Gamache’s agony, at having to do it.
The view changed and they followed the team, chasing gunmen through corridors. Exchanging fire. A Surete 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.
Emile 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. Emile 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.
Beauvoir held his breath. It was what he’d seen that day. The Chief lying, unmoving, on the floor.
“Officer down,” Beauvoir heard himself rasp. “The Chief’s down.”
It seemed forever. Beauvoir tried to move, to drag himself forward, but he couldn’t. Around him he heard gunfire. In his headphones officers were calling to each other, shouting instructions, locations, warnings.
But all he saw was the still form in front.
Then there were hands on him and Agent Lacoste kneeling, bending over him. Her face worried and determined.
He saw her eyes move down his body, to his bloody hand clutching his abdomen. “Here, over here,” she shouted and was joined by a medic.
“The Chief,” Beauvoir whispered and motioned. Lacoste’s face fell as she looked.
As medics leaned over Beauvoir, putting pressure bandages on his wound, sticking needles into him, calling for a stretcher, Beauvoir watched Lacoste and a medic run to the Chief. They moved toward him but shooting erupted and they had to take cover.
Gamache lay motionless on the concrete floor just beyond their reach.
Finally Lacoste raced up the stairs and from her camera they saw her trace the shots to a gunman in a doorway above. She engaged him, eventually hitting him. Grabbing his gun she shouted, “Clear!”
The medic ran to Gamache. Across the floor Beauvoir strained to see.
Emile watched as the medic leaned over Gamache.
The medic looked up as Lacoste joined him. The Chief was coughing slightly, still alive. His eyes were half closed, glazed, and he gasped for breath.
“Chief, can you hear me?” She put her hands on either side of his head and lifted it, looking into his eyes. He focused and struggled to keep his eyes open.
“Hold this.” The medic grabbed a bandage and put it over the wound by Gamache’s left temple. Lacoste pressed down, holding it there, trying to stop the bleeding.
The Chief stirred, tried to focus, fighting for breath. The medic saw this, his brow furrowed, perplexed. Then he ripped open the Chief’s tactical vest and exhaled.
“Christ.”
Lacoste looked down. “Oh, no,” she whispered.
The Chief’s chest was covered in blood. The medic tore Gamache’s shirt, exposing his chest. And there, on the side, was a wound.
From across the room Beauvoir watched, but all he could see were the Chief’s legs, his polished black leather shoes on the floor moving slightly. But it was his hand Beauvoir stared at. The Chief’s right hand, bloody, tight, taut, straining. And in the headset he heard gasping. Struggling for breath. Gamache’s right arm outstretched, fingers reaching. His hand grabbing, trembling, as though the breath was just out of reach.
As medics lifted Beauvoir onto a stretcher he whispered over and over again, pleading, “No, no. Please.”
He heard Lacoste shout, “Chief!”
There was more coughing, weaker. Then silence.
And he saw Gamache’s right hand spasm, shudder. Then softly, like a snowflake, it fell.
And Jean-Guy Beauvoir knew Armand Gamache was dying.
On the uncomfortable plastic chairs, Beauvoir let out a small moan. The video had moved on. Shots of the squad engaging the remaining gunmen.
Ruth stared at the screen, her Scotch untouched.
“Chief!”
