Carte Blanche

her chest and face a mass of blood, clawed at the air as she stumbled backward and rolled into a muddy ditch.

Chapter 62
    “No!” Bond cried.
    His inclination was to run to her aid. But the amount of blood, bone, and and tissue he’d seen told him she could not have survived the devastating shots.
    No . . .
    Bond thought of Ugogo, of the fiery orange gleam in Jordaan’s eye as they’d taken on the two guards in Elysian Fields, the faint smile.
    They have a number of guns and we only have one. That’s not fair. We must take one away from them. . . .
    “Captain!” Nkosi cried, from his position behind a skip nearby. Other SAPS officers were firing randomly now.
    “Hold your fire!” Bond shouted. “No blind shooting. Guard the visible perimeter, look for muzzle flashes.”
    The special forces were more restrained, watching for targets from good cover positions.
    So the engineer did have an escape plan for his beloved boss. That’s what Hydt had been looking for. Dunne would keep the officers pinned down while Hydt fled, probably to where the other security guards were waiting in the woods nearby with a car or perhaps even a helicopter hidden on the grounds. Hydt had not started his sprint to freedom yet, though; he’d still be hiding between the rows of pallets where Jordaan had been questioning him. He would be waiting for more covering fire.
    Crouching, Bond began to make his way there. Any minute now, the man would make a run for the brush, protected by Dunne and perhaps other loyal guards.
    And James Bond was not going to let that happen.
    He heard Gregory Lamb whisper, “Is it safe?” but couldn’t see him. He realized the man had dived into a full skip.
    Bond had to move. Even if it meant exposing himself to Dunne’s fine marksmanship, he wouldn’t let Hydt escape. Bheka Jordaan would not have died in vain.
    He sprinted into the shadowy space between the tall pallets of oil drums to secure Hydt, his gun raised to firing position.
    And froze at what he saw before him. Severan Hydt was not about to escape anywhere. The Rag-and-Bone Man, the visionary king of decay, the lord of entropy, lay on his back, two bullet wounds in his chest, a third in his forehead. A significant part of the back of his skull was missing.
    Bond slipped his gun away. Around him the tactical forces began to rise. One called that the sniper had left his shooting position and vanished into the bush.
    Then a harsh sound behind him, a woman’s voice: “ Sihlama! ”
    Bond spun around to see Bheka Jordaan crawling from the ditch, wiping her face and spitting blood. She was unharmed.
    Either Dunne had missed completely or his boss had been his intended target. The gore on Jordaan was Hydt’s—it had spattered her as she stood beside him.
    Bond pulled her to cover behind the oil drums, smelling the sickly copper scent of blood. “Dunne’s still out there somewhere.”
    Nkosi called, “You are okay, Captain?”
    “Yes, yes,” she said dismissively. “What about Hydt?”
    “He’s dead,” Bond said.
    “ Masende! ” she snapped.
    This brought a smile to Nkosi’s face.
    Jordaan tugged her shirt off—underneath she wore body armor over a black cotton vest—and wiped her face, neck and hair with it.
    A call came in from officers on the ridge that the perimeter was clear. Dunne, of course, would have had no interest in staying; he’d accomplished what he needed to.
    Bond regarded the body once more. He decided that the tight grouping of the shots meant that Hydt had indeed been the intended target. Of course, this made sense; Dunne had had to kill the man to make sure he told the police nothing about him. Now he recalled several glances that Dunne had cast toward Hydt over the past few days, dark looks, hinting at . . . what? Irritation, resentment? Almost jealousy, it seemed. Perhaps there was something else behind the murder of the Rag-and-Bone Man. Something personal.
    Whatever the reason, he’d certainly done a typically proficient job.
    Jordaan hurried into the office building. Ten minutes later she emerged. She’d found a shower or tap somewhere; her face and hair were damp but more or less blood-free. She was furious with herself. “I lost my prisoner. I should have guarded him better. I never thought—”
    A ghastly wail interrupted her. Someone was speeding forward, “No, no, no . . .”
    Jessica Barnes was running toward Hydt’s body. She flung herself to the ground, oblivious to the grotesque