Avalanche Pass by John Flanagan
“Very well,” he began crisply. “My name is Kormann and I’m taking control of this hotel and its guests.” He felt Markus stir beside him, felt the other man’s eyes on him, widening in disbelief.
“You’re mad,” the manager breathed. “You’ll never get away with it.”
“Shut up,” Kormann told him quietly. Then he raised his voice again so that the rest of the room could hear him. “If you look around, you’ll see that you are surrounded by armed men.”
Instinctively, most of the heads in the crowd turned, even though they had already seen that what he said was true. He continued.
“None of them will hesitate to shoot if you cause the slightest trouble,” he said. “On the other hand, if you obey orders, if you do precisely what you’re told when you are told to do it, you will be completely safe.” He paused to let that sink in, then repeated it. “Completely safe. We have no wish to harm any of you and we’ll do our best not to. It’s up to you entirely. Is that clear?”
He paused again, his eyes sweeping over them. There was a reluctant murmur of assent and agreement. They wanted to cling to the promise of safety. A few of them nodded fearfully. They were now subdued. It was time to give them hope for survival. He spoke deliberately, seeing that hope come alive in every face before him.
“As I said, we have no wish to harm you. Our quarrel is not with you. Our aim is to hold the guests of the hotel as hostages for ransom. We’re not terrorists. We’re not political. We’re businessmen. And we know it’s good business to keep people alive.
“Accordingly, we’ll be releasing most of the hotel staff and allowing you to leave. We’ll keep only the managerial staff and a few others to attend to cooking and serving food. We don’t need any more of you and we’ll begin selecting those who can go in a few minutes.”
He could sense the overwhelming tide of relief that surged through them. Muted conversation sprang up again and this time, he allowed it to continue unchecked. People who thought they were about to be released would be less likely to cause trouble, he knew. He smiled briefly, turning to Markus.
“I’m afraid you’ll be staying, Ben. Now I want you to pick five others to stay here with us. And Ben,” he added quietly, “don’t go picking any heroes, okay?”
Senator Ted Carling locked his skis in the ski rack and clumped up the escalator to the reception desk. He stopped, puzzled, as he took in the deserted lobby, the empty tour desks and the lobby drugstore with its closed sign in place. The hotel looked deserted, yet it was barely half-past three in the afternoon.
As he stood, uncertainly, he noticed a tall, gray-haired man behind the reception desk. The senator moved toward him. He didn’t recognize the man and he was wearing shirtsleeves and a tie, rather than the usual hotel uniform blazer.
“Yes, Senator Carling? Can I help you?” the man said. Carling wasn’t particularly surprised that the other man knew his identity. He was a prominent figure and he was used to being recognized wherever he went. He courted media attention to make sure of it. Being recognized gave a man presence. And influence. And that spelled power. He swept his hand around the deserted lobby.
“Where is everybody? I wanted change for the cigarette machine but the store is closed,” he said. His tone of voice, and his body language, said that he expected the situation to be rectified. Whatever the senator wanted, the senator got.
The gray-haired man leaned forward, dropping his voice to a more confidential level, even though there was nobody around to overhear. “Yes, sir. I’m afraid we’ve had a most tragic event. One of the staff…”
“Tragic? What happened?” Carling cut him off. The man behind the desk nodded several times, an expression of deep sorrow evident on his face.
“Well, Senator, it was one of our porters. Somehow, there seems to have been a brief ammonia leak into the heating system. You’ll notice that we’ve had to shut it down?”
Carling hadn’t noticed. But now that the other man mentioned it, he looked around and became aware that the ever-present low level hum of the heating system had ceased. He also thought that maybe the temperature was a little lower than usual.
“Yes,” he said uncertainly. “Now that you mention it—”
The gray-haired man continued smoothly. “It’s only a precaution, sir. I’m sure it’s perfectly safe now. But we’ve had to put all staff to work checking the system in the basement for the source of the leak into the line.”
“You mean you haven’t—” the senator began but once more he found himself cut off.
“Until we have a clearance, sir, may we ask that you make your way to the gymnasium?”
“The gymnasium?” Carling repeated. “Why there?”
“It’s on a separate heating system, sir. It’s perfectly safe there and also perfectly comfortable. We’ve got bar staff up there serving drinks and snacks. If you’d just oblige us, we’ll have the situation cleared up shortly.”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll go on up,” the senator capitulated. He moved away, conscious of the other man’s unctuous smile as he departed. He glanced nervously at the big, grilled vents above the elevator as he waited to go to the gymnasium on the third floor. He was sure now that it was getting colder. He zipped his ski suit closed at the neck.
Antoinette Deschamps, in room 701, received a similar message when she rang room service to order a pot of herbal tea. She had declined to go skiing that afternoon. Suffering a bout of stomach cramps, she had spent the afternoon sleeping.
Now she climbed painfully out of bed, feeling the ominous beginnings of another bout of cramps. Buttoning her blouse, she headed for the gymnasium.
Like the staff before them, the few remaining guests drifted in, in ones and twos and small groups. As they did, they were directed, politely but firmly, to the gymnasium.
