She went to the back of the SUV, opened it, hauled Sascha Duffy out and took her around to the side of the car that would face approaching traffic.

“Wait here,” she said. “It’s nearly over now.”

“What are you doing?”

“Wait.”

She went back to the car and took out the FN F2000 assault rifle.

Duffy’s Jeep Grand Cherokee bounced down into the dip, the headlights illuminating the walls of the wadi as it proceeded around the gentle curve.

Faulkner gunned the Freelander’s engine and the SUV shot forward, blocking the way back and sealing Duffy inside.

Duffy exited the corner. The headlights shone over them: Beatrix, with the assault rifle cradled in her arms; his wife, averting her eyes from the glare of the lamps. Duffy hit the brakes and skidded to a stop. He reversed, the tyres chewing gravel as he tried to back away at speed.

The rifle was a bulky bullpup, chambered in 5.56 NATO. She nestled the stock into her shoulder and aimed, squeezing the trigger and sending a volley of bullets into the Grand Cherokee. The headlights shattered, the hood was torn up and both front tyres were shredded. The wheels sank down to the rims and carved tracks through the sand as the rear wheels dragged the disabled Jeep backwards. Beatrix aimed again and sent a volley through the windscreen. The glass crashed out of the frame, and rounds punched up and out of the roof.

Faulkner was out of the Freelander and approached the beached Jeep with his pistol raised. He fired, taking out the rear tyres and then the rear windscreen.

They both stopped firing.

Beatrix walked to the Jeep, the FN F2000 aimed straight at Duffy and her finger on the trigger.

“Get out!” Beatrix yelled over the sound of the still-straining engine.

The diesel revved again.

She stitched a jagged pattern of bullets into the hood for a second time.

“Get out, Duffy. I’ll shoot your wife if you don’t. And then I’ll shoot you.”

The engine quietened and then stopped.

The driver’s side door opened and Duffy carefully stepped out.

“Hands behind your back,” Beatrix barked at him.

He did as he was told.

“Bryan!” wailed Sascha Duffy.

“If you’ve hurt her . . .” he began, before realising how stupid that was.

Beatrix didn’t respond.

“Come on, Rose. Please. This isn’t necessary.”

Faulkner came up behind him and fastened cable ties around both wrists.

“Get in the car,” Beatrix said.

Faulkner yanked him backwards to the Freelander. Duffy kept his eyes on Beatrix as he stumbled. But he didn’t resist.