The obvious answer is that they got one of the ladders and tossed it when they were finished.

  Rather than waste time sneaking up to the maintenance shed, I try and find the ladder the terrorists used.

  I can’t see much, and if the ladder has been laid on the ground there’s every chance it’s buried under the falling snow. As I move around I’m dragging my feet through the snow rather than taking proper steps.

  My dress shoes and thin trousers offer no protection against the cold. My feet are soaking and feel as if they have frozen solid, but compared to the numbness in my fingers they’re in good shape.

  I’ve stuffed my hands into the borrowed jacket’s pockets to try and combat the numbness, but it doesn’t work in any way that’s noticeable.

  The snowstorm rages around me. Regardless of the direction I’m facing, the wind seems to blow the snow in my face. The fact there’s no visibility beyond a dozen or so feet, gives me the feeling that I’m existing in a frozen cocoon.

  I’ve never been troubled with claustrophobia before, but right now, I feel isolated by the limited visibility I have. It’s like there are shifting shapes, being pulled back and forth by the howling wind. My eyes are slitted against the blizzard and when the extent of their range is shortened by a gust of snow, I can’t help but feel like the world is closing in on me.

  Regardless of the tricks my mind is playing on me, I have to press on with looking for a way to disarm those explosives.

  After searching for a couple of minutes, my right foot bangs into something in the snow.

  I bend down and use my useless hands to paw in the snow. A few unfeeling swipes reveals the silver shininess of an aluminium ladder.

  Within a minute I have the ladder hauled out of the snow and propped against the nearest pillar.

  Before setting foot on the bottom rung, I do my best to make sure none of the terrorists are creeping up on me, but all I can see is swirls of snow, so I step onto the ladder. It sinks at least a foot into the snow, so I bounce my weight on it until it doesn’t sink any further.

  Step by step, I climb the ladder until I’m face to face with the strap of explosives. They are held on with duct tape. A strip of tape has been wound round the pillar twice to hold the blocks of explosive in place.

  The wind is howling around my head and the gusts of snow, coupled with the icy air, are peppering my face and seeking out every possible way they can to chill my body further.

  The pillars are ten inches square, and each side I can see has two blocks of explosive strapped against it.

  I’m sure the pillars are made with the best grade concrete and are heavily reinforced, but there’s no way they’ll withstand this amount of explosives.

  As I’m peering through the snow at them, I realise I don’t know how to disable them. My common sense tells me that removing the detonators will neutralise them, but it doesn’t tell me if this will cause them to detonate. Another option is to disconnect the yellow cord, but again, I don’t know how to do that without triggering an explosion.

  If I’m wrong, not only will I kill myself, but everyone else in the dining room twenty feet above my head. It’s a huge responsibility, yet I know that leaving the explosives in place will condemn them all to death.

  Because I’ve managed to get word out about what’s happening here, there may be help on the way, but if the terrorists find themselves backed into a hole, and in need of a distraction, there’s every chance they’ll blow these charges. Therefore, this is a risk I have to take.

  I figure that removing the detonators is the lesser of the evils I’m facing, so I place my numb, trembling fingers on the one in front of my face and gently exert enough pressure to remove it from the block of explosive.

  Chapter 32

  The fact the pair of terrorists who were sent along the corridor haven’t returned, doesn’t go unnoticed by Sharon.

  The other terrorists have also noticed. Sharon has seen their glances at the corridor and paid attention to the changes in their body language. Where they were relaxed but vigilant earlier, they’re now keyed up and vigilant.

  Their feet are shifting, and their eyes take a dance round the room before returning to the corridor. Guns are gripped that little bit tighter and there are constant, reassuring checks that the additional weapons on their hips are in place.

  Sharon hopes that Boulder has managed to elude the terrorists sent to hunt for him. Their continued absence can be explained by either them not finding Boulder or finding him and currently battling with him.

