He could see the American and his lieutenant through the trees, up ahead.
Good, good, he thought. They’d be there soon. Right into Toussaint, who’d be waiting.
But as he ran, another thought occurred to him.
What would he do, if he knew the opioid was heading to the village? And then heard shots?
Christ, he thought. He’d change the plan. Would have to. He’d take his team into the village. To help.
He’d leave the border.
Toussaint wouldn’t be there. But the syndicates would. They were running right into the arms of both cartels.
But it was too late. Far too late to stop. They had to see this through, to the end.
*
Anton recognized this part of the forest.
The border, he knew, was just ahead. And waiting there were his people. Armed and ready.
Gamache had shocked him. The Chief Superintendent had obviously known for a long time who he was. And what he was doing. He almost certainly knew about the root cellar and the hidden door.
The Americans were gaining on him. He could hear them, like a stampede through the forest. Anton picked up speed.
But then he slowed down.
Something had occurred to him.
He wasn’t running to the border. He was being herded.
The border was just up ahead, he knew. He couldn’t see it. Couldn’t see his men, though he knew they were there. But whether Gamache was alive or dead, he almost certainly would have positioned a S?reté assault team by the border. And the Americans would have their own people there.
He was running into a trap.
He stopped. He’d have to fight it out there. He turned and leveled his gun at the sound coming at him through the forest.
He fired.
*
A bullet grazed Jean-Guy’s leg and he fell.
He lay there for a moment, taking in what had happened. What was happening.
For some reason, Anton had stopped and decided to take a stand. The bullets from his gun moved in an arc, away from Beauvoir, as Anton sprayed the forest.
Beauvoir edged forward, the burning in his leg ignored.
The goal had not changed. To win the war, they had to do one thing.
Get the leaders.
Anton was behind a tree, sighting on the Americans. He fired again, his automatic weapon pumping out rounds.
Jean-Guy moved to the side, any noise he made masked by the weapons fire. Then he brought his gun up, and placed it behind Anton’s ear.
*
The syndicate soldiers, waiting at the border for their chiefs, heard the gunfire and quickly raised their weapons.
The Canadians pointing, unflinching, at the Americans.
The Americans, equally determined, held their weapons on the Canadians.
It was a standoff. Until one of the younger members panicked.
And then it was bedlam.
*
Toussaint, realizing what was happening, ordered her squad to get between the syndicates fighting it out, where she suspected Gamache and Beauvoir were running down the cartel heads.
She might not be able to help them, but at the very least she could stop whoever survived from the syndicates from going to the aid of their leaders.
*
The head of the American cartel heard the gunfire up ahead and guessed what it meant.
His own guard was dead. Cut down in the initial shots.
There would be no help. He’d have to find his own way across the border. Taking off like a man on fire, he ran. Racing, racing. Through the woods toward Vermont. And safety.
He could hear a noise behind him. Someone chasing him.
He could see the post marking the border just up ahead. Closer. Closer.
And then he was across.
*
The American was putting more and more distance between him and Gamache. Younger, swifter, the head of the cartel was getting away.
And then they were across the border. Gamache didn’t pause, didn’t hesitate. He raced after the man. Then he saw the man stop. Turn. And lift his weapon, even as Gamache tried to stop his own forward momentum.
He felt himself skidding, trying to stop.
He was losing his balance. Lost his balance. His feet came out from underneath him. He was falling.
*
The American stopped, turned, and saw the dark figure coming toward him out of the forest. He couldn’t make out features. It was just an outline.
He raised his gun and fired.
*
Gamache found himself on one knee as bullets ripped into the trees millimeters over his head.
Bringing up his gun, he aimed. And fired.
CHAPTER 34
Armand Gamache and Maureen Corriveau sat together in the quiet office.
They could hear time ticking away on the clock on the desk.
It was just after eight in the morning, a week to the day after the events at the border.
A man slightly older than Gamache sat at the desk. Looking first at the judge, then at the head of the S?reté.
Gamache’s face was beaten and bruised, but the swelling had gone down.
“How is Chief Inspector Lacoste?” the Premier Ministre du Québec asked.
“We’ll know soon,” said Gamache. “They’ve put her in a coma. The bullet damaged her brain, but we don’t know how badly.”
“I’m sorry,” said the Premier. “And the villagers? Three Pines, is it?”
“Oui.”
“Funny, but I’d never heard of it. I’d like to go there, when this is all cleared up.”
“I think they’d like that, sir. They’re—we’re—trying to get back to normal.”
He chose not to mention that there was nothing normal about Three Pines at the best of times, and the recent events did not get it any closer. But he did know that a strange sort of peace had settled over the village. A quietude.
It had never felt more like home than it did now. And the villagers had never felt more like family, than now.
“There were injuries, I know,” said the Premier.
“The owner of the bistro, Olivier Brulé, was shot in the arm, but his partner acted quickly and stemmed the bleeding. Others were hurt by flying glass and shards of wood. Everyone’s out of the hospital now. The gravest injury was to Chief Inspector Lacoste.”
“I asked you a few months ago, Armand, to tell me what was going on. You refused. You asked me to trust you. I did.” He paused to stare at the man. “And I’m glad I did.”
Gamache nodded very slightly, his thanks.
“But it’s time. Tell me what happened.”
When Gamache had finished, the Premier Ministre just stared at him.
He’d read the reports, of course. Those in the media. But also the confidential ones, stacked on his desk.
And he’d seen the video, from Lacoste’s camera attached to her helmet. Her point of view, even as she’d fallen.
The video had left him ashen. He didn’t think he could ever look at this man again without some part of him seeing Armand Gamache leaping forward. Throwing himself at the two men.
And the knife.
It was an image, a knowledge, the Premier could never erase. What this man, this thoughtful, calm, even kindly man, was capable of doing. What he had done.
“I’m sorry I have to ask these questions.”
“I understand.”