Not only am I not a good shot, but the noise is sure to alert the other terrorists to the fact something is up. As soon as the gunshots are heard, one or more of the terrorists will investigate. Although I don’t want to take another life, this has to take a backseat: if a life must be taken, I’d rather it not be mine.

  A more pressing concern is the sound of footsteps coming my way. It’s the scuff of boots on concrete, which tells me the man with the gun was at the other end of the cable car station.

  I have the submachine gun in my hands – as soon as I acquired the weapon, I made sure I knew where the safety catch was, and which position was off and on.

  I hear the crack of a shot and duck instinctively. A reflexive action as the bullet would have hit me before I’d ducked.

  Lots of ideas shoot through my mind.

  Should I try standing and emptying the submachine gun’s clip at him? Or dive out from the end of the wall and make a smaller target of myself? Maybe I should raise only the gun, and fire a few shots his way to allow me to find better cover?

  In the end, I do none of these things, as a better solution comes to me.

  I shrink back along the low wall, which acts as a barrier against people falling off the platform when alighting or disembarking a cable car, and find cover behind a packing crate.

  It’s not a particularly big crate, but it’s a damn sight better than nothing.

  A gun appears over the wall and stiches bullets along its length.

  Rather than wait until he’s shooting at me, I lift my gun and aim it at the hand and the arm I can see.

  The clatter of my gun drowns out every other sound bar one. The terrorist’s gun drops from his fingers as bright red spurts of blood arc from his arm and splash across the wall.

  Before he has chance to recover his wits and reach for the pistol I expect to be on his hip, I’m upright and moving forward. I take in everything as I run towards him. His eyes are wide in shocked pain and he’s cradling his right arm in his left.

  His eyes widen further when I emerge with the submachine gun aimed at him.

  I expect his life is flashing before his eyes, or some other cliché is at play; I’m sure he expects to die. I would if I were in his position.

  He falters, caught halfway between pleading for his life and reaching for the pistol on his hip.

  I make the decision for him and slam the stock of my submachine gun into his temple.

  He crumples into an untidy bleeding heap.

  As I did with his compatriot, I poke him in the eye to test consciousness. He’s out cold.

  A glance along the corridor tells me reinforcements aren’t quite on their way yet, but I’m expecting them any second.

  I drag the prone terrorist to the far end of the cable car station and relieve him of his weapons. Like the guy tied up in the beer cellar, he’s got no personal effects on him. What surprises me most of all is that neither man has a radio earpiece to communicate with the other terrorists.

  They must be using some kind of blocking signal that would interfere with comms as well as cell phones. The good news is, if he heard me radioing for help, he won’t have been able to share that news with Hannah, or whoever is in charge of the terrorists.

  As quick as I can, I return to the control desk and go to activate the cable cars.

  There are no lights on the control desk, which makes me think for a moment that it’s broken. For it to break down when there’s a terrorist attack is too great a coincidence, so I check the basics. There’s an isolation switch on the side of the control panel, and when I look at it I see it’s in the ‘off’ position.

  I flick the lever over and the control desk comes to life.

  It takes me a couple of moments to find the right controls, but I manage to get the cableway running.

  The last thing I do before finding cover is empty the terrorist’s submachine gun at the back wall of the station. This blows out four windows and allows snow to billow in, but I’m not worried about the cold.

  All I care about is creating a scenario that might make any investigating terrorists believe there’s been an assault on the hotel via the cable car.

  Chapter 28

  Instinct tells Sharon that something has gone wrong for the terrorists. One of their numbers has come marching from the back of the hotel and gone straight to Fleming’s office.

  The look on his face is stern, but he is a picture of happiness compared to the female terrorist when she exits the office.

  Sharon watches as the woman clicks her fingers and sends the terrorist and another man back along the corridor. Her first thought is that Boulder has been seen or heard.

  It’s obvious the two guys have been tasked with finding and, in all probability, eliminating the person they’d seen or heard.

  Sharon’s heels drum into the thick carpet as her frustrations at not being able to warn Boulder overtake her.

  To her mind, he’ll be helpless against the men. Sure, if it were a bar fight he’d have a chance, but an unarmed man should never triumph against two gun-toting thugs.

  Another concern is that if they capture Boulder instead of killing him, there’s every chance he’ll be tortured for information. As much as she trusts Boulder, there is no way she expects him to keep her involvement secret.

  Sharon can feel her skin crawl as she imagines the horrifying revenge the female terrorist will visit upon her.

  Should it come to that, she plans to die fighting, and, if possible, snatch a gun so she can at least take one of the terrorists with her.

  A quick death from a bullet would also be far preferable to a slow, screaming death. Sharon isn’t prepared to let the woman put that knife to her breasts or shoot through any of her joints.

  The female terrorist glares at all of her hostages then turns and stomps her way back to Fleming’s office, as the man with the clipboard calls out another name.

  Sharon pities the person whose name has just been called as they’ll have to face an enraged terrorist.

