Archer Mayor - The Dark Root

Lucas pointed to one set of lights in particular “That’s him. All we have to do is now keep our eyes on him until we approach Montreal.”

An hour later, the traffic just outside Montreal thickened enough to make our vantage point unreliable. We handed the surveillance back to the ground units, and landed among a spider web of railroad tracks, just east of downtown, on the river’s north shore. There, Lucas led the three of us to an unmarked van.

Once underway, he gave us another update. “He’s been followed to the Chinatown area-rue de la Gauchetière. He’s in his vehicle, parked on St-Laurent.”

“Just sitting there?” Spinney repeated, grabbing the seat ahead of him as the van took a fast corner. “Isn’t that where Da Wang hangs out?”

Lucas agreed. “Yes. That is the problem. You know Jean-Paul Lacoste, correct? He is going there with his team. There is much activity apparently. We are thinking the affair at the border has caused the need for a meeting, but Truong’s presence worries us.”

I felt a sudden coldness settle in my chest, sensing at last the potential carnage I’d set in motion-the very bloodbath Frazier had cautioned against, and that Nguyen had said Truong was capable of creating. I realized then the significance of those two shots Truong had fired at Boucher and me. They’d been the mile markers of a man whose despair had hit bottom, whose last option was to offer himself up in the name of his cause. Just as my argument in the helicopter had reflected my own obsession, and had been used to browbeat others into an enthusiasm they weren’t sure they shared, so Truong had now dispensed with the niceties of any carefully thought-out plan, and had yielded at last to the despair and pure rage that had launched his vendetta at the edge of his brother’s open grave.

I gave in to a moment of self-doubt and guilt. “Let’s grab him now. Get it over with before we lose control.”

There was a moment’s startled pause at my abrupt turnaround. Spinney murmured, “Little late for that,” as Lucas shook his head. “We do not have enough men in place yet. Besides, I think it would be premature.”

Suddenly distracted by a message on his radio, Lucas spoke rapidly to the driver. The van’s hidden siren burst to life, and the red and blue lights behind the grille pulsated off the dark buildings nearby, as other traffic made way for us.

Lucas explained, his arm thrown over the back of his seat. “He was seen leaving the van with a small bag, heading up La Gauchetière. He entered Da Wang’s building, and now there are reports of multiple gunshots. All our surveillance units are changing to tactical mode, but our special-support teams are still not there. It is all happening too fast.”

We squealed around a corner I recognized from our last visit, one block shy of the Chinatown Holiday Inn, and came to a shuddering stop opposite the rue de la Gauchetière’s ornate Oriental gateway. All around us, emergency lights from dozens of haphazardly parked and rapidly converging vehicles shimmered in the night sky.

We followed Lucas up the street at a run. Ahead, we could hear the sharp, staccato beat of automatic gunfire.

At the end of the block, we came to a group of plainclothes officers, Lacoste’s tall, thin form prominent among them.

Spinney pointed to the East Wind Trade Association building we’d visited earlier, another half block farther on. On the sidewalk opposite, we could see three lifeless bodies. Beyond it, under a safely distant streetlight, stood another group of officers, among whom I recognized Antoine Schmitt, the MUC liaison officer we’d met during our first trip to the city.

In just the few minutes we’d been waiting, the entire neighborhood had filled with cops-plainclothes, uniformed, and combat-ready.

Things were obviously quickly getting organized, and we were obviously not to be a part of it.

A young woman split away from the group Lacoste and Lucas were in and approached us with an apologetic smile. “I am sorry, gentlemen. Monsieur Lucas has asked me if you would be so kind as to return to the car? He does not want you hurt in this situation.”

Frazier, as our senior representative, acknowledged the message, thanked the young woman, and led the way back. As we reached the first corner, however, I glanced over my shoulder, and saw Schmitt and his group still loitering where they had been. Unable to envision sitting out this drama’s conclusion, I yielded to my growing anxiety and cut away unobserved, intent on circling the block and coming up behind our erstwhile liaison. I didn’t know why Schmitt was here, but I was hoping that, given his diplomatic assignment, he might be more amenable to my being closer to the action.

Frazier and Spinney, distracted by the activity at the staging area just ahead of them, didn’t notice my departure. It was just as well-running around in flagrant disregard of an order by the RCMP didn’t strike me as something Frazier in particular would condone, especially since my last decision had been the direct cause of this mess.

The street I took, a block shy of St-Laurent, led to a broad avenue named Viger, where I turned right again. As I approached the Holiday Inn, with its distinctive pagoda roof, I noticed that across the street-and connected to my side by an enclosed overhead walkway-was a Metro stop, housed within a long, low, ugly concrete office building. There was very little traffic and no sign whatsoever of the drama unfolding just one block to the north.

I did a slow jog along Viger, past the hotel, and turned up a short dead-end street that led back to La Gauchetière, my eyes on the reflected glow of the revolving lights. About halfway up the empty street, however, something made me stop-a slight noise, a sense of movement. I wasn’t sure. Instinctively, I slid into a doorway and looked back at a narrow alleyway I’d just passed. Emerging from it, and walking quickly away toward Viger and the Metro station on its far side, was the dim silhouette of a thin, quick-moving, energetic man.

From the back, it looked just like Truong Van Loc.

I whirled around, but there was no one to call to at the end of the street. I could still hear sporadic gunfire from deep inside the block of buildings next to me, presumably from the police assault. I faced Viger again. The man I’d seen was halfway across the street already, his goal now utterly clear-along with my responsibility. Ruing my decision not to have enlisted at least Spinney in my impulsive side trip, I ran across a small plaza that led to the enclosed overhead bridge I’d seen earlier, and headed for the Metro station by the high road, thereby avoiding the chance that Truong might see me.

Not that I was all that confident I was following Truong. The continuing gunfire threw me off, not to mention that this man had appeared out of nowhere, and at a considerable distance from the action.

My route led me to a broad set of stairs leading down to a large, empty lobby, to the left of which were the doors to the Place d’Armes Metro Station. I waited a moment while “Truong” negotiated his way through the electronic turnstile and disappeared down the right staircase, under an orange sign reading Henri Bourassa.

I then pushed through the station’s double doors and ran up to the attendant in his booth. Beneath my feet, I could feel the slight trembling of an arriving train. Fearing it might be the one Truong was waiting for, I silently thrust a five-dollar bill at the man behind the glass, rather than trying to get him to call the police on my behalf, on the dubious strength of an American badge and a weird story about chasing Asian gangsters. He gave me several paper tickets.

I quickly went to the turnstile, fed it one of the tickets, and bolted through the gate and down the same stairs Truong had taken just a few moments earlier.