We threaded between the sofas and chairs, and across the room. On the other side was a set of double oak doors, like some kind of a grand entrance. I pushed one of them open with my toe. Through the doors was a carpeted ramp. Red carpet with oak-paneled walls. The ramp was steep and extended maybe thirty feet. At the other end was a fat security door. Blank. No handle, no keyhole, nothing. A blunt fingerprint scanner was set into the wall on the left side. An even higher level of security. I figured it meant we were near the end.

I said, “Wait here.”

The Opinel is a useful tool. It severed Martaud’s right index finger at the knuckle as easily as separating drumstick from thigh. I figured there was a three in ten chance that the severed finger would work. That’s because fingerprint sensors are capacitive. Dead tissue is no good. The sensor looks for an electric circuit. The heart sends out signals that make a circuit throughout the body. Once the heart stops beating, the electric signal fades off. That happens in a matter of minutes.

I sprinted back up with Martaud’s finger. It felt light and unsubstantial, like a piece of high-end technology. Except it was bleeding flesh and bone. I held it to the sensor. The door clicked and swung back towards us, revealing a white wall with a picture frame. The frame was simple wood. Inside was an oil painting of a stormy sea. A shard of light cut through the clouds to light up a crashing wave. Below the painting were wooden floorboards. A corridor. Then the door opened wider, revealing the bearded guy seated on a bench to the left of the painting. An H&K was resting on the seat next to him. To the left of the bench was a big rifle leaned up against the wall. It was a Hécate II, standard issue French anti-materiel sniper rifle. The guy looked up, probably startled to see that it wasn’t Martaud and her beast. I flicked Martaud’s finger at him and he caught it instinctively, then dropped it in a panic. Nazari had her H&K up and in his face. He opened his hands and held them out wide.

I said, “Where’s everyone else?”

The bearded guy swallowed, like his throat had gone dry. He coughed, then shook his head, as if that would wake him from the nightmare. “He’s upstairs, with the girls.”

“The mayor, Marbot?”

The bearded guy nodded.

“Who else?”

“There’s nobody else.”

I spoke to Nazari. “This is the guy who killed Father Bousquet and totaled your Peugeot.”