Lyon, Minerva Bank, 4 August, 1992
Serge handcuffed Ramier, took him outside and flung him onto the pavement. He was gripping the pistol so tightly in his pocket it was as if he might pulverise it. With his left hand, he yanked the scumbag by the collar so he could hiss into his ear. Sweat was pouring into the man’s eyes:
“Fucking hell, what came over you? You’re sick! You’re a piece of shit! Why did you shoot the woman and the kid?”
“It was Velowski’s fault – he didn’t manage to cut his meeting short. Plus that no good, small-town, bastard banker said my name when I came into his office. It was his fault; he killed them. All I did was fire.”
Serge struck him hard on the nose with the butt of his pistol.
“You’ve got us all in the shit. I can’t let you go now, no-one would believe it. We’d all be caught red-handed and never see the money again. So listen to me, dickhead. For the others, we’re sticking to the plan. I let Jacques go and Alexis gives a false testimony. We’ll keep your cut for you. Shut your mouth, do your time, and you’ll get it when you come out. Understand? Do you understand?” he said, shaking him.
Through his own sweat, Rufus’s, and the blood gushing from his nose, Ramier managed to summon a wicked smile.
“Understood. See you then. I’ll be in touch just before.”
Rufus shook him again then let him fall to the ground.
The wailing sirens levelled out and doors began to slam. Rufus felt the rush of activity around him as his colleagues took charge of the scene. It was doable. Tight, but doable.