Sharon doesn’t speak until the female terrorist walks round the table and presses her gun against Sharon’s forehead. The barrel is still warm from the first shot and Sharon can feel it burning her skin, but that’s the least of her worries.

  ‘Go ahead, kill me. You were right, as soon as your man brought me in here, I’ve been expecting to die. Pull the trigger; I’m not going to answer any of your questions.’

  As brave as her words were, Sharon hears the fearful catch in her voice.

  ‘You know, I believe you’d rather die than talk.’ The woman turns to the man in front of the laptop and speaks a few words to him in a language Sharon recognises as French.

  The man leaves the room and, after a minute or so, Sharon hears shouting and protestations.

  When he returns he’s got the three children with him who’re customers at the resort. The smart boy is the first into the room and he’s trailed by the Powell girl and her little brother.

  The man stands guard at the door while the woman trains her gun on the girl.

  ‘I’m going to count to five. Then I’m going to shoot her. Maybe I’ll blow her brains out, or perhaps I’ll put a bullet into her lungs. Can you picture the frothy blood spilling from her mouth as she breathes her last? Or the splatter of her brains on the wall? On the other hand, I could put a couple of shots into her gut. Bad way to die that, it’s slow. Maybe her wailing in agony and crying for her mother will loosen your tongue.’

  As much as she wants to resist the terrorist, Sharon knows she has a moral duty to protect the children rather than Boulder. ‘I’ll talk, provided you let the children go now.’

  ‘No, you’ll talk now.’ To emphasise her point, the terrorist racks the slide on her pistol.

  The girl shrinks back, whimpering as she tries to hide behind the smart boy. To his credit, he stands firm and allows her to cower behind him. The terror on their young faces is awful to see and there’s no way Sharon can, in good conscience, maintain her silence. She knows when she’s beaten, she just hopes what she tells the terrorist is so inconsequential that the information is of no use to her.

  ‘Jake Boulder is working here as a bartender. He used to be a doorman in Utah, and when I looked him up online, I saw he got mixed up in a couple of investigations and ended up killing a serial killer or two. I helped him because you’re not wearing masks, which leads me to think you’re going to kill us all. There are no other plans to attack you and your men. So far as we’re concerned, Boulder is our only hope.’

  ‘Very good.’ The woman points at the man by the door. ‘Get them out of here.’

  Sharon tries to remain impassive, but the agony of her arm is twisting her face and covering it in sweat. A part of her wants to tell this woman what an evil bitch she is, how inhuman her words and actions are making her, but there’s no point. Either the woman knows and doesn’t care, or she’s such a psychopath that she feels nothing for anyone. The question is, what will happen to her, now the woman has the information she wants?

  ‘You do know you won’t get away with your plan. The police and the FBI will track you down and put you on death row for what you’ve done.’

  ‘I think not. The state of Vermont hasn’t used the death penalty since 1954.’

  ‘You keep telling yourself that. Whatever you’re up to, you’re not doing it for nothing. The mass kidnapping, plus the murders you and your team of douchebags have committed, will count as a federal crime, and as such, they can overrule the state.’

  ‘You seem well informed.’

  Sharon gives a nonchalant shrug, glad to have prickled the female terrorist. ‘I’m well read, that’s all.’

  ‘Are you now?’ The female terrorist grabs a hardback book from a shelf and swings it at Sharon’s injured arm. ‘Well read this.’

  Sharon tries to protect herself as the spine of the book slams into her arm, but the impact still causes her to squeal in pain.

  Time and time again the terrorist swings the heavy hardback at Sharon’s face until the Glaswegian passes out from the repeated blows.

  Chapter 50

  I crouch down and try to shrink into the roof. After making my way back from the main entrance, I’d circled round and picked up the trail of the welcoming committee.

  As I expected, they’ve found a vantage point that lets them see the various ski slopes.

  The place they’ve chosen to spring their ambush is the decked walkway that leads out to the balcony at the end of the dining room. They’ve smashed the lights, so they’ll be hidden from the approaching cops, but I’m able to see their dark silhouettes against the falling snow.

  Once I’d determined where they’d set up station, I ducked back and found the ladder that affords the maintenance man access to the roof.

  With the design of RidgeTop Resort similar to that of a Swiss chalet, the roof has a steep pitch, which would be impossible to climb were it not for the snow guards that stick out at right angles to the tiles beneath.

  The snow guards are designed to prevent the slippage of snow on the roof and, rather than the usual one or two rows, RidgeTop Resort has snow guards every four feet. It makes sense that they’ve more than doubled the required amount as it wouldn’t do their reputation any favours to have wealthy customers caught beneath a deluge of snow that has slipped from the roof.

  After cresting the roof’s ridge, I made a slow climb down the opposite side until I was stationed above the three terrorists.

  They have no idea I’m here, and while I’m confident I can shoot at least two of them before they realise where I am, I’m not ready in my mind to make a deadly ambush. If the police have heard my warning messages, or have managed to listen in to the conversation between Hannah and I, there’s every chance they’ll have aborted their original plan and come up with another.

