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Only one Parliamentary Protective officer challenged them.

“An intruder,” said Gamache, his voice brusque.

“Fucking white fascists,” she shouted, trying to twist out of their grip. “Nazis!” Then, as an afterthought, “Mein Kampf!”

She felt Gamache squeeze her arm slightly, in warning.

The Mountie stepped away.

It was both a relief, for their purposes, and an indictment. No one questioned the arrest of a young Black woman. Her anger was enough proof of guilt.

This had been Shona’s idea.

Gamache had explained his plan, including how to get them out of there. “But we need to get more than five feet down the hall.”

With armed guards all over the Parliament Buildings, that seemed impossible.

That was when Shona had proposed this, knowing from experience what would happen.

Gamache and Lacoste had listened, then looked at each other. It was Lacoste who, recognizing the truth of it, said, “It could work.”

“It will work,” said Shona.

“It better work,” said Gamache.

A few minutes later Senator Walls had his “stroke.”

Evelyn Tardiff always knew where Joe Moretti was. As soon as the technology had become available, she’d put covert tracking on his phone and that of his chief bodyguard. A man rarely more than five feet away from his boss.

Now she stood in the forest and watched Moretti and Jeanne Caron talking. This was the first time she’d seen the two together. She lowered her lens, in surprise. Though it now seemed obvious. Of course Jeanne Caron, that piece of shit, would be behind this.

Lifting her camera again, she could see through the long-distance lens that this was not a friendly chat.

She snapped a series of photos.

Unfortunately for the head of the Sûreté’s Organized Crime division, Don Moretti had stationed others around the site of this meeting.

Evelyn Tardiff was, in effect, about to be hunted to extinction.

They always knew that the last few feet, if they made it that far, would be the most difficult.

The door to the PM’s outer office was closed and guarded by two heavily armed RCMP officers.

Shona could feel Gamache and Lacoste not so much tense as brace.

They’d gone over and over what would happen and what each of them must do.

As the Chief Inspector had walked them through his plan, then had them repeat it, two things surprised the young journalist: The audacity of it. And the fact he seemed to trust her to do her part.

And now they stood in front of the first barrier. The fact they’d gotten that far was a shock, but they still had two inches of solid oak, and two solid guards in full combat gear between themselves and the next goal.

“Chief Inspector Armand Gamache. We need to see the Prime Minister.” His voice wasn’t just authoritative, it was commanding. “Immediately.”

There was a long pause as the guard studied them. Gamache silently prayed that these two recognized him but were not yet aware of the social media posts about his mental state.

“We were with the PM when the attack on the White House happened,” he continued. “We have vital information, and someone”—he looked at Shona—“he needs to hear.”

The moments elongated, stretching their nerves to breaking. Gamache could feel Shona trembling.