My fingers scrabble against the masonry until my hand goes down the right side of the duct. I slide my hand away from the duct I’m lying on. With every inch my hand moves away from the duct, I’m expecting it to collide with rough bricks.

  When my fingertips bump against something, my arm is three-quarters extended.

  I don’t feel anything rough like masonry, instead I feel something smooth, metallic, and warm.

  It’s another duct.

  I reassess my position in the hotel and realise that the one I’ve crawled along has taken the turn left because it was heading towards the boiler room. If there’s another off to my right, it’ll probably turn left and take me in the direction of the suites.

  That’s where I want to be: away from the terrorists, somewhere they won’t be looking and, most of all, somewhere that has a telephone connected to the outside world.

  I reach across to the other duct. When I have my right hand planted on top of it, I shift my weight across and put my left hand beside my right. My back skims the underside of the floor above me as I bridge the gap and pull across one leg then the other.

  Once again, I set off on a slow crawl, pausing every now and then to squeeze the tickle from my nose. After five or so paces, my forearms bang against something.

  I use one hand to fumble at the obstacle and surmise it’s a cable tray. It’s halfway between the duct and the floor above so I have to wriggle my way over it.

  The burgundy vest that’s part of my uniform snags on a sharp edge and tears, but that’s the least of my worries.

  I keep going until the duct turns left, and I follow it until I’ve passed over two more cable trays and a collection of pipes.

  The duct takes a turn right and, as I progress along it, I feel smaller sections of ducting protrude from either side and head off to heat the adjoining rooms.

  This is all good news, as I figure that the ducting is following the corridor to the point where the corridor turns to provide access to the cable car station. Along either side of the corridor there are storerooms, an office, and the reception desk.

  When my head bumps against another wall, I reckon I’m at least fifty feet from the toilets.

  It’s crunch time; I reach down from the duct and locate the edge of a ceiling tile.

  Using my fingertips, I lift it just enough to allow me to see if there’s anyone below.

  There isn’t, and I don’t hear anyone shout a warning, so I lift the tile a little higher and crane my head to look along the corridor as best I can.

  When I see nothing, I mentally cross my fingers and move the tile to one side.

  I now have a twenty-inch square to drop through.

  As I adjust my position and get ready to lower my feet through the square, I hear a sound I shouldn’t hear.

  Fingers drumming against something metallic.

  The space below the hole darkens as a terrorist wanders below me and stops in his tracks.

  He’s got a submachine gun in his hands and the same weapons on his hips as the other terrorists. If the way he’s moving his body is anything to go by, he’s bored. First, he leans left, then right. His next move is to lean forward, as if touching his toes.

  His presence is a nuisance in every possible way. I can’t drop down when he’s there, but if he takes a few steps and returns, he’s bound to see the missing ceiling tile.

  I’m left with no choice but to act. I position myself ready to drop and make the best plan I can think of as I’m shifting my weight off the duct and starting to fall.

  Chapter 24

  I don’t have a lot of options for dealing with the terrorist I’m dropping towards, but there’s no doubt in my mind that this is a time to hit first and ask questions later.

  As I drop, I swing my right hand towards the side of his neck. My hand is flat to deliver a karate style chop rather than a punch.

  By design, my left hand slides over his left shoulder and down his chest.

  I’m hauling him back as I fall. The impact, of both my blow and my weight, landing on his left shoulder drives him to the floor as my left arm snakes up and under his chin.

  Unlike the movies where a hero will fight for minutes with his enemy trying to strangle him, a good chokehold takes only a few seconds to render someone unconscious, as it cuts off the blood flow to the brain rather than oxygen to the lungs.

  The terrorist drops his gun as he reaches up to scrabble at my arm. He’s too late. The suddenness of my attack has caught him unawares and, by the time he remembers the knife on his hip, his movements have become sluggish and uncoordinated.

  Even as I’m grappling with him, I’m looking left and right along the corridor in case he’s not alone.

  I give him an extra couple of seconds of pressure then poke him in the eye with my right thumb.

  It’s a sure-fire test of his consciousness.

  He passes my test by failing to respond.

  I roll him off me and strip him of his obvious weapons. A quick pat down reveals no hidden knives or backup guns.

  His pistol goes into the small of my back, and his knife – sheath and all – is added to my belt. I keep the submachine gun in my hand as I fish a set of keys from my pocket and open the door to the room where the drinks are kept.

  With the door open, I lay the submachine gun on an empty beer keg and grab the terrorist by the ankles.

  I drag him into the beer cellar and lay him face down. He still has a pulse and when I pinch the skin on the back of his neck he doesn’t respond.

  My next move is to search the room. I find a roll of tape left on a shelf with a bundle of other odds and ends. I go back to the terrorist and bind and gag him.

  As an extra precaution against him getting free, I lay him on his side and surround him with beer kegs.

  One down, umpteen to go.

  The pat down had revealed no wallet or any form of ID. This speaks of professionalism to me, and if I’m honest with myself, I hadn’t really expected to find anything. Everything about the terrorists has shown experience and planning.