  They may also have enough guile about them to sneak the last few hundred yards up the hill and ambush the terrorists.

  It’s a welcome thought, and one that I’d love to become a reality.

  I strain my ears and focus all my attention on listening for sounds of gunfire, or the roaring engine of a piste basher; nothing beyond the howl of the wind is audible, but it doesn’t stop me concentrating.

  If I wasn’t listening like this I’d be worrying about the cold that is numbing my body. I’m still in my whiteout mode, although I’ve realised that, if I’m going to ambush these guys, I could have kept my jacket on and benefitted from its protection.

  My eyes are on the terrorists below me and I have my submachine guns resting on the snow guard in front of me. I have my hands cupped in front of my mouth so they’re getting warming breaths on them – there’s no feeling in my fingers but they work when I tell them to bend or straighten.

  A glance at my watch tells me the tactical team should be here by now. This renews my hope that they’ve either called off this plan or have added a decent layer of stealth to it.

  My hopes are dashed when I see the terrorists below snap to attention. The one who’s carrying the rocket launcher flips up what I assume is a sighting mechanism.

  I strain my ears and hear a dull roar.

  It must be the piste basher, which means the tactical team are about to come into view.

  When I look down the slope I see a flash of lights fighting through the snow, as the noise of the engine gets louder.

  I pick up the submachine guns and check their safeties are in the off position.

  I’m now torn between two choices: I can ambush the terrorists before they spring their trap, which means I’ll be facing three of them alone, or I can wait until the piste basher comes into view and use its distraction to aid my own attack.

  What I know about rocket launchers can be written on the back of a stamp with a marker pen, but from what I’ve seen in the movies it takes a few seconds to aim one and, with a moving target travelling uphill in a snowstorm, I figure the guy firing it will take at least ten to twenty seconds to get his aim right.

  That’s more than enough time for me to stand and strafe the men below. It will also show their intent to murder, which is enough of a salve for my conscience to allow me to use deadly force.

  The guy with the rocket launcher puts his eye to the sight, so I rise to a standing position with my feet braced against the snow guard.

  I’m taking aim when I hear a whoosh and see a trail of smoke leave the rocket launcher. The way it curves off to one side, before being swallowed by the snowstorm, doesn’t bode well for those in the piste basher.

  The way that the terrorist had only pointed the launcher in the general direction of the piste basher, tells me the missile was either locked on to its target or it is heat seeking. After its slog up the mountain, the piste basher’s engine will be more than hot enough to attract the missile’s sensors. I figure their only hope is that there’s a large tree between them that will act as a barrier. It’s a forlorn hope and not one I cling to.

  My fingers squeeze the triggers of the submachine guns I’m aiming at the three terrorists. Killing them is little more than an act of revenge. I could rationalise it as self-preservation, now it looks as though our rescuers have been slaughtered, but if that were the case I’d be scared. The one thing I’m not at this moment in time is frightened. My blood is pulsing though my veins and there’s a redness at the edges of my vision. All thoughts of cold have vanished from my body, as have the feelings that I shouldn’t act as judge, jury and executioner.

  Chapter 51

  The submachine guns kick and writhe in my hands, but I manage to control them enough to aim them at the terrorists.

  Two of the terrorists do that weird flailing dance you see in the movies when someone overacts being shot. That the terrorists aren’t acting means the people in the movies have got it right, although it’s never looked that way to me.

  It’s the guy with the rocket launcher and the guard on his right that I’ve hit. The third guy is standing dumbstruck, he’s turning around, looking into the snow for the hidden shooter who’s taken out his buddies, when my submachine guns click on empty.

  My fingers are too numb to fumble about changing a magazine, so I leap off the edge of the roof towards him.

  He’s only a couple of yards away, and there’s enough of a height difference between where we’re standing for me to cross those yards in the air. His attention is still on the snow but he’s turning towards his colleagues as I close in on him.

  He’s lifting his gun and I can see the frightened expression on his face.

  My gun may not have any bullets – I’ve tossed one and lifted the other above my head – but as I drop beside the terrorist I bring it crashing down on his skull.

  The impact creates a sickening crunch and jars the submachine gun from my hands.

  He’s reeling, his eyes are dazed, and this is the kind of opportunity fighters like me always make the most of.

  When your opponent is in the state of disorientation the terrorist is experiencing, they’re never more than a blow or two from being knocked out. His brain will be reverberating inside his head. There may be hairline fractures to his skull, or even an area that’s been smashed in.

  I doubt the latter has happened, though, as he’s still vertical.

  My hands grasp his gun and wrench it from him. It would be easy to turn the gun on him and blast away, but the beast inside me that’s reddening my vision has a more primal idea.

  I toss his weapon to one side and throw a punch at his jaw. The blow sends him staggering backwards but he stays on his feet.

  A second punch follows the first and, when this one doesn’t drop him, I grab his lapels and drag him onto the hardest headbutt I’ve ever delivered.

  He drops to his knees, where he sways but doesn’t topple.