  Were it not for her certainty that the terrorists planned to kill them all, Sharon would doubt the wisdom of Boulder making his attempt to summon help.

  Now two of the terrorists are hunting him, it seems his attempt has been a waste of time, its only purpose to hasten his death.

  Chapter 29

  From my hiding place I can hear someone coming my way. There’s the rustle of clothing, and the brush of boots on carpet then concrete, as the person enters the cable car station.

  I give the terrorist a moment to survey the scene I’ve created, and hopefully fall for my ruse, then go to peek around the packing crates I’m hiding behind.

  When I hear a voice, I freeze.

  There shouldn’t be voices.

  A terrorist by himself won’t speak, unless he’s calling for one of the two I’ve already taken out. Except he’s not calling out, he’s speaking in a low tone.

  Therefore, there must be more than one person looking for me.

  The problem is, I don’t know how many of them are out there; there could be two or half a dozen.

  A second voice answers the first. I can’t hear what’s said, but I can tell the accent belongs to someone from the Deep South. It has the distinctive drawled softness that makes it unmistakable.

  I shift my head and peer through a gap between the packing crates.

  Two terrorists are standing at the edge of the platform. They’re both looking at an approaching cable car.

  The one nearest me has his gun trained on the cable car, while the other is inspecting the station around him.

  When he turns and puts his gun to his shoulder, I sense an unmissable opportunity.

  With as much stealth as possible, I position myself behind the two gunmen and adopt a sprinter’s crouch.

  They are five paces away from me.

  I’m confident I can cover that distance in two seconds at most.

  They’ll hear my footsteps as soon as I launch myself forward.

  The first second will be taken up reacting to the noise and turning to look. The second will be used to assess the threat. In the third second they’ll point their guns at the threat and open fire.

  Three seconds will be too late for them.

  On the other hand, if they react by opening fire, two seconds is a lifetime and will see their bullets tear me to shreds.

  I tense. It would be easy to shoot them, but there’s no telling how close reinforcements are. Plus, I’ve managed to take down two of their number without killing them, and I’d like to end this without another man’s death on my hands. They might not respect the sanctity of life, but I certainly do.

  I throw myself into a sprint and, at the last second before colliding with the nearest one, dip my shoulder to deliver what my high school coach would have called an excellent blocking tackle.

  The man I hit falls forward into his buddy and the two of them teeter on the point of balance. Their arms windmill as curses fall from their lips.

  I give them a shove and watch as they drop forty feet towards the snow-covered rocks below. Maybe the snow will be deep enough to prevent them breaking any bones; maybe it won’t. While I have no desire to take their lives, I can live with breaking a few of their bones.

  When I check for movement I don’t see any, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t just winded.

  I snatch a jacket from the cableway operator’s cabin and head towards the edge of the platform. A steel ladder descends to the mountain and I plan to take it.

  Not only can I check that both terrorists are out of action, I need to get away from this part of the hotel. I’ve been lucky so far, but that luck won’t last much longer.

  The metal ladder chills my fingers like nothing I’ve ever known. Every time I release one of the rungs I expect to leave behind a layer of skin.

  I really should have searched for a pair of gloves, but I hadn’t wanted to spend any longer in the cable car station than necessary.

  As well as expecting company at any moment, I’m aware that I’m an easy target when on the ladder.

  I get to the bottom and approach the terrorists with my submachine gun aimed at them. I’m ready to pull the trigger if they try to attack me in any way.

  Neither is moving beyond the rise and fall of their chest.

  I remove all their weapons, keep the magazines from their pistols, and launch everything else into the blizzard.

  My next move is to use the duct tape I stuffed into a jacket pocket to bind and gag the two men.

  One of them is conscious and his eyes reflect a blend of hatred and fear.

  I don’t give a toss how he feels about me. Maybe a few hours lying in the snow with broken bones will change his opinion – when he realises I could have killed him at any moment but have chosen not to, he’ll conclude that things could have worked out a lot worse for him.

  I’m tempted to drag the two men out of view from above, but decide against it. That I haven’t killed them may well go in my favour should things end up going against me. Plus, the longer I’m below the platform, the greater my risk of being discovered. So far, the terrorists have all been armed with submachine guns, but if one appears with a rifle I’ll be dead before I hear the shot.

  There’s also the fact that hauling bodies through the snow will be hard work, not to mention agonising for them. I choose to leave them where they are.

  The snow that’s cascading from the sky will soon cover them. It’s already attaching thick wet flakes to me; I can feel the cold starting to pierce my clothing and my hair is dampening. The wind that’s blasting the snow around is sapping any vestiges of heat from my exposed skin.

  I skirt the bottom of the cliff until I’m among the concrete pillars that support the dining room. There are eight pillars, in two rows of four. Each pillar supports a cross-member, which in turn supports the heavy timbers of the dining room’s floor and a balcony where people can watch others skiing.

  As I make my way past the last two pillars, I feel my eyes being drawn upwards. I don’t know why, but I find myself looking up at the tops of the pillars.

