“Why do you think? Oh, wait a minute. You think this’s a setup? Yes, that makes sense, you dumb turd. That way I could get kicked out, move into a shithole with a junkie, and freeze my ass off. I’m living the dream. You think you’re so clever. But we both know that this”—she nodded toward the long tables—“fell into your lap. And you’re going to need help keeping it. Once this hits the streets, every dirty cop, every mob boss, every gang member, every wannabe cartel chief will be after you. You’re right. I’m not the one-eyed man. I have two good eyes, and what I see is you gutted in some alley. You need me.”
He was nodding. And then he looked past her and raised his brows.
Hands gripped her shoulders, and she was dragged backward onto the floor.
She fought, at one point thinking she’d broken free, but then a blow knocked her down and almost out. Dazed, she was turned onto her back, so that she was staring into his eyes.
“I don’t think so,” the man whispered, kneeling over her. “You’re too dangerous. You betray everyone and everything, and eventually you’d betray me.”
He stood up and nodded to someone. “Do it. Then toss her out.”
Amelia bucked and fought and shouted. And felt the needle go in.
Then felt the warmth. Then it got hotter and hotter. Until it began to burn. Until her blood felt like it had turned to lava.
She opened her mouth to scream, but her eyes just rolled to the back of her head. Then turned red.
Gamache found the agents, their weapons drawn.
They gestured toward a door where two well-armed guards stood.
Then the agents pointed up. More guards stood on a fire escape and on the roofs of surrounding buildings.
Gamache gave a curt nod, then carefully backed down the alley. He turned, only to find the tactical commander and his assault team.
“Two out front,” Gamache whispered. “Two on the fire escape opposite and three on the roofs.”
He gestured, and the commander nodded.
“Got it.” He handed Gamache a mask. “Do you have a weapon?”
“No,” said Gamache.
“I might get shit for doing this, but—”
He pressed an automatic into Gamache’s hand.
“Merci.”
“Let us go in first.”
“Of course.”
The commander signaled behind him. Weapons were raised, and with a few rapid silenced shots the guards dropped.
Gamache was about to move forward, right behind the commander, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
It was Beauvoir, his own gun drawn.
“Patron,” Jean-Guy whispered.
“Lacoste?”
“On her way to the girl.”
As he spoke, his sharp eyes were on the door, with the tactical team pouring through.
He started to move forward, but Gamache stopped him. “Amelia Choquet’s in there.”
“So she did lead you to the stuff,” said Beauvoir. “Fucking junkie. What did I—”
“She’s with us. She’s following my orders. We have to find her. Here.” He handed Jean-Guy the mask. “Put this on.”
The fight was brutal.
The tactical team arrived in force and didn’t hesitate to use that force, firing on the armed guards with precision.
They moved swiftly through the lab, the first wave targeting those with weapons, the next wave of armed officers shoving workers away from the tables. Pushing them against the wall. Frisking those who complied. Subduing those who did not.
Beauvoir, gas mask on, went through ahead of Gamache and almost fell over the body.
He gestured to Gamache to back out, and, grabbing the collar of Amelia’s coat, he dragged her back through the door. Away from any drug that might be floating in the air. Kicked up by the attack.
Once out the door, Beauvoir ripped off his mask and knelt by Gamache, who was on his knees beside Amelia.
Beauvoir kept his gun trained on the open door as automatic fire burst out. Ignoring it, Gamache wasted no time feeling for a pulse. He pulled the syringe from his pocket and plunged it into Amelia.
Her eyes were open. Glassy. Red. As though possessed.
Only then did he feel for a pulse as Beauvoir, still focused on the open door, called for medics.
“How is she?”
“No pulse.”
Gamache tore open her coat as bullets hit the bricks above them. Beauvoir ducked, instinctively, but Gamache kept on with the compressions. Counting. Under his breath, his face fixed, his focus complete. Ignoring the gunshots all around.
“Three. Four. Five.”
Beauvoir sensed movement through the door into the lab at the same moment he heard a click. Turning quickly, he saw the gun rising. Pointing at them.
A young guy held the weapon like an expert.
But Beauvoir was more expert. He fired. Three quick shots. Boom, boom, boom. And the man dropped.
When the ringing from the shots stopped bouncing off the walls, he heard Gamache beside him, still counting. Not losing a beat.
“Twenty-nine. Thirty.”
The medics arrived.
Gamache bent lower and gave Amelia two breaths.
“Carfentanil,” he said, continuing the compressions while Beauvoir watched the door into the lab and counted for him.
“Seven. Eight. Nine.”
“I gave her the antagonist,” said Gamache as he rocked back and forth, keeping the rhythm of the compressions.
“Which one?” asked the medic, kneeling beside him and preparing the defibrillator.
“Naltrexone. Less than a minute ago.”
“Okay,” said the medic. “Step aside.”
Gamache did, watching as the medics worked on Amelia. And other medics moved forward into the factory. To care for the wounded. Even as the shots continued. And more wounded were made.
Gamache looked over at Jean-Guy, who was now kneeling beside the young man he’d shot. And killed.
CHAPTER 37
“You look awful,” said Isabelle’s husband with a sympathetic smile. “Here.”
He handed Gamache a scotch and offered Beauvoir a coffee.
“Merci,” said Armand, accepting the drink but putting it down. “Where is she?”
It was well past midnight, and he felt like he’d been hit by a truck, but the evening wasn’t over yet.
“In our daughter’s room,” said Isabelle. “Would you like to see?”
“Please. Do you know her name?”
“No. She hasn’t spoken.”
“Social services?”
“I thought I’d wait ’til morning.”
“Good.”
Gamache and Jean-Guy followed Isabelle down the hall.
Her husband stayed behind in the living room, watching the three of them go. Recognizing that while he and the children would always be the most important parts of Isabelle’s life, these three also formed a family.
The door was open, and a night-light was on. In one bed lay Sophia, Isabelle’s daughter. Fast asleep.
In the other was the little girl. On her side, curled into a tight ball under the comforter. Eyes staring. Her hands clutching the pillow at her head.
Armand walked in quietly and knelt down.
When last he’d seen the girl, her hair was matted and caked with filth. Now it was clean and brushed. She’d had a bath and smelled very faintly of lavender.
“It’s Armand,” he spoke softly. “We met earlier. I’m the police officer.”
She cringed away, her eyes widening.
“It’s all right. I won’t hurt you. No one will. You’re safe.” He was careful not to approach further. Not to touch her. “You can go to sleep now.”
He smiled in a way that, he hoped and prayed, didn’t betray how his heart ached for her.
But she continued to stare at him, in terror.
“May I?” he asked, turning to Isabelle and indicating a book on the bedside table.
Isabelle nodded.
Armand brought over a chair and opened the book.
“‘… in which we are introduced to Winnie-the-Pooh and some bees,’” he read, his voice deep and soft and tranquil. He looked up then, into her wide eyes. “‘And the stories begin.’”