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Jeanne Caron turned abruptly on hearing his voice.

“You look surprised to see me,” said Armand, striding down the aisle.

Beauvoir and Nichol advanced.

Jean-Guy quickly took in the placement of everyone, and everything, on the airfield. There were two large men with assault rifles guarding the perimeter. The rest, those unloading the trucks, didn’t appear armed, but Beauvoir suspected they probably were. Best to assume.

The guards didn’t look overly vigilant. Probably convinced no one would know they were there.

One seemed much more concerned about some horsefly or wasp buzzing around him.

Beauvoir made his way toward the other guard. Tucking his gun into his holster, he picked up a large rock.

The guard, one of Moretti’s soldiers, was watching the progress of the unloading and loading. Had he been looking outward, as he should have been, not inward, he might have seen the blow coming.

Beauvoir dragged the unconscious man into the woods, cuffed him, and picked up his rifle. Crouching down, he looked across the airstrip. There was no sign now of the second guard.

Nichol had done her job.

Lacoste crept forward, then paused and looked behind her.

“Are you getting this?”

“If you mean a nice shot of your ass, then yes.”

The Reuters reporter smiled. They were now in Workman’s office, watching the live streaming on his laptop.

Oddly, that was always her worry. Not just that she’d be killed while covering a war or natural disaster—that would be bad enough—but that the last photo of her would be of her ass, since the photographer with her was always “bringing up the rear.”

“What’s so funny?” Paul asked, his censure obvious.

“Nothing.” Though she suspected Paul and all other male reporters were even more vain and had the same fear. That the last photo of them would be deeply unflattering. And would be the one that won a Polk.

Isabelle Lacoste turned back toward the activity in front of them.

The planes were almost loaded. It was now past four in the afternoon. Would they take off or wait until morning?

If she’d filled in the blanks correctly, those canisters contained some sort of firebomb. Napalm or the like. Against a night sky the resulting fire would look like Armageddon.

If she was calling the shots, she’d make sure those planes got off the ground and dropped their bombs in time for the six o’clock news.

“Isabelle?”

The tone of Shona’s voice froze Isabelle’s blood.

“Oh, shit,” said Workman.

His Reuters colleague was staring at the screen, no longer smiling.

The Sûreté inspector had been struck hard and fallen to the ground.

The phone streaming the images also dropped. Then went dark.

“Is that…,” began the Reuters journalist.

Workman was already on it, going back a few seconds. As the phone slipped from Shona’s hand, it hit the ground, bounced, and a moment before it went off, a face appeared.

“Robert Ferguson.”