The Devil's Cave: A Bruno Courrèges Investigation (Bruno Chief of Police 5)

his breathing was ragged. Even so he never once faltered. It took guts to do this for the first time in the dark. Whatever they pay us, thought Bruno, it isn’t enough, andhe set off silently again down to the next bend in the pipeline.
    He had counted three hundred and five when his foot felt something strange and sharp as he was about to put his weight on it. He stepped back and knelt down, feeling with his hand. It was a small ring, attached to a tiny bar that felt like metal. An earring. Perhaps the girl had dropped it as a signal, or the Count had left it as a trap, something he’d hear if it was kicked aside. He slipped it into his pocket, paused to listen and then moved on.
    He heard the sound of water a few paces sooner than he’d expected. He dropped into a crouch, put the gun into the belt at his back and moved cautiously forward on feet and fingertips, keeping low in case a shot came, and trusting that the noise of water would cover any sounds of his movement. He could smell the water now, a freshness in the air. He waited at the final bend until J-J caught up.
    ‘We’re at the lake,’ Bruno whispered into J-J’s ear. ‘I’ll go in low and then light my torch. I’ll have my eyes closed and if he’s there it should blind him but he’ll probably fire anyway. You then come round this bend and if you see him, shoot. I’ll have rolled to a new position and I’ll be shooting, too. Ready?’
    Bruno felt him nod. He squeezed J-J’s shoulder and dropped down again to creep forward. His elbow just brushed the wall so that he’d know when the pipeline opened out onto the rocky beach beside the lake. When he reached it, he stopped, crept back a few metres and put his boots back on, tying double knots. He’d need firm footing. Then he went through the army drill that he’d done so often it was second nature.
    ROWAS was the acronym: Rules of engagement, Objective, Weapons, Ammo, Support. The rule was fire if fired upon. The objective was to save the girl and arrest the Count. He was carrying a PAMAS G1, which meant no safety catch but a double-action trigger on the first round. He had fifteen shots in the magazine. Support was J-J with Sergeant Jules as back-up, and be aware of possible friendlies coming from the other end.
    Then he rehearsed in his mind how it would be. He’d be full-length on the floor, his left arm stretched out high and to one side, holding the torch, the gun in the other. His eyes would be squeezed shut. He’d turn on the light, take a count of two and lay the torch on the floor. Then he’d roll to his right and open his eyes and be ready to shoot. He’d take three points of aim: one, straight ahead, to the tunnel that led to the Gouffre; two, hard left, to the little causeway beside the waterfall; and three, hard right.
    He felt in his pockets for one of the paper tissues he usually carried, tore off half, soaked it in his mouth and put it into one ear. Then he repeated the process for the other ear. Gunshots in an enclosed space like this from the nine-millimetre he was carrying could rupture eardrums.
    He took three deep breaths, stretched out, closed his eyes, raised his arm and turned the torch on, feeling the sudden flare even through his closed eyelids.
    ‘Police,’ he shouted. ‘Drop your weapons.’
    He laid the torch down and rolled, his eyes opening and his gun straight ahead. He heard the crack and saw the flare of a gunshot from his left, the direction of the causeway, andhe was already switching aim. His first shot came at the same instant as the second shot from the causeway.
    Tap-tap, high-low, he fired two shots and rolled. Another shot came, this time from straight across the small lake. There was a second shooter. He fired two more shots, low-high, and rolled again. No more shots from the causeway and a splash as something fell into the lake.
    Then silence. The shadows on the walls and the reflections from the lake were swinging crazily as his torch rolled on the ground. He felt J-J emerge behind him, the damn fool.
    ‘Get back,’ he urged him. ‘Second shooter.’
    ‘Halt, police,’ he shouted and rolled again. There was something stretched out at the mouth of the far tunnel. He took aim. ‘Stay where you are. This is the police.’
    ‘Hello?’ came a plaintive voice, female, not French.
    ‘Marie-Françoise, is it you?’ he called, in his bad English. ‘I am police.’ Could she hear him with her eardrums blasted?
    ‘
Oui, oui,