flames weren’t stealing all the oxygen, to put some distance between me and the area that was lit up by the fire.

  I could have made my way back into the maintenance shed, or the control booth, but I wanted to find somewhere less obvious.

  I’m now holed up underneath the raised deck of the resort. I’ve clambered up the rocks and found myself a dark space where I can hide until the tactical police team arrive. With the billowing snow causing drifts around the resort, and the darkness under here, the only way the terrorists will be able to find me is if they come specifically to search this area.

  Because of the whistles and howls produced by the wind, and the fact that visibility is no more than a dozen feet at best, I’m confident I can stay hidden as long as is necessary.

  There is sure to be a backlash from the terrorists now I’ve trashed their helicopter, and the last thing I want to do is make it easy for them to find me.

  By my reckoning, the police will be here in a half hour or so, and I’m quite comfortable with the idea of spending a half hour crouched on a rock shivering. I’ll be cold, there’s no question about that, but I’m more than happy to handle a spot of discomfort if it keeps me alive.

  It’s not just the terrorists I’m keeping away from. When the police get here, they’re going to be pumped up, jumpy even.

  They’ll be expecting resistance. I’m covered in blood, half frozen, and armed with as much firepower as any one of the terrorists. This makes the odds of me being shot by the cops rather higher than I’d like them to be. Friendly fire is a real threat, and when I do expose myself to the cops, I won’t be carrying any weapons and my hands will be as far north of my head as it’s possible to get them.

  With the terrorists still at large, there’s no way I’m going to relinquish my weapons just yet though.

  I hear a crackle of static again and reach for the walkie-talkie in my pocket.

  When I pull it from my jacket I have to force my fingers to grip it with enough strength to depress the call button. ‘Nathan?’

  ‘My name isn’t Nathan. Your name, however, is Jake Boulder. You’re a bartender with a most interesting history. You’re also a former doorman who keeps finding himself in trouble. Trust me, Boulder, blowing up my helicopter was the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.’

  The voice coming through the walkie-talkie belongs to Hannah. There’s no mistaking the hint of French accent or the surety with which she speaks.

  How she’s identified me isn’t hard to work out. A gun pointed at the head of one of the kids in the room would have gotten someone to tell them who was missing.

  While Sharon portrays herself as a tough cookie, it’s an act everyone can see through. If it was her who gave Hannah my name, I bear her no ill will. She’s done what is best for her and those she can protect, and that has to be admired.

  When all is said and done, Hannah and her cohorts knowing my name won’t change the situation. They still won’t know where I am. All they’ll know is that I was tending bar at RidgeTop.

  I quickly realise the mistake in my thinking: Hannah had said I kept finding myself in trouble. This means she knows more about me than I tell people.

  The information isn’t hard to find if you know where to look. In her shoes, I’d have gone to the personnel files to learn as much as I could about the person I was up against.

  My file will have details of my employment history and my home address. A two-minute search on Google with my name and home town will have brought up results that detail the trouble she’s speaking of.

  Those parts of my life aren’t a secret, I just prefer not to talk about them because they’re what set me on the path that turned me from a doorman to a stone-cold killer. I left Casperton to escape the man I’d become and to try and find the Jake Boulder I used to be. It’s why I took the job on RidgeTop.

  Hannah will now be aware that I’ve killed before, that I’m not the kind of man to walk away from a fight, and that I’m nobody’s fool.

  I also realise she must have a way of accessing the Internet that isn’t available to any of the hostages. Maybe she’s just unplugged the Wi-Fi router and plugged a laptop into the wall, or perhaps she’s got a fancy satphone that allows her to surf the web.

  ‘So, you know my name. What’s yours?’

  The line is the kind I’d use on a pretty girl in a bar, and I don’t for one second expect that she’ll tell me her real name, if she gives me a name at all. She’s opened up a line of dialogue and I’m curious as to what she’s after. She’s bound to be less than happy with what I’ve done to her helicopter and the men I’ve either disabled or killed.

  In her place I’d be desperate to nullify the threat to my plans.

  ‘My name isn’t important. What’s important is that you have become a nuisance to me. I want you to stop being a nuisance. Therefore, I am proposing you stay holed up wherever you are until I’ve left, and I won’t start shooting hostages.’

  I’d bet my life savings she won’t keep to her word. The presence of the explosives tells me that she plans to kill everyone. As callous as it sounds, it’s better that a couple of hostages are killed rather than all of them.