The prisoners were arranged in front of the gallows, with armed guards to the rear. They were dressed in orange prison-issue jumpsuits and had been dragged out into the rain to watch three of their number shuffled off this mortal coil. It had been planned as an instructive lesson for them. A reminder of what happened when you went up against the will of the government.

He watched the sentries in the watchtower for a moment. Two of them, both with Zastava M70 rifles, a little miserable from the rain by the looks of things, their attention distracted by the people in the yard behind their tower.

He laid the crosshairs of the rifle on one of the sentries.

His finger rested on the trigger housing.

He gauged the distance again.

Smoke was drifting out of a chimney in the prison’s roof. He used it to judge the wind: two minutes left.

He held the target in the sights, aiming for the centre mass.

He heard Beatrix’s voice over the radio.

“One, Twelve. Fire when ready.”

He waited for another deep roll of thunder, louder than his rifle. It came, rolling over the rooftops, and Faulkner exhaled and gently pulled straight back on the trigger. The rifle fired, the 7.62mm bullet punching into the sentry just right of centre. He staggered back and slumped down in the corner of the enclosed platform. The second sentry gawked at his fallen colleague, realising, too late, that he would have been better served dropping to the floor himself. Faulkner turned the rifle on him, jacked in a new round, and hammered the guard with a second chest shot.

“Twelve, One. Two hits. Both sentries down.”

“Anyone notice?”

“Negative.”

“I’m going in. Give them something to think about when I get close.”

Faulkner fed a fresh round into his rifle and looked for a new target. He found one, a guard near the gallows, and held him nice and steady in the middle of the sight.

He heard the engine of the Audi as Beatrix roared down the road.

There was no need to mask this shot.

He wanted them to know.

He exhaled a half breath and pulled the trigger.

Slow and smooth.

Straight and steady.

Squeeze.

The rifle bucked against his shoulder, and the boom rang around the neighbourhood. In the scope, Faulkner watched the bullet slam into the chest of the target. He dropped to his knees and then fell to one side, his organs pulped where the bullet had exploded inside him. Faulkner used his thumb and two fingers to jack a fresh round into the chamber and swept the scope around the yard.

Chaos.

The Audi rushed at the gates, gathering pace, the engine screaming.

He fed another round into the rifle and sighted again.

The car smashed through the gate.