Carte Blanche - Jeffery Deaver [147]
Bond noticed Gregory Lamb approaching from a deserted part of the grounds, carrying his large pistol as if he’d never fired a weapon. Bond left Jordaan and Hydt standing together between rows of pallets containing empty oil drums and joined Lamb near a battered skip.
‘Ah, Bond,’ the Six agent said, breathing heavily and sweating despite the chilly autumn air. His face was streaked with dirt and there was a tear in the sleeve of his jacket.
‘You caught one?’ Bond nodded at the slash, caused, it seemed, by a bullet. The assailant had been close; powder burns surrounded the rent.
‘Didn’t do any damage, thankfully. Except to my favourite gabardine.’
He was lucky. An inch to the left and the slug would have shattered his upper arm.
‘What happened to the guys you went after?’ Bond asked. ‘I never saw them.’
‘Got away, sorry to say. They split up. I knew they were trying to circle back on me but I went after one of them anyway. That’s how I got my Lord Nelson here.’ He touched his sleeve. ‘But dammit, they knew the lie of the land and I didn’t. I got a piece of one of them, though.’
‘Do you want to follow the blood trail?’
He blinked. ‘Oh. I did. But it vanished.’
Bond lost interest in the adventurer’s excursion into the bush and moved aside to call London. He was just punching in the number when, a few yards away, he heard a series of loud cracks he recognised instantly as powerful bullets finding a target, followed by the booms of a distant rifle’s report.
Bond spun round, his hand going for his Walther as he scanned the grounds. But he saw no sign of the shooter – only his victim: Bheka Jordaan, her chest and face a mass of blood, clawed at the air as she stumbled backwards and rolled into a muddy ditch.
62
‘No!’ Bond cried.
His inclination was to run to her aid. But the amount of blood, bone 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’d 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 realised 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.
And froze. 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