Daniel began to run in the direction of the dark forest behind. Over the popping and crackling, he could hear the thrash of others fleeing, too. Impeded by the thick stalks, Daniel ditched his bow so he could use his hands to claw a path. He knew there was no way his father could outrun such flames.

Singkepe spotted two men in traditional costume huddled by the water’s edge. As the raging fire scorched their flesh, they threw away their home-made guns and ran in opposite directions. Loping through the muddy slop, pain and terror lent them superhuman speed. Singkepe opened fire. These bastards had killed Moses. Other long-suffering soldiers opened up, too, in a furious and sustained volley. The noise was deafening, and they howled with glee as the running men were literally dismembered in a flurry of mud, blood, bone and flesh. Singkepe only realised he was screaming, too, when his clip ran out.

The kunai grass was thinning, and Daniel’s heart swelled with hope. Suddenly a shadow roared overhead, and the grass flattened. The machine soared up against the edge of the tall trees and spun around to face them. Daniel saw the big white man standing on the skids with a long gun. He stopped running and crouched down, but almost immediately the heat of the flames was on him. There was nowhere else to go but straight ahead. Daniel put his head down and started running as fast as he could.

Boerman smiled gleefully at the frantic men charging towards him. The racing fire devoured their trails as it nipped and singed their heels. They reminded him of a panicking herd of springbok, and he roared with laughter. There would be no escape for these vermin. Boerman opened up on the leading runner with short exploratory bursts, adjusting his aim with minimal expenditure of ammunition. The M60’s percussive boom was like coming home to moeder. Great chunks of dirt flew up around the sprinting man, and then his head exploded like a shattered coconut.

Boerman shifted aim to the next man, and the next. The M60 bucked in his brawny arms, raining red-hot cartridges as it spat leaden death. Just as it had during his days with the Legion, it gave him a massive hard-on, and the slaughter became a private, sexual thing.

Nash and Mia had not long got Douglas onto a mess table when the roar of the helicopter drew them to the porthole. The sleek gold Jet Ranger darting to and fro above the pall of smoke was like a rogue sheepdog herding its flock into a corner before tearing out their throats.

‘It’s Boerman!’ Nash exclaimed, as they caught sight of him on the skids.

‘Where did he get a machine gun from?’ Mia trembled.

‘From his bloody cabin, God damn it.’ Nash was furious with Kaboro, and himself, for not taking unilateral action.