She had taken her eye off the prisoners for a moment. They scattered. Some of them ran towards the gate, and before Beatrix could do anything to intervene, a guard who had been waiting just outside it swung out of cover and sprayed them with automatic gunfire. One of the prisoners was cut down, crumpling into the dust of the yard.

Beatrix aimed the bullpup and fired.

Her rounds went wide, peppering the concrete post and forcing the guard back into cover.

“Faulkner . . .”

The rifle boomed.

“Got him.”

Faik watched in abject terror. He ran away from her and the gate, instinctively sprinting for cover in the only place he knew he would find it.

He ran back inside the prison.

“Faik!”

Two police cars skidded to a stop outside the gate.

“They’re here.”

“He’s gone inside,” she called back.

“Rose . . .”

“I’ve got to go and get him.”

“It’s too late. Get out.”

“I’m going after him.”

The prison was a hellhole. It was badly constructed, and even though it was new, corners had been cut and it was already falling to pieces. There was a reception area and then a series of corridors that led away like the threads of a spider’s web. One of the gates was standing open, and she saw the flash of Faik’s orange jumpsuit as he rushed through it.

“Faik!” she called. “Stop!”

He didn’t stop.

Not good.

“I’m here to help you.”

She heard his bare feet slapping away on the concrete floor.

Not good at all.

She cradled the F2000 and sprinted after him. There were no windows, and the light soon faded away, leaving her to make her way through a crepuscular gloom that was ameliorated only by a handful of overhead striplights, many of them flickering unhealthily. The occasional overhead light well admitted slanting shafts of daylight that served no useful purpose, save, perhaps, as cruel reminders of the world outside.

Faik hadn’t gotten very far. She found him cowering against the wall in a long corridor that ended with a locked metal gate. The corridor beyond the gate had cells on both sides.

She let the F2000 hang on its sling and approached him cautiously. His hair was matted, clotted with dried blood, and his face bore the unmistakeable signs of a heavy beating. There was a bruise across his cheekbone that was striated with the markings from the sole of a boot.

He spoke in Arabic. “Leave me alone.”

“I’m here to get you out.”

“Leave me!”

“You’re Faik al-Kaysi?”

He shrunk away.

“I met your sister. She told me what had happened to you.”

“But what . . .” He was pitifully confused. “Who are you?”

“I’m a friend. And we need to get out of here.”

“Why do you do this? What do you want from me?”

“Just to take you home. Mysha would like to see you again.”