Die Cold, page 17
part #4 of Jake Boulder Series
I’m still facing uphill, so that’s the direction I go.
Every time I slip a little he jabs at me with the pistol, but I’m too cold to feel any of the pain he might be inflicting on me.
It’s obvious he’s lain in wait until I’ve come up the slope and stepped in behind me. How I missed him is a matter for another time; right now, every brain cell I possess is bent towards getting me out of this situation.
The ground levels out a little and I know we’re cresting from the ski run to the level area at the resort. This means I’m less than fifty yards from the resort and he’s less than fifty yards from getting help.
Something hard and metallic slams into my head with enough force to stun me.
‘Don’t give me an excuse, buddy. Much as I want to see you screaming in agony, begging for death, I’m quite happy to kill you right here.’
I don’t answer him. I just keep trudging forward as slowly as I dare.
Chapter 56
Nathan slams the door of his control room and looks at the police captain and the resort manager; neither man looks happy at the situation and Nathan shares their sentiments.
The press having arrived is a complication none of them wanted, but that’s the least of their worries as it was inevitable the press would show up at some point.
They haven’t heard from the tactical team since they set off. This was part of the plan, lest their communications be intercepted, but they’re twenty minutes overdue for arrival at RidgeTop Resort: as soon as they had made contact, Roger Knightly was supposed to radio down to let them know they’d arrived and that the rescue mission was underway.
Having seen their serious faces and the equipment they were carrying, Nathan was convinced they’d succeed in their mission against the people who’ve taken over the resort. Each man was grim and taciturn, completely focused on their last-minute weapons check. Their eyes were clear and bore the intense concentration of those who had battle experience.
Every one of them wore winter camouflage clothing and they were carrying enough weaponry to stage a military coup.
Just looking at them, Nathan had felt confident they’d triumph. Except they were late checking in.
With no GPS transponder on Knightly’s piste basher there is no way of knowing where they are. The police captain had voiced his doubts about Roger’s ability, falling silent when the resort manager told him he was wrong.
Nathan can tell the captain isn’t convinced that Knightly hasn’t gone off course or been delayed, but he’s kept his opinions to himself so far.
Time and again the reporters bang on the door of the control room, but Nathan had twisted the key over to keep them out. Their presence is a nuisance that everyone could do without.
Olly Attwood is a decent enough man, even if he always puts the needs of the business ahead of any other consideration. He’s a company man through and through: a confirmed bachelor, he has no life outside his work, and his habit of working sixteen hour days during the entire ski season is known to every employee. Nathan knows he will be as worried about the adverse publicity as he is about the danger to those who’ve been taken hostage.
Captain Ogden is a brute of a man with an upper body that reminds Nathan of a rodeo bull’s front shoulders. The square cut to his silvering hair accentuates the image, and it doesn’t take much imagining for Nathan to picture the captain as the kind of cop who bulldozes his way to a result using brawn rather than brain. The man’s rank might give him authority, but it is his physique and personality, not his status, that makes him the alpha male.
Even the battle-hardened men of the tactical team had shown him a deference that spoke of respect and admiration rather than lip service to his rank.
The control room is too small for a man of Ogden’s size and intensity to pace back and forth, but that doesn’t stop him doing it. Attwood has brought them all here to draw the press away from any of RidgeWay Resort’s customers.
‘At what point do you give up waiting to hear from your men and admit that they’ve befallen misfortune?’
Ogden whirls at the question from Attwood, but Nathan can see the fire in him cool as quickly as it has flared. From the way he scowls, Nathan is sure the captain has been thinking the same thing and he doesn’t like his thoughts. Whether he likes it or not, it’s a valid question that needs answered – in his own mind at least.
The captain glances at the digital wall clock. ‘In another twenty-five minutes. If we don’t hear from them by then, it’s time to look at plan B.’ He shifts his eyes to Attwood. ‘And before you ask, I’m still working on plan B.’
‘I’m sorry, Captain, but that’s not good enough. With staff included, there’s almost two hundred people up at RidgeTop, you’ve got to do something to save them.’
‘And what would you have me do? Send them up in a cable car so they can be shot to ribbons? Maybe you think I can parachute some men in? Tell me, Mr Civilian Hotel Manager, how do you think that will end? If I send twenty men to do that, five will miss the target by a half mile, another five will injure themselves on landing, and the other ten will be lucky not to sail right into an ambush. I wouldn’t presume to tell you how to do your job, don’t try and tell me how to do mine.’
Nathan is surprised at the way Attwood has stood up to Ogden. He’s never seen the man deal with confrontation in such a positive manner. ‘Surely there’s something you can do, send another team up in a piste basher?’
‘Say I had another team at my disposal, do you have another trailer? Do you know what’s happened to the first team that went up the hill? Until we know what’s happened to them, I’m not risking any more lives on foolhardy whims. For all we know, they could be buried by an avalanche, or the machine has broken down or been driven into a crevasse, or maybe, just maybe, those men are up there doing what they’re paid to do and risking their lives so the people who’ve been taken hostage are returned home safe. You’ve seen the way the snow is falling, it’s got to be twice as bad up there. As well as fighting the terrorists, my men will have to wade through at least a couple of feet of snow. I respectfully suggest you shut up and wait for my men to do their job.’
