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He looks up. Through the white fog he can just make out a dark, ghostly hole left by the missing tile in the ceiling. They’re in the roof and on the move.

Do I follow them, up?

No. He’ll be a sitting duck if he climbs up there. He needs to take them by surprise. He can hear them move to the left. He pivots and runs, opens the rear door, sprints into the hallway, pulls off the gas mask then stops and listens. They still moving to the left. He sprints along the hallway and follows the sound. His phone buzzes in his pocket. He yanks it out, looks at the screen. Kashif. He answers with a whisper: ‘Yes?’

He hears the Chief’s clipped voice: ‘What’s happening?’

‘They’re out and on the move.’

‘Where?’

‘In the roof.’

‘How did they get —?’

‘Ladder. I’m on them.’

‘Where are they headed?’

‘I’ll let you know.’ Billy hangs up and focuses on the roof, listens hard.

They’re still moving to the left.

But why? Where are they going?

Then he knows. ‘The stanchion.’ He pushes his phone into his rear pocket and runs hard.

~ * ~

Schumacher and his crew move across the false ceiling. It’s dark so they use the torch apps on their mobile phones to light the way. Fortunately there’s a lot of room up here so they don’t need to crouch. They do, however, need to make sure they only step on crossbeams and not the flimsy ceiling panels, otherwise their escape will end very quickly.

Senna leads the way. ‘So what just happened back there? How did they know we were going to hit that place?’

The question is directed at Schumacher. He whispers back: ‘I don’t know. And keep your voice down.’

Senna takes this in with a sour nod. Schumacher is just as troubled as Senna by the turn of events but there’s no point even thinking about it until they get out of here safely. He raises his phone’s light and illuminates a wall. ‘There.’

They move to it, shine their lights on it until Hunt locates a small access panel. He turns the metal twist lock and swings it open. They slide through the hole and find themselves in a narrow cement stairwell.

They move fast.

~ * ~

Pistol raised, Billy reaches the stanchion, a giant cement tube which rises straight through the roof. In the middle of it is a doorway marked
Emergency Exit.
He gently presses down on the long handle that spans the width of the door, eases it open and pokes his head inside the stairwell. He can hear footsteps echo in the distance.

The Three Champions. Surely. They found a way into the stairwell, probably through a service panel. He listens to the sound for a moment and realises they’re moving upwards.

Why would they do that?

There’s only one way to find out. He slips into the stairwell and steps onto the first stair. His footfall echoes loudly. He realises they will hear him coming and stops, pulls off his workboots then silently bounds up the stairs in his socked feet, pistol in one hand, Blundstones in the other.

~ * ~

Schumacher is the first to reach the top of the cement staircase. It was a steep climb but they’re not breathing heavily. ‘Hide your weapons.’ They do it and Schumacher pulls open a door.

They’re hit by a gush of frigid air as they enter a winter wonderland, or at least the snow-covered level at the very highest point of Ski Dubai, a steep hundred-metre high slope that is the starting point for the four-hundred metre ski run. The fire stairs they just climbed are contained within one of the two stanchions that support the highest point of the giant loaf-shaped structure that sits above the Mall of the Emirates.

The place isn’t too busy today, but there is a small group of skiers and snowboarders who have been deposited at the top of the hill by the lift. As one the group turn to the guys wearing the leather jackets and jeans and crash helmets, visibly surprised by their inappropriate clothing. It is, after all, two degrees Celsius in here.

‘Maintenance crew.’ Schumacher says it because he’s not sure what else would sound believable. He and his crew then crunch across the pristine white snow. It’s the longest fifty metres of Schumacher’s life. They can’t run, because the snow is slippery, so they walk as carefully and quickly as they can. As they go Schumacher glances down the hill, amazed by the sheer size of the place. He sees a snow park area to the right where you can hire large inflatable plastic balls to roll around in.

They look like a lot of fun.

Under different circumstances he’d like to try one out one day.

They reach the far wall and see a door, same as the one they entered the ski field through. Schumacher pulls it open and on the other side is the clear blue sky and glaring yellow sun of a sweltering Dubai day. Senna steps outside, then Hunt follows. Schumacher looks back to make sure this really is the clean getaway he thinks it is.

~ * ~

Wham.

Billy nails Schumacher hard around the left thigh and drives him into the building’s insulated wall. They bounce off, smash into the frozen ground at the top of the slope and slide apart. That tackle was
deluxe,
even if Billy does say so himself, and it was also his only course of action considering the guy was almost out the door. And if Billy had taken any longer putting his boots back on he may have missed him altogether.

Now all the Australian has to do is subdue the guy and the whole thing is over. The best way to do that is to use his pistol. He doesn’t want to shoot anyone, he certainly doesn’t want to shoot anyone in
here,
in what is essentially a family amusement park, and he really doesn’t want to shoot Kurt, if indeed Schumacher
is
Kurt, but he will if push comes to shove. Billy pulls himself up then reaches down to grab his pistol from the ankle holster the Frenchman loaned him —

Slam.
Schumacher rears up and punches him in the jaw.

Ooof.
The Australian slides backwards from the force of the hit—but flicks out a foot and whacks Schumacher’s knee, knocks him sideways. He stumbles forward and crashes into Billy —

Thwump.
Together they slump over the edge of the hill and slide down the ski run.

Goddamnnit.
The slope is extremely steep and they’re at speed instantly. Billy travels backwards in a sitting position and swings his pistol at Schumacher, who travels forward on his back and swings his pistol at Billy.

It’s a standoff—except neither are standing. They slide in unison, three metres apart, Schumacher to Billy’s right, down, down and down, fast as hell. The Australian wants to turn and make sure he’s not about to plough into some unlucky punter but he won’t risk taking his eyes off Schumacher. He’s not going to lose him again.

