Buried in Orange: Buck Reilly Adventure Series by John H. Cunningham

Author:John H. Cunningham [Cunningham, John H.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Greene Street, LLC
Published: 2023-10-02T22:00:00+00:00

18

ONCE TO THE TOP, I EXITED AHEAD OF THE OTHER PASSENGERS and followed the walkway around the station, which held little more than restrooms. Once clear of the building, I spotted another larger structure up a steep hill. Pointing toward it, a small sign with an arrow read Rifugio Lagazuoi. I was surrounded by treeless, jagged gray peaks where clouds floated within reach, and I felt the change in temperature at this elevation accentuated by a stiff breeze. Here I was in tropical-weight attire, the cold now tearing through me.

As did my concern for Harry, given my foolish attempts to persuade them to release him in exchange for me. It was increasingly clear that Himmelman and his crew would dispose of us once they got what they wanted. So even though I’d failed with my naïve efforts, the reality of the situation had simultaneously crystalized and galvanized my resolve.

I had to save Harry, or at least get eyes on the Promontory to advise Jones with intel.

But how?

The cable car embarked for the bottom of the valley, its station so far below it appeared like a dot at the end of the dangling steel cables.

I turned and climbed the gravel path straight into the breeze. Once I reached the top, my lungs burned, and I felt the gravel embedded in the wide tread of my tennis shoes. A large sundeck filled with wooden picnic tables faced out over the valley, which took what was left of my breath away. The Dolomites were an old mountain range, compared to the Alps or Rockies, as mountain dating goes, and the lack of trees struck me. There were very few flat surfaces in the range, and the peaks appeared to be hewn by chisel and hammer like a massive unfinished Renaissance sculpture.

The Rifugio itself was made of wood and white plaster. Guests were visible inside, appropriately dressed in sweaters and jackets, dining at tables and enjoying this respite among their journeys. I pulled the heavy door open and found a bar straight ahead with shelves stocked with all types of liquor and other beverages, but more importantly, croissants and sandwiches under a glass counter and maps, jackets, and sweatshirts for sale. People were seated at the bar with beers and orange Aperol spritzes in front of them. The bartender approached me, his eyes wide.

“Can I buy a trail map?” I asked. “And a ham sandwich and bottle of water.”

The bartender appeared to be in his early twenties; he had a thin beard on his cheeks and thick, dark tattoos on his arms.

“Sì, dieci Euros, per favor,” he said.

I handed him a twenty and received the change and map in return. I unfolded it quickly. “Can you show me where we are?”

“Sì.” His index finger stabbed the map at Val Gardena and ran across the ridge to the right, stopping on a peak a few over from the edge of town.

I studied it and saw the red line that depicted the cable car. There were

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