By Jack Drummond
Within the culture of catastrophe video clips just like the Poseidon experience, this tense and gripping thriller is decided in an unique ski inn through the worst avalanche in residing memory Every yr millions flock to the unique ski lodge of Hauts des Aigles to observe the Race du Diable—the most fun and hazardous downhill race on this planet. This yr six champions will compete for the prize—a infrequent diamond worthy $12 million, donated via a mysterious Russian billionaire. however it isn't just the six racers who will chance their lives within the coming days. stuck up of their personal mystery plots and passions, viewers and townsfolk alike are oblivious to the silent killer expecting them within the mountains. while the avalanche comes, purely 3 issues can shop them—fate, braveness, and the need to reside. not anything can cease it. not anyone can stand in its course. Who will live on?
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Extra info for Avalanche
Wicked,’ was all he said. And now that same climber was in danger. Or dead. On the same mountain. His companions too. For all its accessibility,Vialle was still a killer. Even in good weather it could take you by surprise. Looking through his office window, Garamonde watched the gondolas swing out of the lift-station and head up to the start of the pistes. Even this early in the morning the swaying cabins were packed with skiers and snowboarders anxious to take advantage of the first real fall of the season and the promise of fresh powder on the upper reaches.
Grey stone roofs, hotel balconies, windowsills, parked cars — everything he could see was layered with a plump mantle of snow, just the timbered facades of the buildings and the granite-block flues of their chimneys and the black faces of windows to break up a still, soft sea of white. A metre, maybe more, he guessed. Down in the centre of town,Dessin’s road crews would have cleared the streets, banking the snow into the pavements, scooping it into the back-up trucks, but the lane that led up to Nathalie’s chalet remained a sloping white river marked only by a single set of tyre tracks sliding downhill.
And while he waited and prayed, he dug, upwards and outwards with his fingers, scouring sideways with his elbow until he’d hollowed out an arm’s length of space in front of him and the same above. The trouble was that every spray of snow and ice he displaced was building up around his waist. Reaching down he shovelled it aside and started digging around his legs. If he wanted to climb out of the snow, he would need to get his legs free. And then he had an idea. Reaching up, he scrabbled at his chin strap, loosened the helmet and dragged it off.