02 Avalanche Pass by John Flanagan

came to the conclusion that his captors were highly trained, experienced and thoroughly professional. For the life of him, he couldn’t decide whether that was good or bad news.
    There seemed to be no common racial link between them. They were a disparate group. Some might have been Middle Eastern, or even southern European in parentage. There were several who were of fairer complexion, including two blonds, and he had already seen one black man among the group. Whether he was African–American or from some other background, Carling had no idea. Hedidn’t see any Asian-looking men among them. Maybe that was significent, maybe not.
    Through the picture window behind him, the precipitous, snow-laden wall of the canyon reared high overhead. By now, only the top third of the mountain was catching the light of the low-angled late afternoon sun.
    He sensed movement beside him and glanced to where Calvin Rockley had edged a little closer on the bench. The aircraft manufacturer leaned toward him and spoke in a low tone.
    “What do you think, Senator? Who are these guys?”
    His voice was barely above a whisper, yet Carling noticed that it drew the immediate attention of the closest of the guards—a slim, fair-haired young man with a look of wide-eyed innocence that was belied by the ugly, squat shape of the machine carbine held comfortably in the crook of his arm. The guard shifted his position slightly, so as to keep the senator and his companion directly under his gaze. At the same time, Carling noted, he didn’t neglect the rest of the sector assigned to him. Those wide, blue eyes continued to roam across the dispirited group in the gym, ready for instant action at any sign of rebellion.
    Not that there was much chance of that, the senator reflected bitterly. The surprise achieved by their captors had been absolute. As near as he could calculate, every guest left in the hotel had been swept up in their carefully laid net.
    Softly, his eyes on the guard, wary for any sign of aggression, Carling answered his companion. “Your guess is as good as mine, Cal. Some kind of terrorist group, most likely.”
    “Al Qaeda, maybe?” Rockley suggested. Carling shook his head. He’d relaxed a little now. After their first exchange, the guard seemed to have lost immediate interest in them. Obviously, there was no ban on talking among themselves.
    “They sure don’t look like it,” he replied. He inclined his head toward the guard, “That one looks like the original all-American boy. And I’d swear the guy on the desk when we came in was Brooklyn born and raised.”
    The guard had caught the slight head movement and their interest in him. He caught Carling’s gaze and glanced meaningfully—once—down to the machine gun. He shook his head slightly—a barely perceptible movement that nevertheless sent a clear message:
Don’t start anything. We’re in charge here.
    Carling took the hint. He turned slightly so that he was no longer looking directly at the guard. Rockley had caught the interplay as well.
    “Whoever they are,” he said, “they sure seem to know their business.”
    The senator nodded slowly, several times. A slight frown creased his forehead.
    “Whatever that might be,” he said finally.
    CANYON LODGE
    WASATCH COUNTY
    1629 HOURS, MOUNTAIN TIME
    SATURDAY, DAY 1

    Pallisani noticed the switchboard come back to life. He smiled thinly at the terrified operator still sitting near him, and flicked a switch on the board to answer.
    “Canyon,” he said briefly. In the headset earpiece, he heard the reply from five miles down the road.
    “The line’s reattached. You read me okay?”
    “Clear as a bell. Now get out of there.”
    He flicked the switch up to break the connection. The replacement line had been laid several days previously, bypassing a two-mile stretch of the road at Avalanche Pass. He’d hired the linesman who attached it through an intermediary. The technician had been fired by Bell Telephone several