Carte Blanche

faith.”
    “Money?” Bond was stalling; he believed he understood his enemy’s purpose here and needed a response. Fast.
    “No,” Hydt said softly, the huge head turning Bond’s way. “That’s not what I mean.”
    Dunne stepped forward, the Winchester on his hip, muzzle skyward. “All right. Bring him out.”
    Two workers in security uniforms led a skinny man in a T-shirt and shabby khaki trousers from behind a thick stand of jacaranda. The man’s face was a mask of terror.
    Hydt regarded him with contempt. He said to Bond, “This man broke into our property and was trying to steal mobile phones from the e-waste operation. When he was approached he pulled a gun and shot at a guard. He missed and was overpowered. I’ve checked his records and he’s an escaped convict. In prison for rape and murder. I could turn him over to the authorities but his appearance here today has given me—and you—an opportunity.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “You are being given a chance to make your first kill as a hunter. If you shoot this man—”
    “No!” the captive cried.
    “If you kill him, that’s all the down payment I need. We’ll proceed with your project and I’ll hire you to help me with others. If you choose not to kill him, which I would certainly understand, Niall will drive you back to the front gate and we will part ways. As tempting as your offer is, to cleanse the killing fields, I’ll have to decline.”
    “Shoot a man in cold blood?”
    Dunne said, “The decision’s yours. Don’t shoot him. Leave.” The brogue seemed harsher.
    But what a chance this was to get into the inner sanctum of Severan Hydt! Bond could learn everything about Gehenna. One life versus thousands.
    And how many more would die if, as seemed likely, the event on Friday was only the first of other such projects?
    He stared at the criminal’s dark face, eyes wide, hands shaking at his sides.
    Bond glanced at Dunne. He strode forward and took the rifle.
    “No, please!” the man cried.
    The guards shoved him on to his knees and stepped away. The man stared at Bond, who realized for the first time that, in firing squads, the blindfold wasn’t for the condemned’s benefit; it was for the executioners, so they didn’t have to look into the prisoner’s eyes.
    “Please, no, sir!” the man cried.
    “There’s a round in the chamber,” Dunne called. “Safety’s on.”
    Had they slipped a blank in to test him? Or had Dunne not loaded the rifle at all? The thief clearly wasn’t wearing a bulletproof vest under the thin T-shirt. Bond hefted the gun, which had open sights only, not telescopic. He assessed the thief, forty feet away, and aimed at him. The man raised his hands to cover his face. “No! Please!”
    “You want to move closer?” Hydt asked.
    “No. But I don’t want him to suffer,” Bond said matter-of-factly. “Does the rifle shoot high or low at this range?”
    “I couldn’t tell you,” Dunne said.
    Bond aimed toward the right, at a leaf that was about the same distance as the captive. He squeezed the trigger. There was a sharp crack and a hole appeared in the center of the leaf, just where he was aiming. Bond worked the bolt, ejecting the spent shell and chambering another. Still, he hesitated.
    “What’s it to be, Theron?” Hydt whispered.
    Bond lifted the gun, aiming steadily at the victim once again.
    There was a moment’s pause. He pulled the trigger. Another stunning crack and a red dot blossomed in the middle of the man’s T-shirt as he fell backward into the dust.

Chapter 47
    “So,” Bond snapped, opening the rifle’s bolt and tossing the weapon to Dunne. “Are you satisfied?”
    The Irishman easily caught the weapon in his large hands. He remained as impassive as ever. He said nothing.
    Hydt, however, seemed pleased.
    He said, “Good. Now let us go to the office and have a drink to celebrate our partnership . . . and to allow me to apologize to you.”
    “For forcing me to kill a man.”
    “No, for forcing you to believe you were killing a man.”
    “What?”
    “William!”
    The man Bond had shot leaped to his feet with a big grin on his face.
    Bond spun toward Hydt. “I—”
    “Wax bullets,” Dunne called. “Police use them in training, filmmakers use them in action scenes.”
    “It was a goddamn test?”
    “Which our friend Niall here devised. It was a good one and you passed.”
    “You think I’m a schoolboy? Go to hell.” Bond turned and stormed