Again, I told him the truth: how I was compelled to seek vengeance; how the fury inside me had driven me to kill. Not just in the moment, but in a series of deliberate acts.

  I told him that, as much as I blamed my father for his part in Taylor’s death, it was myself I held most responsible as it was my decision that had put Taylor in harm’s way.

  When he asked if I would do things differently a second time around, I snarled, ‘Of course I would’, and damn near hung up on him. I hadn’t though; some part of me knew I would need his help if I am ever to manage my guilt.

  His next question skewered me with a mixture of perception and dread.

  At that point, I hadn’t thought about the future much beyond the next day or week. I drifted from town to town, my Mustang eating up the miles as I tried to leave behind the troubles I carried with me. I took odd jobs in bars, and laboured for builders where I could find them, and I lived in crummy motels and ate in diners. From time to time I’d visit bars and not drink in them.

  Once or twice women sent me the kind of signs I’d always followed, but I turned away from them. For the first time I could remember, since arriving in America as a cocksure fifteen-year-old, I had no interest in female company, whether for a few hours or a lifetime. My company was my own and I didn’t want to bring anyone else down with my morose feelings.

  Since that call, and the emotions it concerned, I’ve been calling Doctor Edwards once a week. Some of the calls salve my wounds, whereas others feel like I’m applying salt to raw flesh.

  On the whole the calls are working, but I know I still have a long way to go before I’m anything like the Jake Boulder I used to be.

  As much as I feel guilt for Taylor’s death, I loathe myself for becoming a killer. It was hard enough coming to terms with the lives I had taken in self-defence; but to see the man in the mirror and know he is capable, guilty even, of premeditated murder, is taking a lot more getting used to.

  In another act of cowardice since leaving Casperton, I’ve taken to shaving only once a fortnight. That’s thirteen days straight that I don’t have to look at myself. Thirteen days when I don’t gaze into my own eyes, trying to see the spark that used to be there and instead seeing the dullness that has replaced their once piercing quality.

  Maybe one day Doctor Edwards will be able to help me find myself, but until that day dawns, there’s no way I’m going to put myself in a situation where I have to take another man’s life.

  It’s a nice thought, and one that would be a lot easier to envision were I not held at gunpoint by a bunch of terrorists.

  Chapter 11

  When Longhorn is led back by one of the terrorists, Sharon can’t help but notice the shocked look on his face. His slapper of a wife – Sharon can’t think of her in any other way – wears a similar expression, although she is sporting a cut lip and a swollen nose, whereas Longhorn is unmarked.

  It is obvious to Sharon what has happened: either Longhorn refused the terrorists’ demands and they roughed her up to bend him to their will, or the girl was defiant and again lashed out at one of their captors.

  Having seen the way the girl reacted to being patted down, Sharon’s money is on the girl acting out, or insulting one of the terrorists. The few dealings she’d had with the slapper showed the girl’s lack of intelligence. Just yesterday morning she had complained that the vegan meal she’d ordered didn’t taste very meaty.

  Sharon had relayed the girl’s comment to the chef, who made sure to drizzle every other meal she was served with at least one type of meat stock.

  It was a minor revenge, but one that Sharon had enjoyed. Now, as she looks at the slapper, she feels the first twinges of remorse.

  What is puzzling her is the way Longhorn and his wife, or whatever she is, were herded to the opposite side of the room. They have a guard to themselves, and she surmises that the terrorists are segregating them so they can ensure Longhorn doesn’t forewarn his fellow hostages about what to expect when they are taken into the manager’s office.

  Another couple have been frisked and as soon as Longhorn reappeared they were led along the corridor at gunpoint.

  The next name to be called is Celeste Powell. Sharon doesn’t know much about her – except that she has good manners, impeccable breeding, and the kind of figure Sharon has only ever dreamed of having. Celeste’s son is a good lad who echoes his mother’s manners, while the daughter expends most of her energy enacting a familiar tale of teen rebellion. Despite the girl’s efforts to be different, she is treading down a path so well-worn it has achieved the consistency of concrete.

  She might think she is being rebellious by being sullen and uncooperative, but she is conforming to type. The fact her mother has to scold her into using better manners, or tell her things twice, is no surprise; the girl is testing boundaries, struggling to cope with the changes to her body as she begins the transition from child to woman.

  When Sharon thinks back to her own teenage years, she again throws a silent apology to her parents. She bunked off school, got into fights, shoplifted, and, on her sixteenth birthday, she’d taken the next-door neighbour to bed then walked down to the army recruiting office and signed up without even listening to what the recruiter was telling her.

  She’d imagined a world away from her parents and that’s what she got. Instead of parental discipline wrapped up with love, she went through the worst fourteen weeks of her life as she endured basic training with nothing more than her ingrained stubbornness to prevent her from quitting.

  Sharon’s mother had forgiven her after a few weeks, but it hadn’t been until her passing out parade that she’d earned her father’s approval. Even that had been tempered by a lecture on what her running off had done to her mother.

  Impulsive as she is, Sharon knows that going off like that was cruel from her mother’s perspective, and she hopes the sullen Miss Powell doesn’t go on to cause her mother the same pain she gave hers.

