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And this was what Gaston Comeau had done with it. He’d been true to himself. He’d proven himself the coward everyone else, except, it seemed, the Chief Inspector, knew him to be.

In trying to run away, he’d run right into the arms of the gunman.

Armand laid his weapon down on the counter and walked around. The place was silent except for the sizzle of the burgers and the bubbling and popping of the fries in oil.

Someone needs to turn the elements off, he thought.

Arms out at his sides, he stepped into the room.

“Calm,” he said. “Everyone remain calm.” Though he knew he was speaking mostly to himself.

His legs were shaking. His lips trembling. He held the gunman’s eyes. Glancing over just once at Comeau, who looked away.

Then the gunman moved his weapon. No longer pressed into Comeau’s head, the gun was now pointing at Armand’s. At that distance, he couldn’t miss.

“Put it down,” said Armand. “You shoot me, and all hell’s going to break loose. You’ll be cut down in seconds.”

“You think I don’t know that?” There was a maniacal smile on the man’s face.

Jean-Guy shouted his threat, but that only brought more amusement. These two gunmen expected to die. Were prepared to die. Wanted to die. This was suicide by cop.

And they’d take the head of homicide and the young agent with them.

Breathe. Breathe. “Noli timere,” Armand whispered.

“Will that be fries…”

Forgive me, Reine—

Jean-Guy knew what had to be done.

As soon as he saw the gunman’s trigger finger tighten, he fired. Not at the gunman—he had no clear shot—but at the one in front of him.

Inspector Beauvoir shot Agent Comeau. In the chest. In the vest. Propelling him backward. Shoving the gunman off balance.

But not before he got off a shot. As Beauvoir fired again, this time right into the now exposed gunman, he saw Armand hit the ground. With a sickening thud. The sound a body made.

His own hostage was laughing. Jean-Guy hit him hard with the butt of his gun, and released him to slump unconscious to the ground. Then he ran.

“Medic!” screamed Beauvoir. “Armand?”

He felt for a pulse. And found one.

Armand gasped for breath and reached for his chest. “I’m all right.” But he was speaking mostly to himself, in astonishment. Then he looked up. “Did you shoot me?”

“Again? I wouldn’t dare.” Jean-Guy could feel the hysteria bubbling up, giddy with relief. “I shot him.”

He pointed to Gaston Comeau, who was holding his chest and whimpering, “You shot me. You shot me. You all saw that. He shot me.”

“Shut up, or I’ll do it again,” said Beauvoir.

Though winded and stunned, Gamache managed, with Beauvoir’s help, to get to his feet. He quickly took in the scene. The gunmen were dead, wounded, or arrested. The place was calm. Medics were helping the wounded.

Then his eyes rested on Jean-Guy. “Merci.”

The manager came out from her office. Wide-eyed.

“The burgers and fries are burning,” said Chief Inspector Gamache.