Free 02 Avalanche Pass by John Flanagan Page A

podium on a raised speaker’s stage at the end farthest from the doors, and a large glass watercooler in one corner. Stackable hard chairs were ranged round the walls, stacked four deep in neat rows. The central area, some thirty feet by sixty, was empty floor space.
    The conference room was at the back of the hotel, on the western side. The western wall of the room was mainly window area, allowing a view of the small expanse of snow-covered flat land behind the hotel, and the massive cliff face that towered barely forty yards away. Light mesh curtains were drawn across the big windows to cut the glare of the reflected light from the snow outside. For the same reason, the glass was tinted. The diffused light filled the room, obviating the need for internal lighting on a clear day. The other three walls were gray concrete, lined with whiteboards and cork display boards. At the moment, they were bare, except for one whiteboard that still bore a trace of the notes left from a conference the previous week. The words “SALESMANSHIP PLUS!” stared out at Markus. He wondered what the phrase actually meant.
    Kormann’s elbow nudged his ribs and he headed to the front of the room. He noticed that the ten men who had left the lobby were now ranged around the walls of the conference area. The remaining ten were nowhere to be seen. Now that he studied them more closely, there was an alarming sameness about Kormann’s companions. All of them were expensively dressed in casual clothes, as befitted guests at Canyon Lodge. And their same brand name shoulder bags slung over their right shoulders—all with the top zips open and their right hands inside the bags.
    It was almost as if they wore uniforms, he thought. And as the thought occurred, he realized that this was probably the reason why they were dressed in such similar fashion. Seen individually, therewas nothing to excite comment about any of them. As a group, however, they were easy to distinguish from the staff members who were their unknowing prisoners.
    Kormann and Markus had reached the speaker’s podium now. The members of the crowd watched them expectantly, knowing that finally they would find out what the hell was going on. One girl near the front of the group raised her hand tentatively and addressed Markus.
    “Mr. Markus, are we going to be here long? I’ve left the switchboard unattended and you know that’s against normal procedure.”
    Kormann smiled reassuringly at her. “The switchboard is being looked after,” he said easily and she frowned, not liking what she heard.
    “But how? There’s nobody left to—”
    “One of my men is attending to it.” Kormann rode over her protest, then glanced at his watch. “In any event, the line between here and Salt Lake City is down and it won’t be restored for another ten minutes.”
    “How do you know that?” asked a middle-aged woman standing next to the switchboard operator. Several others echoed the question. People were getting just a little tired of this self-important Snowdrift Transport courier, who seemed to have taken control of their hotel. Kormann raised his hands once more, requesting silence and smiling at them all. They ignored the gesture and pressed a little closer, becoming more vocal in their protests. The smile faded from his lips and he raised his glance, nodding at one of the men standing by the wall.
    The racketing burst of a machine gun was deafening in the enclosed, concrete-walled room.
    Kormann’s man had chosen the glass tank of the water cooler as his target. The heavy bullets slammed into it, shattering the glass and sending the entire unit spinning and staggering in a welter of glass shards and spraying water.
    Several women in the room screamed and everyone dropped into an instinctive, protective crouch. As their eyes swung to the direction of the gunfire, Markus realized that every member of Kormann’steam was now holding a small, stubby machine gun. Kormann himself had drawn a