Jeffery Deaver - Carte Blanche

Careful, he told himself.

He walked over to one of the wires running up the wall. He pulled off several pieces of the silver duct tape securing the cord and sliced them into six-inch lengths with his knife. He then carefully pressed them on to the grey and black ash curls, slipped them into his pocket and continued his search. In a second room something silvery caught his eye. He hurried to the corner and found tiny splinters of metal littering the floor. He picked them up with another piece of tape, which he also pocketed.

Then Bond froze. The building had begun to vibrate. A moment later the shaking increased considerably. He heard a diesel engine rattling, not far away. That explained why the demolition site had been deserted; the workers must have been at lunch and now they’d returned. He couldn’t get to the ground or higher floors without going outside, where he’d surely be spotted. It was time to leave.

He stepped back into the turntable room to leave through the tunnel.

And was saved from a broken skull by a matter of a few decibels.

He didn’t see the attacker or hear his breathing or the hiss of whatever he swung, but Bond sensed a faint muting of the diesel’s rattle, as the man’s clothing absorbed the sound.

Instinctively, he leapt back and the metal pipe missed him by inches.

Bond grabbed it firmly in his left hand and his attacker stumbled, off balance, too surprised to release his weapon. The young blond man wore a cheap dark suit and white shirt, a security man’s uniform, Bond assessed. He had no tie; he’d probably removed it in anticipation of the assault. His eyes wide in dismay, he staggered again and nearly fell but righted himself fast and clumsily launched himself into Bond. Together they crashed to the filthy floor of the circular room. He was not, Bond noted, the Irishman.

Bond jumped up and stepped forward, clenching his hands into fists, but it was a feint – he intended to get the muscular fellow to step back and avoid a blow, which he accommodatingly did, giving Bond the chance to draw his weapon. He didn’t, however, fire; he needed the man alive.

Covered by Bond’s.40-calibre pistol, he froze, although his hand went inside his jacket.

‘Leave it,’ Bond said coldly. ‘Lie down, arms spread.’

Still, the man remained motionless, sweating with nerves, hand hovering over the butt of his gun. A Glock, Bond noted. The man’s phone began to hum. He glanced at his jacket pocket.

‘Get down now!’

If he drew, Bond would try to wound but he might end up killing the man.

The phone stopped ringing.

‘Now.’ Bond lowered his aim, focusing on the attacker’s right arm, near the elbow.

It appeared the blond man was going to comply. His shoulders drooped and in the shadowy light his eyes widened with fear and uncertainty.

At that moment, though, the bulldozer must have rolled over the ground nearby; bricks and earth rained down from the ceiling. Bond was struck by a large chunk of stone. He winced and stepped back, blinking dust out of his eyes. Had his assailant been more professional – or less panicked – he would have drawn his weapon and fired. But he didn’t; he turned and ran down the tunnel.

Bond slipped into his preferred stance, a fencer’s, left foot pointing forward and the right perpendicular and behind. Two-handed, he fired a single deafening shot that struck the man in the calf; screaming, he went down hard, about ten yards from the entrance to the tunnel.

Bond raced after him. As he did so, the shaking grew stronger, the rattle louder, and more bricks fell from the walls. Cascades of plaster and dust poured from the ceiling. A cricket ball of concrete landed directly on Bond’s shoulder wound and he grunted at the burst of pain.

But he kept moving steadily along the tunnel. The assailant was on the ground, dragging himself towards the fissure where sunlight eased in.

The bulldozer seemed directly overhead now. Move, dammit, Bond told himself. They were probably about to knock the whole bloody place down. As he got closer to the wounded man, the chug chug chug of the diesel engine rose in volume. More bricks plummeted to the floor.

Not a great place to be buried alive…

Only ten yards to the wounded man. Get a tourniquet on him, get him out of the tunnel and under cover – and start asking questions.

But at a stunning crash, the soft illumination of the spring day at the end of the tunnel dimmed. It was replaced by two burning white eyes, glowing through the dust. They paused and then, as if they belonged to a lion spotting its prey, shifted slightly, turning directly towards Bond. With a fierce cough, the bulldozer ploughed relentlessly forward, pushing a surge of mud and stone before it.

Bond aimed his gun but there was no target – the blade of the machine was high, protecting the operator’s cab. The vehicle crawled steadily on, pushing before it a mass of earth, brick and other debris.

‘No!’ cried the wounded man, as the bulldozer pressed forward. The driver didn’t see him. Or if he did, he couldn’t have cared less about the man’s death.

With a scream, Bond’s assailant disappeared under the rocky blanket. A moment later the rattling treads rolled over the spot where he was buried.

Soon the headlights were gone, blocked by debris, and then all was total darkness. Bond clicked his torch on and sprinted back to the turntable room. At the entrance he tripped and fell hard as earth and brick piled up to his ankles, then calves.

A moment later his knees were held fast.

Behind him the bulldozer continued to ram forward, shoving the muddy detritus farther into the room. Bond was now gripped to the waist. Another thirty seconds and his face would be covered.

But the weight of the debris mountain proved too much for the bulldozer or perhaps it had hit the building’s foundation. The tide ceased to move forward. Before the operator could manoeuvre for better purchase, Bond dug himself free and scrabbled out of the room. His eyes stung, his lungs were in agony. Spitting dust and grit, he shone the torch back up the tunnel. It was completely plugged.

He hurried back through the three windowless rooms where he’d collected the ash and the bits of metal. He paused beside the door that led to the autopsy chamber; had they sealed the exit to force him into a trap? Were the Irishman and other security people waiting in there? He screwed the silencer on to his Walther.

Inhaling deep breaths, he paused for a moment then pushed the door open fast, dropping into a defensive shooting position, torch pointing forward from his left hand, on which rested his right, clutching the pistol.

The massive empty hall yawned. But the double doors he’d seen earlier, admitting a shaft of light, were sealed; the bulldozer had piled tons of dirt against them too.

Trapped…

He sprinted to the smaller rooms on the north side of the basement, the mental health ward. The largest of these – the office, he assumed – had a door but it was securely locked. Bond aimed the Walther and, standing at an oblique angle, fired four wheezing shots into the metal lock plate, then four into the hinges.

This had no effect. Lead, even half-jacketed lead, is no match for steel. He reloaded and slipped the spent magazine into his left pocket, where he always kept the empties.

He was regarding the barred windows when a loud voice made him jump.

‘ Attention! Opgelet! Groźba! Nebezpeči!’

Swinging around, Bond looked for a target.

But the voice came from a loudspeaker on the wall.

‘ Attention! Opgelet! Groźba! Nebezpeči! This is the three-minute warning! ’ The last sentence, a recording, was repeated in Dutch, Polish and Ukrainian.