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The tunnel was closing in for real now. The way ahead getting tighter and tighter. His shoulders rubbed the walls, and he kept his eyes focused on the dim light ahead. Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

“Oh, God,” Nichol whispered.

On a ledge jutting out from the wall were two bodies. Trussed up. A phone with its flashlight on was propped against the wall. Since there was no cell phone coverage, it wouldn’t be live. It was recording the murders. A snuff film.

Sick fucks.

He scanned the area. They appeared to be alone.

Nichol surged forward before Beauvoir could stop her. She’d been so focused on Chief Inspector Tardiff, she’d missed what he’d seen at the very last moment. The movement in the shadows.

Beauvoir shoved Nichol aside and fired, just as the shadow fired.

Both missed, their bullets ricocheting off the stone, the sound echoing down the long passageway. There was, along with the echo, the sound of surging water, as both Beauvoir and the shadow plowed toward each other.

And then the other man was upon him. Jean-Guy lost his footing, and the current swept his feet out from under him, carrying both downstream until their bodies struck a wall and were pinned there. It was totally dark now. Jean-Guy had lost his gun and his phone and was lashing out with his fists, hoping to strike flesh and bone.

Then his face was shoved underwater. Jean-Guy felt pressure on his head. A boot was crushing his cheekbone against the cave floor. He thrashed and fought, but the boot was too firm. He was losing consciousness.

Dear God, I’m going to die.

Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the pressure was gone. Beauvoir bobbed up, and through his coughing and sputtering, he heard the sound of fighting close by.

Nichol. She must have jumped the man. But she wouldn’t have a hope …

There was another shot, but hardly any echo. The bullet had found its soft target.

Nichol … Yvette …

Hands grabbed him again, and again Beauvoir lashed out. Fighting for his life.

“Non, non, stop!”

It wasn’t Nichol, it was Lauzon.

Marcus Lauzon had come back. Marcus Lauzon had saved them.

The door opened and Giselle Trudel stepped into the room.

It was not the cabinet minister Armand had been expecting. He watched her, warily.

“We need to go in with you, ma’am,” said the guard.

“No, you don’t. You and I both know these people are not threats.”

There was a pause, a reluctant nod, and the officer withdrew.

“Do you need a doctor?” Advancing into the room, she turned to Inspector Lacoste, whose hair was matted with blood. “Are you all right?”

“‘All right’ is not how I’d describe our situation. Would you?”

“I’m sorry.” Trudel hesitated, then chose her words carefully. “I think you put something into your ID, Chief Inspector. A piece of paper.”

Gamache was silent, studying the woman.

“Ferguson palmed it.”

“Why are you here, Madame Trudel?” he asked.