  Regardless of what the girl may do in the future, Sharon is more concerned about what she may do today. The terrorists aren’t the forgiving type, and if the girl has one iota of sense, she’ll do as she is told, when she is told.

  If Sharon were in Celeste’s place, she would have had a word in the daughter’s ear to stress the importance of complying with the terrorists. On the other hand, she knows that her own teen self would have scoffed at the warning. Perhaps such comments would be likely to send the girl down the path of obstinacy.

  There is nothing Sharon can do about it, other than cross her fingers and hope that fear overrides the girl’s teenage hormones.

  A more pressing question for Sharon is what will happen to them once the terrorists have gotten what they want? The lack of masks is bugging her, and her army training is compelling her to fight back in whatever way she can.

  Even if she can’t fight back, there must be some way she can escape from the terrorists and alert the authorities.

  That’s where Boulder will come in. When she first met him, his name had been familiar to her but she couldn’t remember why. Google had filled in the blanks and she liked that he’d twice thwarted killers: it made him that little bit dangerous. Sure, he was all brooding machismo when not flashing a false smile at customers, but she also found herself attracted to the vulnerability he tried, and failed, to hide.

  If she is to find a way to get out of the terrorists’ clutches, she can think of no one better to aid her. Patrick Fleming is a non-starter in the hero stakes – Sharon doesn’t believe he can contribute anything beyond a bunch of keys and maybe a set of handcuffs.

  None of the other staff are made of the right stuff. They are either teens or twenty-somethings. The exception to this is a pastry chef who possesses a military background. The problem with him is that he’s into his seventh decade and has a fondness for hard liquor, which has put a shake in his hands and a spiderweb of broken veins on his face. He’d be useful if you put a gun in his hands and asked him to provide covering fire, but there is no way she’s confident she can trust him to make a decisive shot if the pressure is on.

  When push comes to shove, she knows the only person who can provide her with any kind of backup worth having is Boulder.

  Chapter 12

  The more I think about it, the less I like the way things are transpiring. The first four groups of people have returned from Fleming’s office wearing shocked expressions.

  As they join the others who’ve visited Hannah, their faces transfer from shock to anger.

  I’m working on the theory that they are all intelligent people; therefore, I’m sure they’ll be trying to work out ways to counteract whatever happened in the office. Whether they’ve been extorted, ransomed, or coerced into some deal or other is irrelevant. What matters is that it’s happened to them and they’re angry about it.

  Whatever it is, it’s clever enough to have them showing an inner fury rather than the impassive faces that denote deep thinking. This tells me their initial thoughts are bouncing back at them without solutions. These are powerful, intelligent people, yet they’re all dumbfounded, too distracted by the trauma of what happened in the office to make sense of it.

  The point I keep returning to is that the terrorists have shown their faces. Whichever way I examine it, I can’t help but sense that all the hostages will be killed before the terrorists leave.

  For me the biggest surprise is that the people who’ve visited the office have returned more or less unharmed.

  Part of me had expected them to be dispatched with a bullet to the back of the head once their purpose had been served. The only reason I can think of for this not happening, is that the hostages are still required: either for proof of life – if this is a mass kidnapping – or to complete whatever scheme the terrorists are working to achieve.

  The connection between their survival and everyone else’s compliance doesn’t escape my attention. Their return, albeit in a state of shock and anger, means those yet to be called forward by Clipboard will do as they are told without resistance.

  I hear the next couple get called up and watch as a man offers his wife his arm and guides her through the mass of people towards Clipboard.

  By now, those being patted down by Tattoo Neck are soft and compliant. By letting them see the others return in one piece, the terrorists have shown the benefits of doing what they say without question.

  The woman’s face twists as Tattoo Neck’s hands slide down her thighs. I’m guessing it’s the intimacy of the touch that bothers her. He stops and feels round her upper thighs with the palm of his hands.

  When he straightens he’s wearing an amused grin and the woman’s face is the colour of beetroot. I can’t work out what’s caused this until I notice she’s wearing nylons and surmise they’re either stockings or thigh-highs. His extra touches weren’t fuelled by lust, but professionalism as he checked to make sure the strange feel to her upper thighs wasn’t caused by a gun, strapped to the inside of her leg.

  I’m moving my thoughts on to the next issue when I hear a gunshot followed by a loud feminine scream.

  Chapter 13

  Like every other captive in the room, my eyes spring to the door from where the gunshot had sounded. Other than agonised screaming, nothing happens beyond muffled shouts.

  The gunshot shows an escalation. I have no idea what’s happening in that office, but I’m sure someone has just paid a steep price for refusing to cooperate with the terrorists.

  The next two minutes pass as if hours, but eventually the door opens and a couple are marched out by Swimmer.

  The man is trying to help the woman but it’s obvious, despite the pain she’s in, she wants nothing to do with him.

  Her right arm is cradled in her left and there’s blood gushing from her elbow. It would appear that’s where the bullet struck. As they walk past me, I can see scorch marks on the less bloody inside of her elbow.