  I’ve never seen explosives in real life before, but I’ve watched enough movies to know them when I see them. Each pillar is ringed with two straps of what looks like plastic explosives. A shiny detonator protrudes from each block of the plastic explosive and they’re all linked with a yellow cord, which I assume will fire the detonators.

  When the charges are triggered, each pillar will have a section blown clean away. The entire dining room and the bedrooms above it will collapse and fall to where I’m standing.

  With everyone in the dining room, all the staff and customers will be caught up in both the explosion and the resulting collapse. With the sub-zero temperatures hampering rescue efforts, the odds of anyone surviving are too slim for even the most optimistic gambler to take a punt.

  What the terrorists are planning is mass murder, bordering on genocide.

  Somehow, I’ve got to get rid of either the explosives or the detonators.

  The first thing I have to work out is how to get myself within reach of those charges.

  Chapter 30

  The beating in his chest is wrong. He knows it, and he knows how to treat it. Except he can’t. He’s left his next packet of meds in their suite. It was a deliberate act, done so he could go back for them and have a quick check of his emails without his wife knowing.

  Now she’s looking at him with that curious expression she has. The one where she’s assessing him and waiting for him to tell her something she already knows. Lily might be acerbic and unloving, but she’s not a fool.

  ‘Take your meds, Leslie. They will help you.’

  Leslie shakes his head. ‘I left them in the suite.’

  ‘I thought you might.’ For the first time in years he sees a sparkle in her eye. ‘You do things like that so you can spend five minutes with your precious computer.’

  There’s no censure in her voice, just a bland statement of facts. Her words give Leslie hope. A glimmer of expectation that she’s not only worked out his ploy, but has counteracted it. He wouldn’t put it past her to have put a pack of his heart meds in her purse to be produced when he claimed to have forgotten them. If that is the case she’ll have them on her, and he’ll get the meds that will ease the uneven beating of his heart.

  The doctor had told him about a heart valve that didn’t always work as it should. His diet of fried food had copped the blame, along with his age and the stress of his job. Once he’d found out that he could be treated with daily meds, he’d stopped paying attention to the doctor and let his mind wander back to the deal he was working on.

  ‘Does that mean you’ve got my meds in your purse?’

  ‘No. I’ve thought about carrying your pills with me a thousand times, but I never have.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Leslie knows she will think nothing of thwarting his plans. At one point during their life together, the only time they had spoken to each other was to yell accusations of skulduggery, but they’d moved past that and settled into a world of mutual acceptance.

  Lily lays a tender hand on Leslie’s arm. ‘The way I see it, you sneaking off for a quick look at your computer is better than you getting stressed about not being able to go and look at the infernal thing. You could say that, to me, it’s the lesser of two evils.’

  As he digests her words, Leslie begins to understand the deep love and concern that has fuelled Lily’s actions. She’s played him, but for his benefit, not hers.

  As always, she’s referring to his laptop as a computer. He knows, in her mind it is a device that computes, therefore, it is a computer. She is the same with cars. Over the years they’d had Mercedes, BMWs and a whole host of other brands, but they’d always been referred to as cars. He’d reference the brand of their cars and she’d refer to them as yours or mine. It is her way and he knows she is too old to change now.

  What he doesn’t expect is for her to rise to her feet and look down at him with determination. ‘Where did you leave them?’

  ‘On the desk.’

  ‘Beside your computer?’

  Leslie nods. The meds were left there so he didn’t forget to take them when he was at his laptop and there is no point pretending otherwise.

  He watches as Lily rises to her feet and walks to the nearest terrorist.

  ‘Excuse me. My husband needs his heart meds from his room.’ She hands over the keycard for their room. ‘Room 107, the meds are on the desk next to where his computer was before you took it. If you don’t get them for him, he’ll go into cardiac arrest and will die. His name is Leslie Trouseau, not that his name should matter to you.’

  The guard looks over his shoulder towards the guy with the clipboard.

  He comes over and the two men exchange a few words.

  The man with the clipboard takes the keycard from Lily, walks away, and passes it on to another of the gunmen.

  Five minutes later the gunman returns and hands a packet of meds to Lily.

  With two of the tablets doing their stuff, Leslie puts an arm round his wife’s shoulders and weighs up what has just happened.

  It’s a small detail in a bigger picture, but it’s the first time any of the terrorists have shown anything that might be construed as compassion. From his judgement of people, he doesn’t believe compassion is high on the terrorists’ list of concerns.

  Getting him his meds must have some value to them. The only reason he can think of is they haven’t finished with him yet, and they need him to stay alive.

  His first visit to the office was traumatic enough, the last thing he wants is to have to repeat it.

  It’s not a thought that sits well with him, but as there’s nothing he can do about it, he puts the meds in his pocket and tries to remain calm.

  Chapter 31

  I know I have to remove the explosives, but I have no way of reaching them. There are ladders in the maintenance shed but that doesn’t explain how the terrorists managed to fit them.