Beauvoir stared at the screen. As he suspected, the images were cobbled together from the tiny cameras attached to the headsets of each S?reté officer. What he hadn’t expected was the clarity. He’d thought it’d be grainy, hard to distinguish the players, but it was clear.
As were their voices.
“Officer down!” Gamache called above the gunfire.
“Go, go, go,” Beauvoir shouted, pointing to a gunman on the gallery above. Rapid fire shots, the camera swinging wildly, then dropping. Then another view, of the officer on the ground. And blood.
“Officer down,” shouted one of the team. “Help him.”
Two forms moved forward, automatic weapons firing, laying down cover for a third. Someone grabbing the downed officer, dragging him away. Then a cut to a corridor, racing, chasing the gunmen down darkened halls and into cavernous rooms. Explosions, shouts.
The Chief leaning against a wall, wearing a black tactical vest, automatic rifle in his hands. Firing. It looked so strange to see Gamache with a gun, and using it.
“We have at least six shooters,” someone called.
“I count ten,” said Gamache, his voice clipped, precise, clear. “Two down. That leaves eight. Five on the floor above, three down here. Where’re the medics?”
“Coming,” came Agent Lacoste’s voice. “Thirty seconds away.”
“We need a target alive,” the Chief ordered. “Take one alive.”
All hell was breaking loose as bullets slammed into walls, into bodies, into the floor and ceiling. Everything became gray, the air filled with dust and bullets. Shouts and screams. The Chief issuing orders as they pushed the gunmen from one room into another. Cornering them.
Then Beauvoir saw himself.
He stepped out from the wall and shot. Then he saw himself stagger, and fall.
Hitting the floor.
“Jean-Guy!” the Chief yelled.
He saw himself splayed on the ground, legs collapsed beneath him. Unmoving.
Gamache ran, calling, “Where are those medics!”
“Here, Chief, here,” called Lacoste. “We’re coming.”
Gamache grabbed Beauvoir’s jacket, dragging him behind the wall, shots ringing out. Now, with the sounds of explosions all round, the scene was suddenly intimate. The Chief’s worried face, in close up, staring down.
Armand Gamache watched, unblinking, though all he wanted to do was look away. Close his eyes, cover his ears, curl into a ball.
He could smell again the acrid gunpowder, the burning, the concrete dust. He could hear the violent report of the weapons. Feel the rifle in his own hands, pounding out bullets. And weapons firing at him.
Bang, bang, bang, exploding all round. The bullets hitting and bouncing, ricocheting, thudding. The riot of sensations. It was near impossible to think, to focus.
And for an instant he felt again the jolt of seeing Beauvoir hit.
On the screen he saw himself staring down at Beauvoir, searching his face. Feeling for a pulse. The camera catching not just the events, but the sensations, the feelings. The anguish in Gamache’s face.
“Jean-Guy?” he called and the Inspector’s eyes fluttered and opened, then rolled closed.
Bullets splayed their position and the Chief ducked over Beauvoir, pulling him further behind the wall and propping him up. He opened Jean-Guy’s vest, his eyes sweeping down the Inspector’s torso, stopping at the wound. The blood. Ripping open a pocket in his own vest he brought out a bandage and pressed it into Beauvoir’s hand then pressed the hand to the wound.
Leaning forward he whispered in Beauvoir’s ear.
“Jean-Guy, you have to hold your hand there, can you do it?”
Beauvoir’s eyes fluttered open again, fighting for consciousness.
“Stay with me,” the Chief commanded. “Can you stay conscious?”
Beauvoir nodded.
“Good.” Gamache looked up, at the fighting ahead and overhead, then looked back down. “Medics are on their way. Lacoste’s coming, she’ll be here in a moment.” He paused and did something not meant to be seen by anyone else, and now seen by millions. He kissed Beauvoir on the forehead. Then smoothing Beauvoir’s hair, he left.
Beauvoir watched the screen through his fingers clutched to his face, his eyes wide. He’d expected the video to have captured, imperfectly, the events. It hadn’t occurred to him it would also capture how it felt.
The fear and confusion. The shock, the pain. The searing pain as he clutched at his abdomen. And the loneliness.
On the screen he saw his own face watching, pleading, as Gamache left him. Bleeding and alone. And he saw Gamache’s agony, at having to do it.
The view changed and they followed the team, chasing gunmen through corridors. Exchanging fire. A S?reté officer wounded. A gunman hit.
Then Gamache taking the stairs two at a time, in pursuit, the man turning to fire. Gamache throwing himself at him and the two struggling, fighting hand to hand. From the screen came a confusion of arms and torsos, gasps, as they fought. Finally the Chief grabbed for the weapon that had been knocked out of his hand. Swinging it at the terrorist he caught him with a terrible crunch to the head. The man dropped.
As the cameras watched, Gamache collapsed to his knees beside the man and felt for a pulse, then he cuffed him and dragged him down the stairs. At the bottom the Chief staggered a bit, catching himself. Struggling to stand upright, Gamache turned. Beauvoir was sprawled against the wall across the room. A bloody bandage in one hand and a gun in the other.
There was a rasping, gasping.
“I . . . have . . . one,” Gamache was saying, trying to catch his breath.
émile hadn’t moved since the video began. He’d only twice in his career had to fire his gun. Both times he’d killed someone. Hadn’t wanted to, but he’d meant to.
And he’d taught his officers well. It was an absolute, you never, ever take out your gun unless you mean to use it. And when you use it, aim for the body, aim to stop. Dead, if need be.
And now he watched Armand, his face bloody from the fight, sway a bit, then step forward. From his belt he grabbed his pistol. The gunman was unconscious at his feet. Shots continued all round. émile saw the Chief Inspector turn, react to shooting above him. Gamache took another step forward, raised his gun and took shots in quick succession. A target was hit. The shooting stopped.
For a moment. Then there was a rapid fire.
Gamache’s arms lifted. His whole body lifted. And twisted. And he fell to the ground.