  Whatever their aim is by speaking to each customer, I reckon they’re likely to achieve it. Not only are they well-drilled and armed to the teeth, but their plan has worked well for them so far.

  The only error they have made was falling for the diversion that Sharon created, which allowed my escape, and I’m not even sure they have missed me.

  Their primary focus has to be the customers they’ve identified. They are the people who’re wealthy and powerful. The terrorists not bothering to identify a single staff member speaks volumes to me. My first instinct was a mass kidnapping, but the more I think about it, the more I wonder if there’s another angle that I’m missing.

  My next move has to be contacting the outside world. How they’ll be able to help is beyond me, but knowing they’re aware of the situation will give me confidence about surviving the night.

  Should I be captured, I can use that confidence to put fear and doubt into the terrorists’ minds. It might not save my life, but forcing them to abandon their plan may well save the lives of others.

  I lock the beer cellar door and walk along the corridor. Its warm décor and pictures of skiers on the mountain are supposed to offer comfort and excitement to new arrivals. I feel neither warm nor excited. My primary emotion is fear, not just for myself, but for every customer and staff member who is being held hostage.

  The reception desk is right in front of me, but the area is open plan and the last thing I want is to get caught calling for help. All the same, I pick up the phone and listen for a dial tone.

  Nothing.

  I try pressing 9 for an outside line and get some more nothing.

  I press 0 with the same results.

  It’s obvious they’ve either cut the phone lines or disabled the system.

  There being nothing else I can do, I creep my way towards the cableway station. If I can’t call for help, I’ll have to go and get it myself.

  All I have to do is figure out how to get the cable cars running, and then jump in one.

  As plans go, it’s a simple one. Too simple.

  If I were a terrorist and I saw the cableway running, I’d do one of two things.

  First: stop the car and leave it hanging – that would leave me safe from the terrorists but exposed to the snowstorm’s vicious winds and sub-zero temperatures.

  Second, and least preferable: reverse the controls and kill the first person found in a cable car.

  Neither option appeals to me, but I have very little choice – there’s no way I can hike down the mountain.

  Chapter 25

  Daniel watches as two hostages carry Double M back from where he’d landed after his wild charge at the terrorists.

  The former wrestler hadn’t stood a chance; as soon as he’d got within striking distance of the nearest terrorist, it was obvious who’d win.

  The terrorist awaited Double M’s arrival without reaction. He didn’t even lift his gun. As the famous size fourteen foot arced its way towards his head, the terrorist ducked to one side and crashed the stock of his gun into Double M’s groin.

  With his aggressor doubled over in pain, the terrorist removed his knife from its sheath and stabbed it into each of Double M’s thighs.

  Like the woman whose chin had been cut, and the one was shot in the elbow, Double M’s wounds are now bandaged up with shirts.

  As Daniel watched the shirts being applied, the former wrestler’s face was slick with sweat as he fought against the pain.

  What Daniel finds strange, is the expression on Double M’s face, and the way his eyes keep flicking among the crowd. It’s like he’s looking for someone but can’t find them.

  It could well be fear of further punishment from the terrorists but, as far as Daniel can gauge, Double M isn’t looking at the terrorists, he’s looking at the hostages.

  The woman who was with Double M is at his side, so it can’t be her that he is looking for. It is only when Double M’s eyes rest on the woman who was talking with the bartender that they stop searching.

  The smile that spreads across the wrestler’s face tells Daniel everything he needs to know. Some might have figured that Double M was just pleased to be alive after a failed attempt, but Daniel knows better. He knows Double M and has watched him for years.

  In his wrestling days, Double M was the champion of the underdog. When a minor character was on the receiving end of a beat down from several other wrestlers, it was always Double M who’d come rampaging to their rescue.

  He’d wade into the fight and battle to protect the underdog. Sometimes he’d succeed, and sometimes he’d achieve nothing more than a pounding for his troubles. Regardless of this, he came to the rescue of so many, that self-sacrifice grew to be expected of him.

  Double M was also a master of distraction. He’d walk halfway down the ramp that led to the ring and pause when his presence was known, or he’d emerge from the crowd and walk around the ring. With their opponents distracted, the underdogs would then have the chance to regain their breath or launch a surprise counter-attack.

  For these reasons, he was loved by the fans and his transition to the WFW’s CEO had been accepted without complaint. The way he still carries a threat level to any of the current wrestlers is just another reason he commands respect.

  When Double M had beaten his chest, Daniel was sure the wrestler would be killed for his stupidity in warning the terrorists that a big man was about to do something. He’d expected to see a gun pointed at Double M and a red spot appear on his body.

  The fact it hadn’t happened that way was significant. By beating on his chest and slapping his thigh, Double M had given the terrorists a deliberate warning and allowed the one he was targeting a chance to prepare. Therefore, the response could be measured. It was a gamble but, if the expression on Double M’s face was anything to go by, despite his injuries it had paid off.

  Daniel scratches at his leg as he follows his train of thought. Double M appeared to have nothing to gain from a failed attempt attacking the terrorist with the tattooed neck.