  Maybe he’s even managed to get the jump on them. As much as she wants to believe that, she knows it isn’t a hope she should cling to. After all, Boulder is just an ordinary guy up against what appear to be well-trained soldiers.

  The last of the customers have been escorted into Fleming’s office, and the staff are now all stationed at one side of the room, with the customers at the other.

  Sharon works out the terrorists must have finished whatever they needed the customers for. What she can’t figure out, is why they’re still here.

  Her best guess is that the terrorists have identified each customers’ next of kin and sent ransom demands. If that isn’t the case, she can’t work out what their motive is. While the customers are all very wealthy people, and in some cases famous, it isn’t like any of them are political figures so there is no political pressure that can be applied.

  One reason could be that the terrorists are bartering for the release of certain political or high-profile prisoners against the safe release of the people in this room, but that doesn’t seem likely either. Had the terrorists been of a different ethnicity, she would have believed their motives lay in that direction. Every which way she looks, it always comes back to one thing: money.

  A glance at the watch on her left wrist tells Sharon the time is twenty to midnight.

  In twelve hundred seconds a new year will be born. Around the globe, people will get drunk, fall out, make love, and celebrate the occasion with their loved ones.

  The bitter pang of regret stabs at Sharon. While the rest of the world is partying, here she is, interrupted from working her backside off by a gang of gunmen led by a psychotic bitch.

  Not for the first time this evening, Sharon curses her luck. It is bad enough being held like this, but not being able to relieve some of her stress with a cigarette is a grievous insult that has left her nerves jangling.

  Sharon looks up to see the female terrorist has emerged from the office. Her expression is one of controlled fury. She’s on the edge and is fighting to maintain her composure.

  When she was calm, she was cold and dangerous; now she’s angry, Sharon’s terror has escalated several levels.

  The woman’s eyes scan the terrorists, and narrow when they don’t find what they’re looking for. Sharon knows she is looking for the men she sent up the corridor, knows their failure to return will enrage her further.

  She watches as the woman speaks to the guy with the clipboard, and sees him point to four of the terrorists.

  The woman gives a sharp nod and turns to address the crowd. ‘Some of you may have noticed that one or two of my colleagues have left this room. Do not be fooled into thinking our numbers are dwindling. They are merely preparing for our exit. Those of us who remain are more than capable of quashing any rebellion you may try and make. Trust me when I say this, from now on, my men have orders to shoot anyone they feel is a threat.’

  The woman spins away and joins the four terrorists pointed out by the guy with the clipboard.

  Sharon can’t hear what the woman is saying to them, but she doesn’t need to. They will be getting orders to find their colleagues, and if their colleagues are dead they’ll be after Boulder.

  While the spiel the woman had delivered to the crowd was measured, there had been no masking her fury.

  Chapter 33

  ‘There’s no way I’m calling for a SWAT team on your say so. You could have been talking to anyone up there – a damned kid, yanking your chain to impress his friends.’

  ‘Then what are you going to do?’ Nathan plants his hands on the desk and glares at the cop. ‘I’ve told you that we’ve been told of terrorists holding people at gunpoint. One person has been killed and two maimed. Will you take your head out of your ass and start protecting and serving, or do I have to go to the press before you’ll do your job?’

  ‘And what are you going to tell them? That you’ve heard a garbled message? Or that you’re jumping at shadows?’

  ‘I’ll tell them everything I’ve told you. That an employee of RidgeTop Resort has put in a report that terrorists have overrun the facility and killed one of our customers. I’ll also tell them the police aren’t acting upon this information.’

  The cop returns Nathan’s glare with an intensity that makes the cableway operator drop his eyes. ‘This employee, who are they? Have they been with you long? What do you know about them?’

  ‘His name is Jake Boulder. I don’t know him well, but he’s polite, friendly enough, if a bit withdrawn. He’s only been here a couple of weeks, but he seems like a stand-up guy.’

