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Jean-Guy had gone pale and felt lightheaded. “Just fine.”

“Can we go for my birthday? S’il te plaaaaaît?”

And now Beauvoir stood at the entrance. It would have to be a cave …

Do we have to go? I never really liked Tardiff. And it’s probably too late—

“Done.”

Don Moretti read the text and saw the photo. And for a brief moment he almost felt regret. They’d known each other for so long. Even, briefly, been lovers.

Then he forwarded the photo to Jeanne Caron with the subject line This is how we treat traitors.

Caron had been waiting for the message, though hadn’t expected a photograph.

She’d thought she might be repulsed, disgusted. But instead, she found herself almost aroused.

There on her phone was the picture of Evelyn Tardiff, the head of Organized Crime for the Sûreté, lying on her stomach, hog-tied. The rope expertly placed around her neck and ankles, so that as she struggled, she strangled.

In the photo Tardiff was obviously still alive, her eyes wide with terror. Her body showing the effort, the strain, of keeping her legs raised and back arched.

Death would be slow. Excruciating.

It was the mob execution for the worst offenders.

Incaprettamento.

The first cave, the only one open to the public, was closed for the season, the entrance locked. For a moment Beauvoir thought that maybe they wouldn’t have to …

But the lock had been broken and the door stood ajar.

“This must be it,” said Nichol, excited.

Beauvoir drew his gun and was disconcerted to see Nichol was also armed. He never really thought of her as a full-fledged agent.

“They might still be in there,” said Lauzon, his eyes wide. “Maybe I should wait in the car.”

“Maybe you should walk in front of us,” snarled Beauvoir. He didn’t mean it, but he was not in the best of moods, and the look on the former Deputy Prime Minister’s face was very satisfying.

Jean-Guy took a deep breath. Oh, fuck it. Cautiously opening the door, he peeked inside.

“You’ve had a remarkable career, Chief Inspector. Thank you for your service.” The Prime Minister stepped toward the door. “But the time has come for you to go home. Sit on the porch with your wife. Play with your grandchildren. Tend your roses. You’ve done enough. It’s time to rest. Let us take care of this.”

His voice was cajoling, as though speaking to a sick child. Or someone standing on a ledge.

But Gamache held his ground and Woodford’s smile faded.

“Not this again. Please, Monsieur Gamache. If you don’t leave, I’ll have to have you removed. You’re making of fool of yourself. You’ll be forever remembered as the boy who cried wolf.”

He all but leered at Gamache.

Still he stood there. He could see Shona behind the PM, her phone in her hand. She’d done it. Smuggled it in. Until that moment he hadn’t known for sure. This was a vital part of their own plan.

Everyone else in the room was watching the two men and ignoring the young woman whose actions were far more dangerous.

“I’m warning you.” Woodford nodded to his head of security, who raised his carbine and cross-checked the Chief Inspector, shoving him toward the door.

The cabinet ministers looked surprised and uncomfortable at this sudden act of aggression. But neither said or did anything.