They went there hurriedly, for the most part, anxious to remove themselves as quickly as possible from the threat of further ammonia leaks into the heating system.
They reached the gymnasium with a sense of relief—a relief that changed quickly to confusion, then ultimately to fear, when they were greeted by the ten armed men who waited there for them.
TEN
CANYON ROAD
WASATCH COUNTY
1549 HOURS, MOUNTAIN TIME
SATURDAY, DAY 1
On the highway, the driver of the ancient shuttle bus connecting Snow Eagles to two other ski fields was mildly surprised to see a tall African-American man flagging him down. It was late in the day and the driver was on his way back to the depot, but he thought he could possibly give the hitchhiker a lift. He pulled to a halt and levered the door open.
“Take me to Canyon Lodge,” the man said. The driver was already shaking his head.
“Can’t be done, friend. I don’t call in there.” His eyes widened as he noticed the large automatic pistol that had appeared in the man’s hand.
“You do now.”
The driver nodded. Bus drivers weren’t paid enough to argue with armed hijackers.
“I guess I do at that,” he said.
CANYON LODGE CONFERENCE CENTER
1605 HOURS, MOUNTAIN TIME
SATURDAY, DAY 1
Tina Bowden moved through the crush of people in the conference room until she was close to Markus’s side. She had to shove her way through. The manager was besieged by anxious staff members, all of them with the most compelling reasons why they shouldn’t be among those selected to stay. Markus ran a desperate hand through his hair and glanced to where Kormann was standing by the podium, deep in conversation with one of his men. The terrorist, for that was how Markus now thought of him, in spite of Kormann’s claim that they were businessmen, glanced up and met Markus’s troubled gaze.
“Get on with it, Ben,” he called, glancing meaningfully at his watch. “You’ve got seven minutes to pick your people.”
Markus turned back to the faces crowding around him. How could he be expected to choose? How could he play God with people’s lives, deciding who
“Please, Mr. Markus! I can’t stay here! Don’t make me stay! Not now I’m pregnant!”
She couldn’t have been more than seventeen and Markus looked at her in surprise. A middle-aged receptionist behind her curled her lip in disbelief. “Don’t believe that! The little bitch is only saying that so you’ll let her go. Me, I’ve got three kids down in Salt Lake City and no man to look after them. You’ve got to let me go, Mr. Markus.”
Markus shook his head in desperation. A hand grasped his upper arm with surprizing strength and he turned to find himself face to face with Tina Bowden.
“I’m staying,” she said, quietly but forcefully. “You know I have to, Ben.”
Markus hesitated, then nodded. As part of management, he was one of a limited number of staff who knew that Tina was actually an undercover member of the hotel’s security service. She was, in fact, the senior officer on duty at present. He guessed there could be no argument about whether she stayed or went. She stayed.
Counting himself, that made four people selected. He’d already chosen the other two men who were to stay. One was a cleaner and the other ran the lobby drugstore and gift shop. Under Kormann’s direction, they were both middle-aged. The terrorist leader had told him he didn’t want any “young, gung-ho heroes kept on the premises.” Now he had to pick two more women. Another stipulation of Kormann’s.
“Five minutes, Ben,” came the mocking voice from the podium.
Markus’s eye alighted on one of the gym fitness instructors. Fit, healthy, in her mid-twenties, she was unmarried and, as far as he knew, had no ties anywhere local. Then, as he opened his mouth to call her name, he reconsidered. Maybe having an attractive young woman around wasn’t such a great idea, he thought. He ran his hands through his hair again. Jesus! Why did he have to be the one? If he picked an older woman, odds were she’d have family somewhere in the vicinity, people who depended on her. To hell with it, he thought, the fitness instructor would have to take her chances with the rest of them.
“Lois,” he called, and saw her face blanch slightly. She knew what was coming. “I’m sorry, honey, but you’re going to have to stay.”
That made five. One to go.
CANYON LODGE ENTRANCE
1615 HOURS, MOUNTAIN TIME
SATURDAY, DAY 1
As the group chosen for release reached the underground arrival area, they were mildly surprised to find the old exhaust-and dirt-stained yellow shuttle bus parked in the tunnel.
The double doors slid apart and one of the guards moved forward to activate the lock that would keep them in the open position. Then he gestured with the stubby muzzle of the submachine gun that he carried, indicating the people closest to the entrance.
“Get moving. Everyone on the bus.”
Hesitantly, they moved forward. First one, then two or three others. Then the herd instinct took over and they began to move as a group, jostling each other as they reached the bottleneck formed by the doorway. The armed men stood well clear; each one avoided standing in anyone else’s line of fire.
“Keep moving! Come on! On the bus!”
The commands were taken up from both sides of the moving mass of people.
Now the first few were climbing aboard and again, the group slowed and swelled as they had to negotiate the steps and the narrow doorway. The delay seemed to anger the guards and they moved closer, shouting and yelling, shoving at them, urging them to board more quickly. The shouts became more frequent, with a rising edge of anger and urgency.
“Get moving! Come on! Don’t stop! Move!”