  At least nothing obvious, until his personality was factored into the equation. Daniel assesses what he knows about the wrestler:

  Double M is best known for his supporting of underdogs and creation of distractions.

  There wasn’t a fight, which means there couldn’t be an underdog.

  His attempt must have been a distraction.

  His reason for creating a distraction is a puzzle, until Daniel remembers that the bartender went to the men’s room and has not returned. The terrorist who’d taken the bartender, along with four others, is the one whose neck is covered in tattoos.

  Daniel smiles to himself as he realises that Double M had also noticed this, and did what he’d done to give the terrorist something other than the visit to the men’s room to think about.

  It is typical of the wrestler: distraction and self-sacrifice rolled up into one action. That it could have turned out to have a tragic end is something Double M will have considered, yet he risked his life anyway to give the bartender a better chance of escape.

  The man goes up in Daniel’s estimation. The slight he received upon meeting Double M is forgotten as he ponders on the risk the man had taken and the thinking behind it.

  Double M wouldn’t have wanted to go into the room with the crazy terrorist lady, but, from what Daniel had seen, everyone who cooperated came out of the office looking shocked, but more or less unscathed.

  Double M must have another motivation: the greater good.

  As Daniel looks at one of the terrorists, he realises he can clearly see the man’s face.

  Bad guys don’t let you live if you’ve seen their face.

  All the terrorists’ faces are visible; none of them are wearing masks. The hostages are going to be killed before the terrorists leave.

  He blinks his eyes and chews the inside of his cheek.

  He isn’t going to cry.

  He is fifteen now, and big boys don’t cry.

  Chapter 26

  Nathan grips the armrest and wonders what he’s gotten himself into. The piste basher’s lights are only picking out a roiling mass of snow. There is nowhere near enough visibility for him to have any idea of where they are. At best he can see no more than five feet in any direction.

  For all he knows, they could be inches away from dropping over a steep cliff or riding up the middle of a wide corridor.

  The cab of the piste basher stinks of stale cigarettes, staler alcohol, and is tinged with a hint of body odour.

  In the normal course of events there’s no way Nathan would have gotten into Knightly’s cab, but, despite all the logical explanations running through his mind, he can’t get past the feeling in his gut that something is terribly wrong at RidgeTop.

  How Knightly is navigating the vehicle is beyond him. The older man sits in his seat with the nonchalance of a sunbather sitting beside a hotel pool, guiding the piste basher with a series of minute adjustments of its controls as it barrels up the gradient.

  Like Knightly, Nathan is pinned into his seat by the upward angle, but there is no way he can match Knightly’s seeming indifference to the fact they can’t see more than five feet in front of them.

  Their journey up-slope had begun with a gentle gradient that had gradually steepened. So far as Nathan can tell from the dials in front of Knightly, they are travelling at only a fraction below full speed. Every inch of their journey has been made to the soundtrack of a huge engine thumping pistons up and down. Knightly doesn’t seem fazed by it, but Nathan knows he’ll have a thunderous headache when he returns to the bottom of the slope.

  ‘We’ll be there in ten minutes.’ Knightly plucks a cigarette from the packet on the dashboard and fumbles in his pocket for a lighter.

  Nathan doesn’t answer him. He knows the last part of the journey will be the trickiest. Access to the ski slopes leading away from RidgeTop is a five-metre-wide corridor, which has precipitous drops on either side. There are handrails and fences to protect skiers, but they won’t be strong enough to stop the piste basher should Knightly make a mistake.

  They crest a small bump in the slope and Nathan feels the piste basher take a two-foot lurch to the left.

  A glance at Knightly shows him unconcerned. The cigarette hangs from his mouth, a curl of smoke rising upwards, and a half-inch of ash hanging, ready to fall in the manner of an iceberg calving from a glacier.

  How Knightly knows where they are is a complete mystery to Nathan. It’s as if he is navigating by instinct and memory. Maybe when they are safe and sound, and this is all over, he’ll ask him; but, for now, he doesn’t want to do or say anything that might distract him.

  As Nathan sits, wondering if he is about to die, it’s all he can do not to pick at part of the seat’s armrest where the stuffing is poking out.

  ‘Come in. Can anyone hear me?’

  The voice is faint, but Nathan hears it.

  He snatches at the walkie-talkie on his lap as Knightly throttles back the engines so he can hear better.

  ‘Hello. Who’s there? Over.’

  ‘I’m at RidgeTop. Terrorists have taken the resort over. So far they’ve killed one person and maimed two others. Send help at once.’

  ‘I’m Nathan. A cableway operator, who are you?’

  ‘My name is Jake Boulder. Please, send help before anyone else—’

  Rather than Boulder’s voice, the last thing Nathan hears is gunfire.

  He switches the walkie-talkie to a different channel and connects with the receptionist at RidgeWay as Knightly begins to turn the piste basher around.

  Chapter 27

  I duck behind the low wall and wonder where the gunshots are coming from. The last thing I want to do is get into a gunfight.