  Despite myself, I wince.

  It’s now clear what happened in the office. The man, in a fit of foolish bravado, must have refused to do what Hannah had wanted. Either she or one of her lackeys had put their gun against the inside of the woman’s elbow and pulled the trigger.

  The action is a variation of the old IRA trait of kneecapping their enemies. That it’s happened to the woman’s elbow rather than her knee has left her mobile. She’s still able to walk and therefore will not require any carrying by the terrorists. Her arm, however, will be as good as ruined.

  If she gets to a hospital that has a team of crack surgeons, she may retain the use of her arm, but up here, at the mercy of Hannah and her cohorts, she’s odds on to lose the use of her lower arm forever.

  Perhaps she could get a new elbow joint fitted, after all, hips and knees get replaced all the time, but before that can even be considered she has to get off this mountain alive.

  She’ll be entering a state of shock very soon and, when the initial rushes of adrenaline and endorphins pass, she’s going to experience pain like she’s never dared to imagine.

  In a lot of ways, her sobbing and screaming will work in the terrorists’ favour. After seeing what’s happened to her, and hearing her pained moans, the chances of someone else refusing Hannah are now minimal.

  ‘Jake.’

  I turn at Sharon’s hiss and look at her. The determination that was there earlier has doubled itself and brought along a hefty amount of righteous fury to keep it company.

  ‘I know. I want to do something as well but it’s too dangerous.’

  My words surprise me. There is little doubt in my mind that someone has to do something about the terrorists, but I’m still at a loss as to what needs to be done and how to do it.

  ‘I thought you were made of better stuff than that. You’re feart, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’d be a fool not to be afraid.’

  ‘We cannae let them keep maiming folk. We have to stop them.’

  ‘Agreed.’ I fix her with a look. ‘Why you asking me?’

  ‘Because you’re the only real man here. I cannae dae it ma’sel’.’

  Sharon’s speech has gone right back to Glasgow from its more universal English, and as much as it takes me back to the old city, I don’t have the solution she’s looking for.

  ‘Nor can I.’ I take a deep breath. ‘If you come up with a good plan, I’ll help.’

  ‘Good, but what we gonnae dae and how we gonnae dae it?’

  ‘I haven’t got a Scooby. You?’

  She shakes her head at me, to indicate she hasn’t a clue either.

  ‘All I can think is that we have to get away from them and raise the alarm. If we can take one of them down and get his weapons, so much the better.’

  What she’s saying makes sense to me. I just need time to think about how to get free.

  However we do it, we must make sure we both escape the terrorists. If either of us should fall into their clutches after making a bid for freedom, we’ll suffer a brutal punishment – if we’re not killed outright.

  Now I’ve decided to act, I realise the hypocrisy of my thoughts. Ever since the terrorists announced themselves I’ve been monitoring them, watching what they’re doing, trying to work out what their goal is.

  As much as I may be denying it to myself, I’m itching to get involved so I can try to save the hostages’ lives. Were the terrorists masked, I’m sure I’d take a different stance, but as they aren’t, I’m driven to believe they’ll massacre every last one of us before they leave; and I’d rather die fighting than wait around for death.

  The one concession I make is that I won’t kill any of the terrorists if it can be avoided.

  Chapter 14

  Leslie Trouseau helps his wife onto a seat and sits on the one opposite her. She wears the same disbelieving look he can feel on his own face.

  What happened in the office is a thing he’ll never be able to forget. As soon as the woman had threatened Lily, he knew he would do as he was told. It wasn’t because he loved her as a person, more he respected her as a woman. As the mother of his children, he couldn’t let any harm come to her, regardless of his own feelings towards her.

  As he’d expected, she was stoic in the face of the threat. Lily Trouseau is neither a weak nor cowardly woman. She isn’t the type to shy away from any confrontation, yet she is wise enough to know when to pick her fights.

  She’d gone along with events as they’d unfolded and retained her haughty dignity even with a gun pointed at her. More than that, she’d refrained from telling him to do as the woman told him. She had, quite literally, put her life in his hands, and despite the terror she must have been feeling, she made no effort to press him to do what the terrorists wanted, and left him to decide her fate.

  Upon their return to the dining room, she’d maintained her icy composure and only shown her gratitude for his decision with a quick squeeze of his fingers.

  As he settles into his seat he feels his heart pounding, and that old, familiar burning in his gut. What he’d been forced to do didn’t sit well with him on any level, and, as such, his body was reacting to the ethical dilemma he hadn’t been given a choice in.

  Much as it galls him to have done what he did, he can see the simple brilliance of the terrorists’ plan. When he looks at the other people in the room he can gauge the effect of the scheme, and the only word he can find to describe its final impact is significant.

  In all his years of studying the world’s news, to predict the potential financial effects of events, he’s never heard of anything like this. If the terrorists can get away undetected, it will become the gold standard for audacious crimes.

  He scrabbles in his pockets and pulls out a blister pack of pills. He is overdue his heart medication and the way it is pounding doesn’t bode well for him. As he feeds the last two pills into his mouth, he curses that he has left the next pack in his suite.