It was inevitable that someone would turn to object. It was almost certain that it would be one of the younger staff members. It was a female ski-school clerk who did it. She spun on her heel as a gun barrel jabbed into the small of her back, urging her forward.
“Goddamn it!” she cried. “We’re moving as fast as we can! Why don’t you guys take a—”
She was right beside the black man who had hijacked the bus when she turned to argue. He saw the rebellion in her eyes, leveled the big pistol and aimed at the girl’s head.
Still arguing with the man who had jabbed her, she never saw the movement from her side. The deafening crash of the pistol echoed through the confined space of the tunnel. The heavy slug hit the girl in the back of the skull and exploded out through her forehead in a sickening fountain of red and gray tissue that showered those close to her.
Already dead, she jerked forward, took a few spasmodic steps, then sagged to the cold ground. The woman beside her, covered in blood and tissue, screamed.
Others in the crowd echoed the scream and, in an instinctive, fear-driven reaction, the prisoners huddled closer together. Around the lifeless body, members of the crowd drew back, pressing against their immediate neighbors as they tried to leave space between themselves and the bloody-headed corpse—as if afraid that even touching it would lead to their own destruction.
The black man nodded to one of the other guards, who immediately raised his slab-sided, heavy-barreled submachine gun in a one-handed grip and squeezed off a racketing, seven-round burst.
The shots were deafening in the confined space. The howling of the ricochets, and the echoes they sent up, were terrifying.
Then Kormann’s voice cut through the screams of the terrified staff members, reducing them to a frightened silence.
“Now move! Cut the crap and get on the bus!”
Gradually, the panic subsided. Moving once again, and with fearful glances around them, the prisoners began to climb aboard the bus. As the first few climbed aboard, the black man moved along outside the windows, motioning for them to move right to the rear, the threat of the pistol in his hands reinforcing his shouted orders.
There were fifty-five passengers in all—a heavy load for the old bus, with its slipping transmission and worn rings. The driver, still behind the wheel, hoped they weren’t heading any further uphill. The bus would never make it.
The black man’s next words dispeled any such doubts.
“Okay. Get this load back moving down to Salt Lake City.”
The still-warm diesel fired almost instantly.
Spewing black, oily smoke, the overloaded shuttle bus pulled slowly away from the hotel doors. Riding the clutch against the slipping transmission, the driver gunned her up the ramp leading out of the tunnel. The small group of armed men watched it lumber heavily up and out into the late afternoon sunlight.
Behind it, the body of the young girl lay, fair hair already stained to a deep red by her own lifeblood.
ELEVEN
THE WALL
SNOW EAGLES MOUNTAIN
WASATCH COUNTY
1621 HOURS, MOUNTAIN TIME
SATURDAY, DAY 1
The late afternoon sun was low in the west and the shadows were stretching dark across the snow. In the next few minutes, the mountain would block the sun entirely and the ski runs at Snow Eagles would take on the ominous, deserted feeling that came with the end of the ski day. The chairlifts, controlled by automatic time switches that started them every day at eight a.m. and shut them down each afternoon at four thirty, continued to run. But without their cargos of eager skiers, they seemed forlorn and vaguely futile.
Far below, the few remaining skiers were finishing their last runs, the day trippers heading for the parking lot while the on-mountain residents skied toward the bulky, gray, man-made mountain that was the Canyon Lodge. Their bright ski clothes provided a few remaining traces of color in the shadowed, leached-out snowscape. There was an air of emptiness and even desolation to the almost deserted mountain that matched Jesse’s mood.
He sat disconsolately in the snow below The Wall, exhausted and defeated. He had given up smoking several years previously but now he reached into the inner pocket of his parka and produced a nearly full pack of Chesterfields, shaking one out of the pack
The formerly pristine surface of the snow beneath The Wall was churned and tumbled, mute testimony to his repeated attempts to defeat his fear. He’d tried to do as Tina had suggested, building up to it throughout the day, skiing a series of progressively more difficult runs. But finally, he had to face The Wall itself.
Each time, as he stood looking down at the almost sheer slope, the pain would sear through his leg once more and he would feel the familiar jolt of fear deep in his belly. Eight times he had overcome it and launched himself out into space, plunging down the slope, going into a series of rhythmic turns, thrusting with his legs, turning, turning again, defying the mountain’s attempts to claw him down. Down the slope, turning and turning, maintaining a constant, flowing motion that harnessed the pull of gravity and the speed of his descent against the bite of his skis into the soft snow and kept him balanced and in place.
And each time, in the moment when he thought he had conquered the fear, it would return, suddenly, jarringly, back to the forefront of his consciousness, manifesting itself in a sudden, well remembered stab of agony that went through his leg and skewered his courage.
In that moment, he would feel the skis slide out from under as he leaned back into the mountain, knowing it was wrong, knowing that he mustn’t, knowing what the inevitable result of the fear-driven movement would be, must be. And then he would feel the instantaneous loss of grace and balance as he was turned into a helplessly cartwheeling, inchoate mass of flesh and bone that tumbled and slid and rolled in a tangle of arms and legs and skis until the momentum was gone and he would lie, chest heaving and lungs burning, defeated once again, betrayed by his own fears.