Should he be well enough to get to his feet when their moment comes, he plans to do whatever he can to help them.

  Chapter 66

  There’s a lot to be said for Hannah trying to find out if I’m still alive: it shows she respects me enough to fear me, and she’s trying to make contact with me to ascertain my whereabouts or if I’m still alive.

  Five times she’s tried to contact me and five times I’ve not replied.

  So the radio doesn’t give away my position, I’ve turned it down and her words are little more than a whisper.

  I’m not sure if she knows I’m alive and she’s aware I’m ignoring her on purpose. In her position, I’d keep talking in the hope my adversary is holed up somewhere, listening to my every word.

  This may well be her plan, but it’s not one I’m going to fall for. I’ve already returned to the beer cellar. The door is busted from where it was kicked in to rescue the guy I’d left in here, but the shelves at the back of the room are still in place.

  The kitchens are across the hall, behind the reception desk, and they’re where I should have gone before coming here.

  I make my way to the kitchen and rummage around until I find what I need. A chef’s sharpening steel works well as a short truncheon, so I slide one up my sleeve and grab a box of extra-long matches from the counter top.

  As I move through the kitchen I keep myself low enough to not show through the windows of the serving doors.

  I’m also careful not to knock any of the pots or pans. Everything in here is metal and in the middle of service there’s more than a little noise. The last thing I want to do is knock something over and have a metallic clatter alert the terrorists of my whereabouts.

  There’s a pile of serving cloths dumped on a counter, so I grab a knife and cut two of them into quarters and stuff the pieces into the back of my rope belt. It tightens even further against me, but I’ll be delighted if that’s the worst discomfort I feel tonight.

  Before I return to the beer cellar, I edge my way towards the dining room doors. I’ve no intention of going through them or trying to look through the windows. Instead, I’m checking on a simple device that will make my life easier.

  Each of the four bolts that stop customers entering the kitchen in the middle of the night, via the exit and entrance doors, have been shot home. I’d expected as much – it makes sense to secure all possible exits from the area where the hostages are being held – but it’s nice to have the confirmation.

  I sidle across to the door that leads from the kitchen to the main corridor. This is used by servers delivering room service, and has a slatted blind across its window.

  There’s a fraction of a gap either side of the blind, and I position myself so I can peer through it.

  I don’t see anyone at the dining room end of the corridor, but there are a pair of terrorists at the main entrance end.

  They’re maybe five feet back from the door and they both have their guns trained that way.

  I grab a bag of sugar as I leave the kitchen and make my way to the beer cellar again.

  Now I know the location of two of the terrorists, I can start putting my next plan into action.

  My first move is to climb up the shelving and pop the access hatch open. Like the kitchen, this functional part of the resort has a proper ceiling and there’s a way to get above it.

  I place all my supplies up there then pull out my radio and put it to my ear. Hannah has gone from trying to get a response from me, to telling me what she’s about to do.

  ‘Did you hear me, Boulder? I want to know where my explosives are, and if you don’t tell me, I’ll start killing hostages. Say, one every minute, until you tell me where you’ve stashed my explosives. How does that sound to you? How many deaths can your conscience take before you give in and tell me? One? Two? Maybe it’s a dozen, so I’ll start with the youngest, those who have the most life yet to be lived.’

  As much as I want to reply to her, I keep my silence. I don’t even move my grip of the walkie-talkie in case I press the send button and let her know that I still have it.

  So far as I can work out, her threat is an empty one. If she starts killing people she’ll have a revolt on her hands and, until she’s ready to leave, she’ll always have a use for some of the hostages. The youngest ones will be the most valuable to her and there’s no way she’s going to sacrifice them without certain knowledge that I’m aware of her attempts to communicate with me.

  I almost miss the most significant part of what she’s saying, or not saying as the case may be, but a part of my brain registers it.

  If she knows about the explosives being missing, it means she’s sent one of her men to check them. Which means either someone is outside and about to come in, or he’s come back in without me noticing. If he’s outside, he must have a radio, and if he’s back in the building, he’s come in via the balcony or one of the emergency exits.

  In case he’s outside and about to come back in, I push on with my latest plan and pull the cork from a cognac bottle, roll it across the floor, and clamber up the shelves. The sooner I get myself out of sight, the better my chances of seeing the sun rise.

  Chapter 67

  Sharon is aware things have changed in the dining room since the windows were shot out. The female terrorist has reassigned a large portion of her men.

  The curtains have been opened and there’s two terrorists standing guard by the broken glass. Another pair have been positioned by the doors leading to the main entrance.

  Three of the remaining four are standing over the hostages, while the man with the clipboard has assembled the dozen customers who’ve yet to take a second visit to Fleming’s office into a line outside the door.

  Since the last one came out a minute ago, no one else has been ushered in.

  Sharon doesn’t know what the reason for this is, but it’s not at the forefront of her thoughts. All she wants to do now is get her hands on a weapon and join the fight.

  The pain in her face is beyond excruciating and it’s adding to her fury at the terrorists’ actions.

