Carte Blanche

further on. It hadn’t occurred to him that Bond was running solely to force a target to present; the double tap of Bond’s 9-mm rounds took the guard down. As the others ducked, he kept running and made it to the tree, then beyond that to a small mound of rubbish. Fifty feet from the gate. A series of shots from Dunne’s position forced him to roll into a patch of low vegetation.
    Four rounds.
    Three hostiles.
    He could make it to the gate in ten seconds but that would mean five of full exposure.
    He didn’t have much choice, though. He would soon be flanked. But then, looking for the enemy, he saw movement through a gap in two tall piles of construction debris. Low on the ground, barely visible through stands of grass, three heads were close together. The surviving guard from the north had joined Dunne and the man with him. They didn’t notice they were exposed to Bond and seemed to be whispering urgently, as if planning their strategy.
    All three men were in his field of fire.
    It wasn’t an impossible shot by any means, though with the light rounds and an unfamiliar gun, Bond was at a disadvantage.
    Still, he couldn’t let the opportunity pass. He had to act now. At any moment they’d realize they were vulnerable and go to cover.
    Lying prone, Bond aimed the boxy pistol. In competitive shooting, you’re never conscious of pulling the trigger. Accuracy is about controlling your breathing and keeping your arm and body completely still, with the sights of your weapon resting steadily on the target. Your trigger finger slowly tightens until the gun discharges, seemingly of its own accord; the most talented shooters are always somewhat surprised when their weapons fire.
    Under these circumstances, the second and third shots would have to come more quickly, of course. But the first was meant for Dunne, and Bond was going to be sure he didn’t miss.
    And he didn’t.
    One powerful crack, then two others in succession.
    In shooting, as in golf, you usually know the instant the missile leaves your control whether you’ve aimed well or badly. And the fast, shiny rounds struck exactly where they were aimed, as Bond had known they would.
    Except, he now realized to his dismay, accuracy wasn’t the issue. He’d hit what he’d aimed at, which turned out not to be his enemies at all but a large piece of shiny chrome that one of the men—the Irishman, of course—must have found in a nearby skip and set up at an angle to reflect their images and draw Bond’s fire. The reflective metal tumbled to the ground.
    Dammit . . .
    The man who thinks of everything. . . .
    Instantly the men split up, as Dunne would have instructed, and moved into position, now that Bond had helpfully revealed his exact location.
    Two ran to Bond’s right, to secure the gate, and Dunne to the left.
    One round left. One round.
    They didn’t know he was nearly out of ammunition, though they soon would.
    He was trapped, his only cover a low pile of cardboard and books. They were moving in a circle round him, Dunne in one direction, the other two guards together in another. Soon he’d be in a cross fire again, with no effective protection.
    He decided his only chance was to give them a reason not to kill him. He’d tell them he had information to help them get away or offer them a huge sum of money. Anything to stall. He called, “I’m out!” then stood, flinging the gun away, lifting his hands.
    The two guards to the right peered out. Seeing that he was unarmed, they cautiously came closer, crouching. “Don’t move!” one called. “Keep your hands in the air.” Their muzzles were aimed directly at him.
    Then, from nearby, a voice said, “What the hell are you doing? We don’t need a bloody prisoner. Kill him.” The intonation was, of course, Irish.

Chapter 60
    The guards looked at each other and apparently decided to share the glory of murdering the man who had brought down Gehenna and killed several of their fellow workers.
    They both raised their black weapons to their shoulders.
    But just as Bond was about to dive to the ground in a hopeless bid to avoid the slugs, there was a crash behind him. A white van had plowed through the gate, sending chain-link and razor wire flying. Now the vehicle skidded to a stop and the doors flew open. A tall man in a suit, wearing body armor under his jacket, leaped out and began firing at the two guards.
    It was Kwalene Nkosi, nervous and tense, but standing his ground.
    The guards