  Nathan casts his eyes in the direction of Attwood as the cop speaks into his radio and requests information on Boulder. The resort manager looks anywhere but at Nathan. It’s clear he doesn’t agree with the cop, but Nathan can tell that his threat to go to the press has him as worried as the cop.

  One of the manager’s key responsibilities is protecting the resort’s good name. If Nathan follows through with his threat, it is possible the adverse publicity will cost the company millions – and him his job. Nathan doesn’t envy him, but a bit of support from his boss wouldn’t go amiss.

  When his radio crackles into life, the cop puts it to his ear. Nathan can’t make out what’s being said until the cop thanks the person at the other end and returns his radio to its clip.

  ‘Seems like your man, Boulder, has a habit of attracting trouble.’ He points out of the window towards RidgeTop. ‘How many people can those piste bashers carry?’

  ‘Two plus a driver.’ Nathan speaks from recent experience.

  ‘Is that all? How many of them do you have?’

  ‘Four.’ It’s the manager who answers. ‘That’s all we need.’

  ‘So, we can get eight men up there.’ He pulls a face. ‘My sergeant is sending a dozen tactical cops from Montpelier. Is there no way we can get more men in them? Sitting on knees, standing, anything would do.’

  Nathan has a flash of memory. ‘The Ridge Rambler.’ A few years ago, the company ran night tours up the mountain and they adapted a tracked trailer into a makeshift coach. It was basic at best, but the Ridge Rambler had proven popular with tourists who wanted to experience the beauty of the snowy mountain on a starlit night. The best of it was, it had four rows of three seats; therefore, it could take the dozen tactical cops with ease, as well as having room for their equipment.

  To make things even better, it was Knightly’s piste basher that had pulled the Ridge Rambler.

  ‘What’s that?’ The cop’s face is full of confusion.

  ‘A trailer the piste basher can tow up the mountain. It has seats for twelve. It’ll be cold, but it’ll get them up there.’

  ‘Then it’ll do.’ The cop looks at his watch, then at the resort manager. ‘They’ll be here in an hour. Can you have the thing ready to go, along with a full schematic plan of the resort and any other buildings up there?’

  ‘Of course. Nathan, you deal with the Ridge Rambler; I’ll sort out the plans.’

  Nathan nods at his boss and reaches for his jacket. He’s acutely aware that Knightly will be less than ecstatic at being disturbed to take a second unscheduled trip up the mountain.

  Knightly’s ire is a small worry, it’s a quarter to midnight, which means it’ll be quarter after one by the time the tactical cops have arrived and travelled up the mountain to RidgeTop. With two maimed and one dead already, there could be a lot more casualties before the terrorists are stopped.

  Chapter 34

  I slide the final detonator from the last block of explosive and use my knife to saw through the duct tape. Once I have the eight blocks wrapped up in the duct tape strap, I sheath the knife and descend the ladder.

  It’s a long time since I had any feeling in my fingers and toes, but I’m not finished out here yet. The explosives have to be hidden – when they don’t go off, the terrorists are sure to come looking for it.

  I look down and see something that makes my heart stop. Through the flurries of snow, I spy a terrorist creeping his way along the pillars towards me.

  As he gets closer, I can make out that he’s holding his gun at gut height and the barrel is pointing my way. He’s so intent on catching me by surprise, he hasn’t yet registered that I’ve stopped moving and I’m looking his way.

  I’d slung my submachine gun over my shoulder and positioned it resting against my back, so I had both hands free to deal with the explosives. This leaves me with a sheathed knife, and a gun that’s stuffed into my waistband underneath a huge jacket. A jacket that’s hi-vis; I stand out like a beacon. Having said that, the terrorist is wearing black and he’s just as visible in the whiteout as I am.

  By the time my frozen fingers withdraw the pistol and fumble their way inside the trigger guard, he’ll have had enough time to walk across to the ladder, climb up it, and put his pistol to the back of my head. The same goes for bringing the submachine gun round to where I can aim and fire it.