  What they did to her was bad enough, but to threaten three innocent children, so she would give up Boulder, was cruel on another level.

  The biggest surprise to Sharon is the effect Boulder is having on the terrorists’ plan. Not only have their numbers dwindled by half, those left are now edgy and nervous. This means they’re not at their best. Their decision-making skills will be compromised, leaving them vulnerable.

  However, she doesn’t believe that Boulder will be able to take down all of the terrorists himself. What she has to do is find a way of arming herself so she can join the fight.

  She knows she’s a long way from her best and she can only open one of her eyes, but neither of these facts is enough to deter her.

  Sharon expects to die if the terrorists aren’t stopped, and because she believes this, she has nothing to lose. The idea that she’ll die before the night is out terrifies her, but the thought of dying without fighting back fills her with shame.

  The biggest barrier she’s got is that the guards are all spread out, and the odds of her being able to take down one, and grab their weapon, before being shot by another are slim to non-existent.

  There is a glimmer of hope for her though. The nearest guard is a bald guy who has spent more time ogling the women than intimidating the men.

  In Sharon’s mind, he’s nothing more than a lecherous pervert, but in the circumstances that’s a good thing, as it shows a weakness she can bend to her advantage.

  The server who’s holding her down is young and pretty, and Sharon had already spotted the guard checking her out whenever he could.

  That’s why she’s using the girl as a distraction.

  Her idea has put the girl in danger, but as Sharon expects them all to be slaughtered anyway, all that will happen is the danger to the girl will move from imminent to immediate.

  Sharon knew that to get the girl to cooperate she would have to remember her name. She’d trawled her way through her memories of conversations when the girl was around and remembered her getting into trouble for never fastening the top button of her blouse. RidgeTop isn’t the kind of place where the waiting staff are expected to flirt with the customers or flash a little flesh to keep them coming back, yet the girl had done it anyway.

  There is every chance the girl is a gold-digger, who’s only taken the job in the hope of snaring a rich husband, but as far as Sharon’s plan is concerned, the girl’s brazenness will be a plus.

  Sharon had placed a hand on Brooke’s shoulder and pulled her forward so she could whisper in her ear. Every word she’d spoken sent pain shooting through her jaw, but she’d said everything she needed to, regardless of the agony.

  The girl tried to refuse at first, to suggest another way, but after a minute’s persuasion she agreed to do as Sharon asked.

  Brooke removed her shirt, rolled it into a ball, and handed it to Sharon who’d used it to dab at the wounds on her face.

  If Sharon’s own shirt hadn’t been covered in blood she would have used that and kept Brooke out of it. For Sharon, showing her bra was no different to wearing a bikini top, it’s only the change in venue that makes the difference. At least that’s the case with the comfortable sports bras that Sharon favours.

  Brooke’s personality, and possible agenda, has extended to her underwear: her bra is designed to be seen. There’s little doubt in Sharon’s mind that the girl’s underwear will be a matching set, something she hasn’t worn herself since the day she gave up on her marriage.

  From the corner of her functioning eye, Sharon can see the guard is paying a little too much attention to Brooke.

  The girl has an arm across her chest in an effort to cover herself, but Sharon can tell from the tension in the girl’s arm that she’s deliberately pressing her chest hard, to squeeze her breasts upwards, in an effort to make them appear bigger.

  Sharon gives Brooke a mental pat on the back. Not only is she playing along with the ruse, she’s doing all she can to make it work.

  Brooke stands and walks towards the bald guard. He points his gun at her, but it’s not her hands he’s watching.

  Sharon knows how the conversation will go. She’s put the words into Brooke’s mouth.

  Whether or not the guard lets the girl get some water to bathe her wounds is immaterial. The whole purpose of the request is to distract the guard and establish a habit.

  His head shakes, and he points towards the hostages. He’s obviously sending her back, but Brooke has more nerve than Sharon has given her credit for. She unpeels her right arm from her chest and uses it to point at the bar as she repeats her request.

  The bald guard locks his eyes onto her chest and leaves his arm out indicating that Brooke should return to where she came from.

  Brooke holds her stance for a few seconds then turns away from him shaking her head.

  Sharon is delighted with the exchange. Because the guard was focused on Brooke’s chest he hadn’t threatened her in any way, which means he sees her as a source of entertainment rather than a threat.

  She pities Brooke for the fact that she’s bound to be even colder than she is. Including the terrorists, everyone is doing whatever they can to keep warm.

  The cold is the least of their worries, so Sharon settles down to wait for Brooke to carry out the next part of her plan.

  A single shot ringing out from the office causes her head to snap up. The movement sends waves of pain shooting through her shattered jaw.

  As much as the shot has startled Sharon, it confuses her more. The female terrorist is in the office by herself, and she doesn’t believe that she’s committed suicide or pulled the trigger by mistake.

  With no one there to shoot, the reason for the shot is a mystery.

  While a part of Sharon wants to question why the shot rang out, she knows she must forget about that, and the hostages’ visits to the office, and concentrate on what’s happening in the dining room.

