But the head of the American cartel would have been alarmed, should have been alarmed, had he stopped watching Gamache and noticed the expression on Anton’s face.
It was feral now. Savage. Not the look of an animal cornered. More the look of something that had its claws in some unfortunate creature and was about to gut it.
Lacoste, watching from the bookstore, had a clear shot thanks to the chief. But the expression on Anton’s face disturbed her. How could that be? He was clearly outnumbered. Outmaneuvered. But maybe he wasn’t. Maybe—
She came to it a moment too late.
“Bonjour,” a man’s voice whispered. And she felt the thrust of a gun to the back of her ear.
Anton was not alone. Of course, he’d have his own bodyguard close by.
And now he had his weapon pressed to her head, as he twisted the rifle out of her hands.
The other thing Isabelle Lacoste knew, in that moment, was that she was dead.
*
There was a slight noise off to Gamache’s left. As he turned to look, Isabelle Lacoste was pushed through the door from Myrna’s bookstore, a man behind her with a gun to her head.
Gamache recognized the man immediately, from the attack on the cobrador. He’d been the one with the fireplace poker. Marchand. Gamache had thought he was just a drunken rowdy, but he saw now he’d been wrong. Marchand was Anton’s man. A cartel soldier.
Gamache took this in in an instant.
The world seemed to stop, and everything grew very clear, very bright and colorful. Very slow.
Before Lacoste was even across the threshold, Gamache moved.
*
The only advantage, Isabelle realized, to already being dead, was that she had nothing to lose.
As soon as she was pushed through the door, she planted her feet and thrust herself backward, into her captor.
*
Beauvoir was just a millisecond behind. He could see Gamache launching himself forward toward the guard.
He could see Lacoste and the armed man behind her falling backward, suspended, it seemed to his racing senses, in mid-flight, mid-fall.
Beauvoir lowered his shoulder, and bringing his hand to his holster, he pushed off.
*
Gamache lunged.
Everyone else in the bistro, including Anton, including the head of the American cartel, was distracted by Lacoste. For just that instant.
That was all Gamache needed.
He couldn’t see what Beauvoir was doing. Or Lacoste, though he had seen her brace, and knew what she was about to do.
All his focus now was on the nearest bodyguard, who was just turning, just noticing what Gamache was doing. A look of surprise just coming onto his face.
He had not expected an older, complacent, beer-swilling man to act so quickly. And so decisively.
The guard had just time enough to move his hand to his weapon when Gamache smashed into him, pushing him on top of Anton. Knocking them off their feet.
All three fell to the floor, a grunt escaping Anton as they landed on top of him.
Gamache brought his forearm to the throat of the first man, pushing his head back, and without hesitation he pulled the hunting knife from his pocket. Flicked it open. And plunged it in.
Gunshots were going off.
*
Boom. Boom. Boom. Deafening. Not the pops of a handgun but the explosions of an assault rifle. And automatic weapons. Wood was splintering, people were screaming. Chairs and tables overturned. Glass shattered.
Gamache scrambled over the dying guard trying to get at his gun, still in the holster beneath the man. Anton was struggling, writhing, trying to get out from under the heavy body.
*
Jean-Guy Beauvoir crashed into the table, scattering glass and china, krokodil and traffickers.
Within moments there was chaos. Screaming, shouting. Gunfire.
He couldn’t see Gamache anymore, but he did see, as though in the flash of a strobe light, Lacoste crumple.
And then everything moved so quickly, it was as though frames were skipping. Unlike the chief, Beauvoir wasn’t a large man, but like the chief, he had the momentary element of surprise. And he used it.
He hit and rolled, and bringing out his weapon, he shot the second guard in the chest just as the man leveled his own gun at Beauvoir.
*
“What’s that?” asked Annie, her face white.
“Gunshots,” said Myrna. “From the bistro.”
They looked at each other for a moment, an eternity. And then Reine-Marie got up and hustled Annie, who was feeding Honoré, from the back terrace into the house.
Myrna and Clara ran in with them.
“Call 911,” Reine-Marie said to her daughter. “Lock the door after us.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“You’re looking after Ray-Ray,” said her mother.
“Does Armand have a gun?” asked Clara, her eyes wide and hands trembling, but her voice strong.
“Non.” Reine-Marie looked around and grabbed the fireplace poker. Myrna and Clara did the same thing. Myrna came away with a hatchet-like thing, and Clara was left with a fireplace brush.
“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath.
The gunfire was continuing, and the dogs were barking. Annie was shouting into the phone to the 911 dispatcher. And their hearts were pounding as they left the house and ran down the path to the road.
“Oh, Christ,” said Myrna.
Half a dozen children were lying on the ground. Apparently dead.
But then they started to stir, to stand. Staring at the bistro. Arms at their sides, mouths open.
“Come here,” Clara screamed at them, waving for them to come to her. She ran over as they began to run to her. Some crying, some confused. All understanding that the safest place in the world was not safe after all.
Clara herded them down the path to where Annie was standing at the open door, frantically waving them in, just as the windows of the bistro shattered with gunfire.
Without hesitation, Reine-Marie, Myrna and Clara ran all out. Toward it.
*
Ruth crawled across the floor to Rosa, who was sitting, looking more stunned than usual, under an overturned table.
The air was almost unbreathable, with fieldstone and brick and plaster exploded into dust.
She reached Rosa and curled her body around the duck.
Only then did she see Isabelle Lacoste, lying on the ground, her eyes open and staring.
*
Gamache gripped the handle of the gun in the dying man’s holster, but before he could yank it out, a boot landed in his face, stunning him.
The world went white and his vision blurred. Another blow landed.
Anton was striking out wildly. Viciously, desperately, kicking Gamache’s head, his shoulders, his arms.
Anton writhed and twisted and kicked with his one free leg. Hammering away at Gamache, who hunched his shoulders against the blows, his only focus the gun in the holster.
Then his grip tightened around the handle and he yanked the gun free.
Bringing it around, he rolled and fired, bang, bang, bang. Point-blank into Marchand, who was steps away, Lacoste’s assault rifle raised. Marchand looked shocked. And then was propelled backward, hitting the floor. Dead.
Gamache swung back around just in time to see Anton disappearing out the back door of the bistro.
*