  Even if I had either gun to hand, I wouldn’t fancy my chances of shooting him before one of his bullets could tear into my flesh.

  I take a step up the ladder and drop the bundle of explosives down the side of the pillar where he can’t see them.

  My right hand goes against the pillar and my left grabs the ladder’s top rung; I give an almighty push with my right hand and a hard pull with my left.

  As I do this, I throw my bodyweight right to left.

  I’m now arcing through the air, twelve feet above him, as the ladder falls anti-clockwise with me at its head.

  I see his gun start to lift as I fall towards him.

  His reactions are too slow.

  At the last second, I haul down on the ladder and curl myself into a ball.

  The ladder misses his head, which was my intended target, but it slams into his shoulder with a metallic clatter as I flump down into the snow.

  I’m on my way to my feet a second later. My right hand arcing upwards to deliver a ferocious uppercut.

  I connect with him at the same moment the vicious clatter of panicked gunfire rents the air.

  The terrorist jerks and twitches as the bullets slam into his back.

  My hands wrap themselves around his submachine gun and yank it from his grasp as I duck behind the nearest pillar.

  I don’t know where the other gunman is, although I’m aware he knows where I am. I have to move, have to get myself away from him.

  The problem is, the odds that I’ll run into him are pretty much fifty-fifty.

  I force my numb fingers to grasp the submachine gun tight, and thumb the safety catch into the off position, the rate selector to fully automatic.

  Almost everything I know about guns has been learned from books I’ve read. Not manuals or anything like that, just good old-fashioned thrillers with a resourceful hero or a clever detective.

  From what I can recall, from many hundreds of books, submachine guns like the one I’m holding can empty their entire magazine in a matter of seconds.

  This is a worry, but I’ll just have to restrain myself from clamping down on the trigger. Rather than trying to evade the terrorist, my plan is to do the opposite of what he expects.

  With a deep breath inside me, I whirl out from behind the pillar and charge in the direction I’d heard the gunshots coming from. I know my opponent will be jumpy – he’s already shot his buddy by mistake.

  With luck, he’ll either freeze and allow me to shoot him, or pull his trigger before he’s had a chance to take aim. As well as fire rates, my reading material has also taught me that submachine guns are notoriously inaccurate.

  I burst forward with my gun held sideways so its recoil will stitch bullets right to left, rather than pull my aim above the terrorist’s head. My feet are dragging through the snow and there’s no way I can call my progress a run.

  He’s six feet away.

  The knee-deep snow is slowing me down and making me a much easier target.

  The terrorist registers my laboured movements and I can see him adjusting his aim.

  My gun spits a trail of bullets and two strike his gut.

  He fires my way as he falls to his knees and I feel something slam into my arm as I dive at him.

  My shoulder crunches into his gut and drives him from his knees on to his back. His gun arm flails outwards, the trigger staying depressed until a clicking sound indicates there are no more bullets to come.

  He’s down with two gut shots. Laid where he is, he’ll be lucky to survive until the police eventually come, and he’ll be in agony during every minute that passes. Then he’ll have to be rescued and transported to a hospital. Sure, he’ll get a jab to knock him out and relieve him from the pain, but the way blood is gushing from him, he’ll probably bleed out in the next few minutes.

  The possibility that he may well freeze to death before the police come is another factor to consider; lying out here, with a couple of gunshot wounds, hypothermia won’t take long to set in.

  As much as I’m feeling the cold, he’ll have it worse when he’s unable to move to generate any body heat.

  In theory, it’d be easy to put a gun to his head and spare him the pain, but I’m not willing to play executioner. Yes, I may be the cause of his eventual death, but that was in a ‘kill or be killed’ situation.

  Deep down I know that’s an excuse I’m using, to give my conscience an easier time, but it’s something Doctor Edwards has reinforced – so I run with it.