  If she survives the night, she’ll find out what happened in there, and if she is to see the morning sun, she knows she has to focus on her plan and be ready to strike at the opportune moment.

  Chapter 68

  Instinct forces me to take on the rigidity of a statue when I hear the gunshot. I’ve gambled that Hannah is bluffing, but a part of me is terrified I’ve called it wrong. The gunshot is what I’ve been dreading.

  Except it’s not followed by the right noises. I know I’m a good thirty yards or so from the dining room, but I’m sure I’d hear screaming and shouted outrage had Hannah shot one of the kids.

  I hear nothing except a whisper from my pocket.

  ‘That’s one, Boulder. How many more will there be before you tell me where my explosives are?’

  I grab the control knob on the walkie-talkie and twist it to the off position before stuffing it back in my pocket. The less I hear from Hannah, the less she’ll be able to get inside my head.

  By not answering her, I’m screwing with her mind and that’s the way I want to keep it.

  Although my rationalisation makes sense I’m still filled with doubts. I wonder if she has really shot a hostage, or if she fired a shot into the floor in case I’m playing the game I am.

  A part of me can’t help but wonder who she chose – if she’s been true to her word. While my earlier thinking was that the children are the most valuable hostages, there’s an awful lot of wealthy and important people in the resort tonight, which means any one of the customers would suffice should she need someone’s head to put a gun to.

  I think of the people in the room that I have something of a feeling for: Sharon Bairden and I hit it off due to our shared memories of Glasgow; Hank, the sous chef, is a decent guy – he is the one who cooks the staff meals and he does so without any of the attitude you usually get from chefs. The only other person in the room that I care about more than others is the young lad, Daniel, and most of those feelings are projections.

  I’ve never had kids, nor wanted any until I met Taylor if I’m honest. My mother has rattled on for years about me being the only person who could make her a grandmother, but I’ve never been in, or wanted to be in, a serious relationship.

  When I found myself in one, I did start to wonder about settling down and raising a family. I had even been prepared to put someone else’s needs above my own.

  On a Monday morning, after Taylor had left my flat to go to work, I found myself thinking about kids; and despite everything I’ve said to Mother on the subject I found myself wanting kids.

  I blame that lazy hour for the way I’m feeling right now. I’d let my imagination run free that morning and had conjured up pictures of the children I wanted.

  A boy and a girl were the obvious starting points, but I’d gone past there and imagined the people I wanted them to be. The boy would be the eldest and his sister his junior by no more than two years.

  He’d squabble with her the way I had with my sister but, like me, he’d always protect her from bullies and make sure she was safe.

  Both of my children would be well-behaved, and my fictional versions had them smart enough to choose whatever career they wanted, but their intelligence would also see them possess sufficient street smarts to keep them out of trouble.

  Their manners would be good, and as they grew into teenagers they’d be able to hold a decent conversation with an adult.

  Most of all they were children any parent would be proud of.

  That’s why I’ve found myself caring about Daniel, he’s a real-life version of the son I’d imagined having. Everything about him – from his nature to his respectful ways – is how I’d wanted my son to be. The way he talks impresses me; he doesn’t speak like a normal teenager, all hashtag this, OMG that, he talks like an adult. The limited bits of conversation I’ve had with him have shown he’s very smart and he relishes a puzzle. He’s alert to what’s going on around him and he gets subtext and unspoken words better than a lot of adults. I’m confident he’ll go far in life, and I see elements of my better qualities in him.

  The best thing about both Daniel and my imaginary son is that neither of them have my faults, which means they would grow up to be a better person than I am and, other than health and happiness, that’s all a parent can hope for their child.

  I push all of these thoughts from my brain and refocus on my latest plan.

  Chapter 69

  I work my way along the ducting, between the false ceiling and the floor above, until I’ve got myself in the area I want to be.

  It’s not easy to move around up here when carrying supplies but I manage it. Crawling along the duct is a lot better than trudging through snow and it’s many degrees warmer, but my hands and feet are still numb.

  I lean away from the ducting and reach down to lift one of the ceiling tiles to check I’m in the right place.

  Once I’ve confirmed I am, I start finalising my preparations. First, I put one of the rags from my rope belt to one side and arrange the remaining seven pieces so they lay flat on top of one another. I then fold the pile of cloths over the barrel of one of the pistols that is tucked into the rope at my waist.

  The length of rope in my pocket is used to tie them in place.

  As silencers go, it’s makeshift, but it’s the best I can do in the circumstances. I’m not confident it will muffle all the noise from the pistol being fired, but as long as it muffles most of it, it’ll serve its purpose.

  With that part of my preparation complete, I remove the cork from the bottle of cognac I brought with me.

  I splash the amber spirit on the rag that isn’t wrapped around the pistol barrel until the whole thing is damp.

  My fingers reek of cognac by the time I’ve rolled the scrap of cloth tight enough to press two inches of it into the neck of the bottle.

  As tempting as it is to suck the cognac from my fingers, I settle for rubbing my hands on the pipe lagging.