Listening to his own wheedling, pathetically hopeful inner voice, it suddenly hit him: apart from his own neck, what did it matter? What did he care if Brossard dynamited the whole farmhouse with them all inside? Damn Fornier! Damn the lot of them! They'd brought him to this: standing on a lonely backwater lane in the dead of night, tired and afraid, his nerves frazzled, his career and life in ruins, running for his life from half the nation's police to catch a flight in just over an hour.
And now he was almost as worried about saving their necks as his own! His anger brought back his earlier pounding tension. His hands were shaking, and he rested back against the Peugeot bonnet to try and brace, steady them. But after a few more minutes with no cars passing, standing alone in the darkness with only some crickets breaking the silence, he couldn't bare it any longer. He slammed one hand on his bonnet. No! No more! He'd waited long enough. As far as he was concerned, Brossard could…
A set of headlamps appeared suddenly, startling him with the speed of their approach — and for a second he was caught in their glare. Quick flash glimpse as the car sped past, but enough: it was Fornier!
Duclos jumped in the Peugeot and started her up. His heart was pounding hard. Fornier had probably seen him! A moment for the realization to hit Fornier, and then the car would do a U-turn and head out after him.
Duclos bit hard at his lip. What a fool he'd been to come down here. He swung the Peugeot out quickly and put his foot down hard. He kept his eyes glued to the rear-view mirror as he sped away, fearful that at any second Fornier's headlamps would reappear at the farmhouse entrance and turn out.
Six minutes. All that it had taken from the phone going dead for Dominic to reach the farmhouse.
He screeched to a halt, leapt out almost before he'd stopped, taking his gun out in the few quick paces to the front door. It was slightly ajar.
He pushed it, but there was a weight the other side keeping it from opening. His nerves jumped, thinking for a moment that the hit man was still there, pushing from the other side — before his eyes adjusted to the dark and made out the ghostly white face on the floor. Gerome! He recoiled back in horror.
He couldn't risk forcing the door, moving the body, in case Gerome was still alive. He ran around the house, saw the dining room window open, and scrambled in.
Dominic realized he was probably following in the path the hit man had taken. Alive? He'd accepted in the last few minutes of frantic driving — fragments of hope and desperation fighting against hollow bewilderment — that Monique was probably already dead. But Gerome as well? He felt as if his stomach had been scooped out by a cold claw. Salt tears stung his eyes, his vision suddenly blurred.
But fear overrode, his hands trembling as he held his gun out, double beat pulse skittering across his cold dark sea of bewilderment.
Six minutes? A lifetime for a professional hit man. But still he might be lurking in the shadows, waiting. Dominic part of the contract along with Monique. Dominic moved stealthily, cautiously, alert to the slightest movement. Across the dining room, through the half open door, into the hallway…
Eyes adjusting, taking in the crumpled figure of Gerome at its end. He bit hard at his lip… please God, don't let him be dead! But he knew it was little more than a wishful, desperate prayer. Most professionals finished off with head shots.
To the side, the door to the dining room was open. Dominic kept very still, consciously holding his breath, listening for sounds from the room. Nothing. He eased up, turned into the room quickly, gun held straight out.
His eyes fell on Monique's sprawled figure immediately: to the right, by the telephone.
Then with sudden panic, as shapes became clearer in the darkness, he realized that it was two figures… and one of them was rising!
The hit man was still alive — he'd used Monique's body as a shield…
Dominic aimed square at the figure, started to squeeze off the shot.
'Dominic…'
The voice and the shape hit him at the same time. Monique! He lowered the gun, rushed towards her.
He hugged her tight, kissing her cheek repeatedly. 'You're all right… you're all right.' Breathless, tone disbelieving, the tension washing away from him. He felt dampness, stickiness on her cheek as he kissed her, and touched with one hand. 'You're bleeding. You've been hit!'
'No, no… I don't think so.' She reached up to her face, still partly dazed. 'I think it's his blood. It happened so… so quickly. While you were on the phone… He grabbed me… said something into the phone.' Monique fought for breath, words gasped on staccato exhalations as the thoughts hit her. 'Then the shot… us both falling back. Then I don't remember anything until I heard you moving in the hallway.' She shook her head, looked back at the body behind her.
Dominic would have checked the man's pulse, but he could see bone fragments among the dark patch spreading out from the head. Half the skull had been blown away. 'Did you see anyone else come in the room?'
'No… no I didn't… I…' Monique touched her head thoughtfully. She could feel a bruise, a dull ache to one side. 'I must have… have hit my head or fainted. I thought I heard Gerome's car. But it was all confusing… everything happening so… I…' Then the dam of her emotions finally broke. She burst into tears. Heavy racking sobs as she clutched back tight against Dominic. 'It's so good to see you… so good.'
Dominic felt her body quaking against him. Who had fired the bullet to save her, where had it come from? Though no time to find out now. No time! Gerome! But it felt wrong to just push her brusquely away, or was it more that he was dreading breaking the news, destroying her while she was still in shock from her own ordeal. Telling her the one thing he knew she'd feared most through all the years.
It felt like a lifetime, but in the end was only seconds before he muttered, 'It's Gerome.' He felt her pull back. Her eyes were darting, searching, and even in the darkness he could see that she had read the panic and apprehension in his own eyes. He gripped Monique's shoulders briefly, a gesture that said 'please be strong' — and darted into the hallway with Monique following.
Tomi straightened up from crouching in the field, detached the telescopic sights and slid the rifle back into its long case.
Everything had come through late, at the last minute: the location, his instructions. It had been a mad rush up from Marseille, with very little daylight left in which to scout the area. He'd almost missed what he believed was Brossard's Dianne parked deep in a woodland track — realizing with a shock that Brossard might have been there for some time, it might already be over!
It was fully dark as Tomi ran across the farm field and positioned himself by the short stone wall. Light on downstairs. Tomi attached the sights: clear view of the drawing room, a woman kneeling down by a small alcove at the back.
Seconds later the light went out. Tomi panned the sights sharply to each side and up to see if any other lights had come on — but there were none. The electricity had been cut.
He had no night sights — he would have to move in! And Brossard was no doubt already there and would have prepared with…
It was then that he picked up the faint glow at the back of the drawing room in his sights: a small night-light.
He could just pick out the silhouette of the woman. She was standing, talking on the phone. Then only seconds later, another shape came swiftly into frame — gripping the woman around the neck with one arm, taking the telephone.