Attwood falls silent, but his expression suggests he’s still expecting the captain to come up with a solution.
Ogden points at Nathan as he backs away from the door. ‘You. Unlock that door and open it wide.’
Nathan does as he’s told and, as soon as the door opens, Ogden is on the move. By the time he reaches the door his strides are long and determined. The three members of the press don’t stand a chance of halting his progress as he barges his way through them.
To Nathan, everything the captain has said makes perfect sense.
Like an expectant father waiting for the sound of a wail outside a delivery suite, there’s little they can do until they hear from the people dealing with the situation.
Nathan isn’t religious, but he considers saying a prayer for all the innocents at RidgeTop Resort.
Chapter 57
There have been a few occasions in my life when I’ve wished I could turn back the clock and have a second chance to do things a different way. If I had that opportunity now, I’d be travelling up the other side of the slope and I’d be free of the man with the gun at my back.
I know with a certainty that brooks no argument, if I let myself get taken inside the resort, not only am I a dead man, but I’ll die in agony as Hannah takes out her anger on me.
However, reading is my main source of entertainment – crime and thriller novels in particular – and when you’ve read as many thrillers as I have, you can’t help but osmose some of the techniques that the characters use to get themselves out of perilous situations.
One particular book I’ve read has stuck with me more than others. The lead character is the kind of idiot who keeps getting himself into situations where he has a gun pointed at him. The various ways he escapes are so laughable that I watched a few online videos. By the time I put down my tablet, I’d wasted two hours checking to see if the character’s ways of disarming aggressors holding weapons against him were recommended techniques or something the author had made up. My conclusion was an even split between the two.
I can’t remember the exact details on how to deal with someone pointing a gun at my back, but the basics are still in my head.
I’d be more confident if my limbs weren’t numb; if I didn’t suspect the man behind me had been trained by a military instructor, I’d fancy my chances a whole lot more.
Every second I spend worrying is a second less to act before it’s too late.
I pretend to slip a little so he puts the gun against my back to push me forward.
He makes the mistake of complying. I can now feel the gun pressing against my back, about two inches to the right of my spine. Its position, along with the way he’d ground it into my right ear, tells me he’s right handed.
I whirl counter-clockwise, hoping against hope I can move quickly enough when encumbered by the snow.
As I turn, my left arm sweeps up over his gun arm, and snakes into a position where my forearm is applying upwards pressure on his elbow, while his forearm is trapped by my armpit. He can pull the trigger all he likes, but his pistol is six inches behind my back.
My right arm curls inwards so my elbow can crash against his jaw with as much force as I can put behind it.
I hear the snap of his jaw breaking and go to lift my right knee into his groin.
My knee collides with his thigh, so I give his jaw another crack with my elbow.
There’s no questioning the man’s toughness, so I drop my right hand and throw a punch at his groin.
I don’t get a perfect connection but it’s good enough to double him over.
Even as his knees are buckling I can feel him trying to turn his pistol so he can take a shot at me.
To counteract this, I wrench his gun arm into an arm bar and drive my right elbow down onto his with every scrap of strength I can call upon.
His elbow doesn’t stand a chance.
I snatch his gun from where it’s buried in the snow, put it to the back of his head and force my forefinger to pull the trigger. It’s not hard for me to end his life, considering his crimes, but it takes one hell of an effort to curl my finger.
The single shot kills him outright and he plunges face first into the snow.
When I roll him over to relieve him of his other weapons, I see his neck is ringed with tattoos.
I’d expected him to have more than just a pistol and a knife, but part of me isn’t surprised. I’m pleased to find he’s stuffed my pistol into his waistband as well.
He’d captured me with stealth, not force; his way was to sneak not charge.
I appreciate he has mimicked my tactics – it’s a sign of respect, even if he hadn’t realised it.
So far as his death is concerned, I feel nothing. The second he stuck his gun in my ear was the moment he signed his death warrant. After that, we were locked on a course that would see us engage in a fight to the death.
I could have spared his life and kneecapped him, but he would either have died a slow, agonising death from exposure, or his cries for help would have been heard and alerted his comrades.
How he died is neither here nor there, but the other terrorists must not know what state I’m in – that cannot be allowed to happen.
I know I need to act, but I also know I need to look after myself as well.
My next destination is the maintenance shed so I can once again pillage some warmer clothes.
Ed’s range of clothing isn’t what you’d call good for stealth, but what it lacks in camouflage it more than makes up for in warmth.
I switch my shirt for a thick padded jacket and remove the T-shirt from my head and toss it in a corner.
My rummaging reveals a set of quilted coveralls that have a distinctly unhealthy smell to them. I don’t care what they smell like, so long as they keep me warm. I whip off the jacket and pull on the coveralls over my shoes and trousers. As I fumble with the zipper I can feel the coveralls reflecting my body’s internal heat back at me.