  A part of me admires his resilience, another, larger part, is glad of it. I want him to be tough, to be hard to put down. If that’s the case, I can unload my anger onto him and make him feel real pain before I finish him off.

  While he’s still dazed, I strip him of his other weapons and send them over the balcony so they’re out of his reach.

  As I’m turning, ready to deliver a blow that will keep him in his current state, I feel a pair of arms wrap themselves around my legs, and a shoulder collides into my hip.

  I fall backwards and feel his weight as he swarms over my body. His punches are aimed at my face, so I duck my chin onto my chest and use one arm to try and protect myself while the other mounts a counterattack. The bullet wound I’d picked up earlier howls in protest, but it’s only a flesh wound, so while my arm hurts like hell, I can still use it.

  I’ve been hit harder, but his desire to stay alive is powering his arms, so while he’s not delivering the best of punches, it’s fair to say that in his current condition he’s giving it his best shot.

  Had I not landed the first few blows, I’m sure he’d be hitting me with a lot more power and precision.

  Rather than trying to land a punch on his head or throat, and risk my aim getting deflected by his swinging arms, I go for a different target.

  When you’re on your back with an opponent on top of you, it’s as near as dammit impossible to punch upwards with enough force to rock the other fighter. This is because you can’t draw back your arm far enough to gain a decent amount of momentum.

  On the other hand, there’s plenty of room to swing a more lateral punch.

  I snake out my right hand, until it’s pointing northwest compared to the rest of my body, and swing it downwards in an arc, lifting it as my hand curls into a solid fist.

  My knuckles slam into his side just above his hip. I’m not sure whether the blow has landed far enough back to be a proper kidney punch, but it knocks a little more of the fight from him.

  I give up using my left arm for defence and use it to grab his left wrist.

  This time when I repeat the punch my left arm is pulling him across my body, exposing a large area to my right hand.

  I throw three more blows and then buck him off me.

  I don’t plan to clamber on top of him after showing him how to get out of the situation, so I roll the other way and bring myself back to standing.

  I’m sure when I have time to put a hand to my face I’ll feel a mass of swelling and a broken nose, but self-examination can wait until later. This is the one positive side effect of being so cold.

  The terrorist is on his hands and knees in front of me.

  One well-placed kick at his head will end the fight here and now, but I’m not finished punishing him yet.

  My kick breaks at least three of his ribs and lifts him two inches.

  His arms buckle and his head slumps down to the snow, but his hips are still raised enough to make his balls a target that’s too inviting not to swing a foot at.

  He screams in agony and rolls onto his side.

  I grab one of the stalactites hanging from the eaves and give it a vicious jerk.

  It comes loose in my hand leaving me holding a ten-inch stiletto.

  I thump the sole of my shoe into the terrorist’s shoulder so he’s laid on his back. The skin covering his throat doesn’t offer much resistance to the stalactite, and neither does his Adam’s apple or his larynx.

  When I turn my back on him, frothy blood is spilling from his throat and running into his collar. He’s got a minute to live, maybe ninety seconds if he’s unlucky and his will to stay alive drags out his suffering.

  With the three terrorists taken out, I turn my attention to the piste basher.

  As I peer through the snow, the only sign of it that I can see is a yellow glow flickering in the distance. My subconscious heard an explosion when I was shooting at the terrorists, but if the rocket had missed its target, I’d be staring down the barrel of a cop’s gun by now.

  I leave the balcony and set off towards the piste basher. Not for one second do I think anyone has survived the rocket blast, but there’s no way I can take the chance that someone has, and I’ve left them to die by not checking.

  Chapter 52

  When he hears his name, Leslie pulls himself to his feet with the help of a table. The night has gone on a lot longer than he’s used to. As a rule of thumb, he’s in bed by ten thirty and asleep within five minutes.

  His days start at four thirty when, after a light breakfast, he opens his laptop. The three hours before Lily comes down offer him far greater peace to work than his office does. There’s no ringing phones or knocks at the door to distract him, just the muted strains of Bach or Beethoven.

  For him to stay up until midnight is a stretch, to go past one in the morning has sapped what little strength his frail body possesses. Regardless of his own poor health, he offers a hand to Lily and helps her to her feet.

  He knows what will happen when they’re taken back to the office. As soon as the first person to have been shepherded into the office was taken in again after midnight, he knew that he and Lily, along with every other one of the hostages, would be called upon for a second visit.

  The only hostages who’ve not been escorted into the office are the staff, and to Leslie that makes perfect sense. With all relevant respect, the staff aren’t important or wealthy people; therefore, they are of little or no worth to the terrorists.

  The customers, on the other hand, are all people who enjoy a certain status in life. They have money or power; in most cases they have both.

  Whether terrorists kill or extort people for political, religious or financial gain doesn’t matter to Leslie as he walks to the office with his wife’s hand clasped in his. He knows what they’ve already had from him, and he has no choice but to give them the same again.

  The way he had been forced to do as instructed rankled him, and went against all his principles, but when the muzzle of a pistol was placed against Lily’s temple, he’d caved and done their bidding.