Glass Houses (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #13)(119)

What most couldn’t see was that the words were slightly obscured by blotches, drips, of red.

*

Isabelle Lacoste carefully opened the internal door connecting the bookstore to the bistro.

Through the crack she saw the chief lean back in his chair, relaxed. A beer in his hand. While off to the side, the head of the American cartel gestured to Anton to sit back down.

This was a different Anton.

No longer the dishwasher. No longer the chef.

He must know now, thought Lacoste, if he didn’t before, that this wasn’t a friendly tête-à-tête, to divide territory. This was a hostile takeover. If nothing else, the red splashes on the boxes of toys would tell him that. They were what was left of his own couriers.

Lacoste carefully took the safety off her assault rifle.

Olivier passed in front of her and stood by the table, in direct line of sight. Direct line of fire. At the edge of her peripheral vision, she noted that Beauvoir had started to get up from the table.

The soldiers looked over at him. Lacoste lifted her rifle. Through the sights she saw the men grin.

Jean-Guy was holding a duck. The guards smiled as they watched him take the duck off his lap and give it to a woman so old she looked mummified.

It was like laying siege to Hooterville.

Ruth, clutching Rosa to her chest, got up.

“Well, fuck you too,” she said to Beauvoir, at the top of her lungs. “Numbnuts.”

That provoked outright laughter from the enforcers, though they stopped laughing when Ruth turned her fuck-you gaze on them.

“For God’s sake,” Lacoste whispered, as the old woman limped toward the two huge men. “Get out.”

Now Ruth was also obscuring any shot she had.

“Oh, come on, Ruth,” said Gamache, getting up and ushering her to the side. “Leave these poor men alone. They’re just trying to have their dinner. And it’s probably time for yours. We’ll take you over.” He pushed her slightly toward the door. “Olivier? The bill, please.”

“Of course, patron.” And Olivier moved to the bar.

“Jean-Guy?” said Gamache, indicating that he should look after Ruth.

The young American was watching this, amusement frozen on his face. Thrown off, slightly, by this strange turn of events. Though clearly not alarmed.

Yogi and Boo-Boo either had no idea what was going on, or the head of the S?reté knew perfectly well, and was running away. Ceding the floor, the territory, to them.

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.