They haven’t spoken since and the awkward silence grows by the hour. Ben stayed outside the rest of that day. Firing hundreds of rounds until there was nothing left of the paper targets. He did the same the next day too. Stripping weapons. Cleaning weapons. Loading and firing weapons.

‘You ever seen that before?’ Safa asked Harry later that day.

‘No,’ Harry admitted honestly.

Ben’s ability to place the shot was outstanding. Truly exceptional. He was a natural at firing and that just made it worse. He even went further back to extend the distance but still learnt to hit where he aimed.

Harry said something else too. He said it was time. Cut the apron strings. Let him be a man. Give him his dignity. Simple words spoken honestly.

She didn’t wake Ben yesterday. She wanted to and still felt that instinct to protect and nurture. Instead, she and Harry ran the course outside, did circuits, practised firing, did unarmed combat and ate food. She knows they are ready and she knows it will just be her and Harry doing the work now. That still leaves the problem unresolved.

She goes into the main room and looks at Ben’s door. Maybe she should wake him this morning. Maybe he’ll be different. Changed. Ready to work. She moves towards it, lifting her hand as Harry opens his door behind her. He doesn’t say anything but he doesn’t need to. She holds still, her hand inches from Ben’s door, and turns to look at Harry, who shrugs and goes into the bathroom.

He is Ben Ryder. She knocks and waits. He saved hundreds of people. She knocks again and waits. ‘Ben? You up?’

Nothing. She knocks again and frowns at the door. ‘Ben?’ Still nothing. She feels the first tremor of worry and pushes the handle down to crack the door open an inch. ‘Ben?’ She opens it fully to stare at the bed and the empty sterile, austere room. ‘Oh no . . . no no . . .’ The bed is made. Unslept in. His clothes folded neatly on the floor.

She’s away in an instant. Running down the corridor to the main room, which is empty. Nothing touched or used. No cups on the tables. The chairs all pushed under the tabletops. She goes on, running with fear in her heart through the door and down the corridor to the room holding the device. It’s locked. She goes on, checking Roland’s office but knowing with a sinking sensation exactly where he will be. She runs hard. Bare feet pounding the concrete to reach the exit door and out into a driving rain that soaks her clothes in seconds.

‘BEN?’ she shouts, heading round the end of the bunker to the tables and the containers used to hold the pistols. One of them is partially open. She wrenches the lid off, seeing the empty space where the Glock should be.