They slide into a right-hand curve and pick up even more speed, catch up to a dude on a snowboard who slides between them. Billy waves at him to get out of the way but Dudeman ignores the request and casually flicks him the bird
—then
notices the pistol in the Australian’s hand, mouths a startled ‘Oh fuck!’, puts the bird away and swerves to the right —

Crunch.
Schumacher kicks out a foot and sweeps the snow-boarder’s legs from under him. Dudeman tumbles off and face-plants as his snowboard slides backwards, into Schumacher’s waiting hands. He pulls himself onto it in one sharp movement, finds his feet, then carves across the hill behind a group of skiers, his pistol trained on Billy the whole way.

The Australian has his weapon trained on Schumacher too but there’s no way he can fire with so many people about —

Wham.
Billy slams into a plastic catch fence and jolts to a stop. One hundred metres up the slope he watches Schumacher crunch to a stop with an impressive fan of white powder. He abandons the snowboard, levers himself into a ski-lift chair, glances back at Billy . . . and throws him a little wave.

Prick!

The Australian exhales, as frustrated as he’s ever felt. The guy is gone and there’s nothing he can do about it.

Or is there?

If Schumacher’s going to take the ski lift up to the top then maybe there’s a chance one of Kashif’s men is in the vicinity and could help. Billy draws out his iPhone to make the call —

‘Oh come on!’
This
is why you should never put a phone in your back pocket. The screen is shattered and the phone is dead as a dodo. ‘Wonderful!’ Billy finds his feet and glances back at the ski lift one last time. It isn’t moving very quickly. In fact it’s moving at a snail’s pace. He could probably run after it, might even be able to catch it by the time it reached the top, if he was wearing the kind of shoes that could grip the hill’s steep, snowy incline. But he’s not wearing that kind of shoe; he’s wearing slick-soled workboots that have almost no grip on a frozen surface.

He turns to a young blonde couple playing with a giant ball in the fun park area ten metres away. The ball is called a Zorg—no, a
Zorb,
and it’s a clear plastic sphere. It’s double-sectioned, with one two-metre-wide ball inside a larger three-metre sized ball, with a pressurised air layer between them. The layer acts as a shock absorber for the person inside the smaller ball who can roll the Zorb, within reason, pretty much anywhere without injury. Billy only knows this because he saw a documentary about the New Zealand blokes who make them. These particular Zorbs have a heavily ridged outer layer so they can grip the snow.

‘Grip the snow.’ Billy says it aloud then looks up the hill at the ski lift and the man wearing the Michael Schumacher helmet, then back at the Zorb.

He gets an idea.

~ * ~

Come on!

This ski lift is taking its sweet time getting to the top of this mountain. It’s not just slow, but
super
slow. Schumacher would get off and walk if he didn’t think he’d just slide to the bottom. He turns and looks to the spot where the guy in the black ski mask crashed into the safety fence.

He’s gone. Where’d he go? Schumacher scans the side hill. He can see plenty of people happily skiing but no sign of the guy. Who is he anyway? A cop? A security guard? And why was he wearing that mask? Does he have anything to do with the guy who wore the mask on the golf course in Malaysia?

Schumacher’s eyes flick right, to the fun park section. There’s no sign of the guy there either, but he can see four of those giant inflatable balls rolling around an obstacle course. They really do look like fun —

Hold on.

One of the balls is no longer on the obstacle course. It has rolled out of that area and makes its way across the hill.

Why would it be doing that?

Before he can answer his own question, the ball turns and heads up the hill—towards the ski lift, the ridges on its exterior perfectly gripping the snow and propelling it forward.

Oh dammit.

Schumacher knows who’s inside it, where he’s going and what he wants to do when he gets there. It’s the guy in the black mask, and he’s moving fast, much faster than this damn ski lift. Suddenly those giant inflatable balls don’t look like fun at all.

~ * ~

Billy may be wearing shoes that can’t grip the snow but he’s running inside a ball that
can.
So far. Man, he is exhausted. It doesn’t help that he’s not match fit and hasn’t been since his accident at Bathurst, but this would be exhausting even if he was Lance Armstrong, before the dark times. His legs, the engine room of this particular enterprise, and his arms, the steering mechanism, are both aching from the exertion. It’s all about maintaining momentum, not letting the ball stall as it climbs the hill, and making sure his centre of gravity is tilted forward. He can’t see very clearly through the ball’s dull plastic but he can make out the outline of the ski lift.

Hopefully Schumacher won’t realise he’s inside until it’s too late.

~ * ~

This prick really wants to catch me.

Schumacher looks from the fast-approaching inflatable ball, which is fifty metres away and closing in quickly, to the top of the ski lift, which is also fifty metres away and approaching slowly. He looks back at the inflatable ball.

Surely that guy can’t keep up this pace?

~ * ~

‘Keep it up, man, keep it up!’ Billy pumps his leg and works his arms, keeps the giant ball moving forward. It slows as the incline becomes steeper, but he pushes forward, ignores the burning sensation in his thighs and the shooting pain across his lower back.

He can make out the outline of the lift above him and it’s not that far away, maybe forty metres. He just has to keep going.

~ * ~

Astonished, Schumacher watches the inflatable ball. The hill gets steeper but it just keeps on rollin’. He turns and looks to the top of the ski lift. It’s now thirty metres away but at this pace the giant ball will reach it before he does.

Jesus Christ.

What the hell does he do?

Then he knows.

The answer is in his pocket.

~ * ~

Billy is sucking in the big ones but he keeps at it. He can see the top of the hill and he’s certain he’ll make it before the chair Schumacher’s in, which is just five metres away now. He just hopes Schumacher doesn’t realise he’s in the Zorb —