“Yes,” he said timidly.

She lowered the rifle and, crouching low, slid around the corner of the building.

She saw the Grizzly just as the 12.7mm machine gun started to fire. The big rounds pulverised the building, a cloud of concrete chips exploded into the air and blooms of dust were thrown out with every fresh impact. The noise was tremendous: the thunderous clatter of the machine gun and the heavy thumps as the rounds slammed into the brick and stone.

Beatrix dropped to her belly and scrabbled back behind the corner.

This was very bad.

“Twelve, One. Come in.”

“Copy. What?”

“Hold position, One.”

“For what?”

“You’re about to get a chance to make a move. Be ready. Twelve out.”

Pope reached back to the large canvas bag that he had brought onto the roof with him. He dragged it closer, and working quickly, he unzipped it. He thumbed the radio.

“Pope, Twelve.”

“Copy that, Pope. What do you want me to do?”

“Sitrep?”

“I’m still here. Heavy activity. Another APC has just gone by.”

“I hear it. Are you still hidden?”

“Affirmative.”

“And ready to go?”

“Affirmative.”

“On my mark.”

Pope reached into the bag and took out an RPG-2. It was an anti-tank grenade launcher, a long tube open at both ends. It was a little higher than his waist when he laid it out on the roof next to him. The launcher was Russian and old. There were hundreds of them swilling around the black economy, and it had been easy for the quartermaster to source. It was much less sophisticated than the LAWs that Pope had been trained to use in the Regiment, but he was close to his target, and all he had to do was aim and fire. It would suit his purposes well enough.

He raised himself to his haunches, hefted the launcher onto his shoulder and held on to both grips. Taking a breath to steady his nerves, he stood up and stepped to the edge of the roof and looked down onto the street below.

The Grizzly was firing into the prison yard, concentrating its destructive attention on a corner of the main building. The wall had been chewed all the way back to its steel columns, a ragged tear as if something monstrous had taken a bite out of it.

He sighted the APC.

“Pope, Twelve. Ready?”

“Twelve, Pope. Copy that.”

“Now!”

He pulled the trigger.

Beatrix knew the sound that an RPG’s propellant made as it ignited: the quick, sibilant whoosh. She pressed herself back against the wall, knowing that it would offer scant protection, and readied herself to die.

The impact didn’t come, at least not the way that she had expected.

The explosion was farther away and much, much louder.