steel.
Le Goënec remained still for a few moments, listening carefully. Nobody had noticed a thing, apparently. A ray of light slipped through the ground-level window. He moved quickly toward the house, skirting the lit window. When he was a few feet away from the white wall, his eagle eyes, ever watchful for danger, noticed a basement window. One sharp blow from his elbow broke a hole in the glass big enough for him to insert his hand and release the security latch—the thick fabric of his motorcycle jacket serving both to muffle the noise and protect him from injury. It was no problem at all to slip down into the cellar.
Le Goënec stood poised for several seconds, nerves taut, revolver ready to fire. Everything seemed calm. But not entirely silent. There were faint rustling sounds. Le Goënec turned on his flashlight.
“Good God,” he muttered to himself.
Opposite him, three young, terrified, gaunt faces clustered together. The oldest of the children couldn’t have been more than twelve.
Le Goënec said nothing for a few moments before approaching the three children slowly so as not to scare them.
“Don’t be afraid, kids,” he whispered. “I mean you no harm.”
As soon as he knelt in front of them, the children huddled against the wall, arms across their faces as if to protect themselves from blows.
“Have you been here long?”
None of them answered. Le Goënec took out his badge, like a character in an American TV series.
“Inspector Le Goënec, Criminal Investigations Department.”
The children looked at each other, not knowing what to think.
“Are you really from the police?” ventured a little boy.
“Isn’t it obvious?” said Le Goënec, smiling. “How long have you been here?”
“I came two days ago,” answered a scared little girl, who seemed more mature than the others. She pointed at her two companions. “They were here before me. He’s already been here a week.”
“I am your friend,” said Le Goënec softly, seeking to calm their fears. “It’s all over. We’re going to get out of here.”
A damp staircase led up to a thick wooden door.
“Is there anyone up there?”
“I don’t know,” answered the little girl. “But be careful, the men here are crazy.”
Looks of terror plagued the two boys. They clearly were incapable of uttering a single word.
“Whatever you do, don’t move,” said Le Goënec. “I’ll come back and get you when I’m finished. OK?”
The little girl nodded. Le Goënec winked at her and cautiously proceeded up the stairs. The door at the top opened without difficulty. Clearly the children had been so traumatized their captors knew they would never even attempt to escape. He listened carefully before going any further. The house was as quiet as the grave. Le Goënec stepped lightly down the corridor, gun in hand, ready for any eventuality. Above him rose another staircase that no doubt led to the bedrooms. The house sat in half darkness, the only source of light coming from a door ajar at the end of the hall. With all the suppleness of a cat, he made his way down the hall, placed his ear to the door, and listened. No sound of conversation from inside the room. This silence didn’t seem right to him, so he gently pushed open the door, which made an inopportune creak.
“The hell you doing? It’ll get cold.”
The voice was young and coarse. Who was it? A henchman or a cook?
Le Goënec tiptoed through the doorway. A man was standing in front of the stove with his back to the door, a pan in his hand. The pleasant scent of cooked onions filled the room. With three rapid strides, Le Goënec closed the distance and jumped the guy, who fell across the stove top, spilling a saucepan full of boiling water. The man screamed as it scalded him. Even the best plastic surgeon would have difficulty fixing his overdone face. Le Goënec pistol-whipped him, and the man collapsed onto the floor, unconscious. Le Goënec turned off the gas and left
Le Goënec remained still for a few moments, listening carefully. Nobody had noticed a thing, apparently. A ray of light slipped through the ground-level window. He moved quickly toward the house, skirting the lit window. When he was a few feet away from the white wall, his eagle eyes, ever watchful for danger, noticed a basement window. One sharp blow from his elbow broke a hole in the glass big enough for him to insert his hand and release the security latch—the thick fabric of his motorcycle jacket serving both to muffle the noise and protect him from injury. It was no problem at all to slip down into the cellar.
Le Goënec stood poised for several seconds, nerves taut, revolver ready to fire. Everything seemed calm. But not entirely silent. There were faint rustling sounds. Le Goënec turned on his flashlight.
“Good God,” he muttered to himself.
Opposite him, three young, terrified, gaunt faces clustered together. The oldest of the children couldn’t have been more than twelve.
Le Goënec said nothing for a few moments before approaching the three children slowly so as not to scare them.
“Don’t be afraid, kids,” he whispered. “I mean you no harm.”
As soon as he knelt in front of them, the children huddled against the wall, arms across their faces as if to protect themselves from blows.
“Have you been here long?”
None of them answered. Le Goënec took out his badge, like a character in an American TV series.
“Inspector Le Goënec, Criminal Investigations Department.”
The children looked at each other, not knowing what to think.
“Are you really from the police?” ventured a little boy.
“Isn’t it obvious?” said Le Goënec, smiling. “How long have you been here?”
“I came two days ago,” answered a scared little girl, who seemed more mature than the others. She pointed at her two companions. “They were here before me. He’s already been here a week.”
“I am your friend,” said Le Goënec softly, seeking to calm their fears. “It’s all over. We’re going to get out of here.”
A damp staircase led up to a thick wooden door.
“Is there anyone up there?”
“I don’t know,” answered the little girl. “But be careful, the men here are crazy.”
Looks of terror plagued the two boys. They clearly were incapable of uttering a single word.
“Whatever you do, don’t move,” said Le Goënec. “I’ll come back and get you when I’m finished. OK?”
The little girl nodded. Le Goënec winked at her and cautiously proceeded up the stairs. The door at the top opened without difficulty. Clearly the children had been so traumatized their captors knew they would never even attempt to escape. He listened carefully before going any further. The house was as quiet as the grave. Le Goënec stepped lightly down the corridor, gun in hand, ready for any eventuality. Above him rose another staircase that no doubt led to the bedrooms. The house sat in half darkness, the only source of light coming from a door ajar at the end of the hall. With all the suppleness of a cat, he made his way down the hall, placed his ear to the door, and listened. No sound of conversation from inside the room. This silence didn’t seem right to him, so he gently pushed open the door, which made an inopportune creak.
“The hell you doing? It’ll get cold.”
The voice was young and coarse. Who was it? A henchman or a cook?
Le Goënec tiptoed through the doorway. A man was standing in front of the stove with his back to the door, a pan in his hand. The pleasant scent of cooked onions filled the room. With three rapid strides, Le Goënec closed the distance and jumped the guy, who fell across the stove top, spilling a saucepan full of boiling water. The man screamed as it scalded him. Even the best plastic surgeon would have difficulty fixing his overdone face. Le Goënec pistol-whipped him, and the man collapsed onto the floor, unconscious. Le Goënec turned off the gas and left
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