The jacket goes on over the top of them.
The next thing my search uncovers is another woolly hat. It’s ratty, dirty and has a smell that makes the coveralls seem like a floral bouquet, but it’ll replace the one I lost during one of the fights and it’ll keep my head warm; that’s good enough for me.
My new outfit may be second-hand clothes that stink like a rotten skunk, but the way they’re warming my body makes me feel as if I’m dressed like a king.
My new clothes don’t allow me to keep my weapons anywhere handy, so I find a couple of pieces of rope and tie one around my waist as a makeshift belt. It’s tighter than I’m comfortable with but I can stuff the pistols between it and my clothes. As holsters go, it’s not going to win any style points, but it serves its purpose.
My next move is to cut a two-foot length from the other piece of rope. This gets stuffed into my jacket pocket as it’ll come in useful should I want to strangle someone from behind.
I find a pair of gloves but they’re heavily padded, and when I try them on I find I can’t feed my finger through the pistol’s trigger guard.
As much as I’m tempted to cut off the glove’s forefinger, I don’t. Should I get into another fight where punches are thrown, I need to know every blow will deliver the maximum effect.
For the time being I keep them on, but I know that when I leave this shed, the gloves will be off in every conceivable way.
Ever since the fight with Tattoo Neck, I’ve been considering what my next move should be. It would be suicidal to charge into the resort with guns blazing. At best, I’d only manage to kill one terrorist before I’d be gunned down.
With only two pistols as distance weapons, I need to come up with a different plan to the one I had when I was heading up the hill with a rifle in my hands.
It’s a bit of a gamble going back to where I’d left the welcoming committee, but I know there should still be an assault rifle there. If I can find that, my arsenal will be a lot deadlier.
I peel the gloves from my hands and grasp the door handle. My hands are now twice as compliant as they were, but they’re still a long way from normal.
It’s as I’m swinging open the door that a new plan comes to me.
The plan hinges on me finding a better weapon than a pistol, but if I can do that, I should be able to put Hannah on the back foot for a change.
Chapter 58
Ivy scowls at Alfonse and tries to believe that Jake isn’t at the resort that has been overrun by terrorists. No matter which way she looks at it, she knows that, if there’s trouble, Jake will be mixed up in it.
She knows her son has a way about him that draws conflict. Ever since his first day at school he’d been in one scrape after another. There is no badness in him, just a point-blank refusal to back down from any challenge. He’d squared off against boys three and four years his senior on more than one occasion during his schooldays. He may have lost a few fights, but he’d never surrendered. Nor had he learned how to avoid trouble.
On most occasions, he’d be standing firm on his principles. Alfonse was a target for schoolyard bullies until Jake had stepped in. Others had been protected by him as well and, if he saw the slightest injustice, he’d step in to right the wrong and restore what he believed was balance.
However, she also knew there were times when he was spoiling for a fight and nothing other than a punch-up would sate his urge.
In her more reflective moments, she accepted that some of his demons were created by the way his father had abandoned them, and some were created by her. She knows she’s not the greatest mother in the world, but she’s done the best she could by her children and she’s proud of them both.
The days after Cameron left had been the hardest of her life. He’d left her with two children under five years old and no source of income. She’d had to work three jobs to make ends meet. Had her mother not been able to look after the children, Ivy would have ended up on benefits, which for her would have been the ultimate sign of failure.
They didn’t have much for the first few years, but what they did have had been bought with money she’d earned. Taking benefits would have been the easy option, but Ivy wasn’t one to accept handouts from any source; they were her kids and therefore her responsibility. It was down to her to put food on their plates and clothes on their backs.
A month after Jake had turned twelve she met a man who changed her life. Neill Boulder was a relaxed guy with an easy laugh and a quiet confidence.
When he’d asked her to marry him and move to Casperton, she’d said yes without hesitation. A new life in a warmer clime had always been her dream, and as much as Glasgow was part of her soul, she’d begun fearing for Jake’s future. There was no doubt he was smart enough to get a good job that would see him earn a decent wage, but what kept her awake at nights was his growing propensity for fighting.
Glasgow was full of hard men and the last thing she wanted was for her son to get sucked into that culture. While his morals and principles would prevent him from seeking out a life of crime, sooner or later he’d go to defend someone, or correct some situation he’d perceived as wrong, and find himself up against one of the hard men. When that happened, he’d either get the pasting of his life, or he’d win and draw the wrong kind of attention to himself.
At the time there were many small gangs in Glasgow, but they were all affiliated to one of the two crime firms who ran the city. Every one of these gangs employed hard men as their muscle and, should Jake best one of them, retribution would be sought.
An even greater fear for her was that the gangs would entice Jake into their world. Threats against herself and Jake’s sister could be used to manipulate him, and once he’d done a job or two for them, they’d have enough on him to use blackmail to keep him under control.
