POLICE WARRANT

TWICE NOW THE BIG PURPLE Meteor had driven past the house. Inside it, a quartet of guys (trench coats, collars up, sunglasses, a couple of them wearing hats) took the opportunity to scan the front of the bungalow.

“Okay,” René said, breathing out, as if he’d suddenly let out all his air. “They’ve found us . . .”

He walked away from the window, grabbed the two M1s that lay on the living-room table, made sure the magazines were inserted correctly, threw the second one to Gode, who managed to catch it despite his knees rattling against each other. Ben’s hands, already clammy, held the wooden grip of the sawn-off shotgun.

A second car joined the merry-go-round. Black, full of men in leather coats. The two cars followed each other a good distance apart, slowly turning around the hideout on the two tiny lengths of perpendicular road that led them first to Nelson, then Collins — birds of prey.

Gode stood at the entrance, assault weapon pointed straight at the door.

“What do we do now?”

The night before, Jean-Paul had called to tell him he’d been tailed and had managed to get away from his pursuer, but that the most elementary caution required him to stay away from rue Collins for the time being.

René emerged from the closet, his M1 in one hand, the other holding an old mop with a solid wood handle, like some medieval knight. He hit the floor three times with it.

“I think I just had an idea . . .”

Back against the wall, gun pointed in front of him, Gode waited for the assault to come. A few metres away, René, nose against the window, surveyed the street. He held a backpack full of newspapers with a couple of sticks of dynamite poking out. Except the dynamite was made from the mop’s handle wrapped with construction paper and covered in butter to give them the right finish. An electrical wire poked out of the bag and led to a doorbell, which he held in his other hand.

“They’re coming,” he said.

The same unmarked cars came streaming toward the house, followed this time by a number of police cars. They all came to a stop in front of the house. Policemen jumped out and spread out up and down Collins.

“Go get Lavoie!”

Ben came back, pushing the miserable hostage in front of him, with the leash still around his hands. The labour minister was shaking uncontrollably. Then he felt the cold barrel against the back of his neck.

“Nothing personal,” René said while strapping the backpack to the man’s chest. He spoke like a man who was very calmly riding a wave to a nervous collapse. “Nothing personal, but if things don’t go well, you’ll be the first to go . . .”

“No, please, stop it! Have some pity!”

They stood just away from the windows, in case snipers had already been deployed. Gode had his finger taut against the trigger. René kept his own finger on the doorbell masked as a detonator and brandished the M1 with his other hand. Ben stood behind Lavoie, ready to blow his brains out with his shotgun.

Short, nervous gasp came from Lavoie. He sounded like a scared puppy. His fear was physical, pathetic.

Hearts in their stomachs, legs wobbling, they waited. And nothing happened.

After a while, Gode went to the door and looked out.

“No, it can’t be . . .”

“What?”

He fell back against the wall and slid to his heels.

“It can’t be . . .”

He was completely, utterly cleaned out. He tried to speak, but his lips moved without sound. He stayed there, mouth hanging open, shaking his head.

René, keeping his finger on the doorbell, tiptoed toward the window to look out.

“They’re at the neighbours’,” he said in a whisper. “Jesus fucking Christ in heaven. They’re at the neighbours’.”

Half-turning, he nuzzled his gun against Lavoie’s ear.

“Make a sound, and you’re dead.”