‘Safa Patel?’ one of them asks, dropping to his knees beside the door.

‘Which division?’ she barks at them, noticing neither of them are armed and turning back to face the garden. She locks aim on a black-clothed figure running a few metres away and guns him down as the two new officers cower back from the noise of the rifle.

‘Are you Safa Patel?’

‘Yes,’ she snaps. ‘Which division are you from? Shit . . .’ She flinches at the rounds slamming into the wall and frame. She fires back but the weight of the attack coming at her is too great. The attackers are too many and advancing while throwing grenades and firing with controlled bursts.

‘GO BACK,’ she shouts at the two unarmed officers. ‘GET OUT . . .’

They are winning. Christ, the attackers are winning. Her heart sinks at the sight of them. So many left and still they fire, killing anything that opposes them. Gunfire behind her at the front of the house and more attackers shooting towards the gate and the officers trying to get inside the street. Trapped. No way out. The Prime Minister is safe in the bunker below but anyone left up here is dead.

‘Go up the stairwell and into the lift,’ she says to the two men, not thinking where they came from or how they got into the house. She grabs another magazine from one of the bodies. ‘Stop it between floors . . . they’ll never get you there . . . Go,’ she spits when they don’t move.

‘Okay,’ the police officer with the white strip across his nose says with a glance to the other one. ‘Er . . . you going to be okay here?’ He edges closer as though trying to peer through the door.

‘Just bloody go,’ she shouts. ‘Now . . . go . . . they’re coming . . .’

‘Sorry.’ The man whips an arm out, jabbing a needle into her neck before pulling her down. ‘Now, Konrad,’ he shouts.

The other man nods, pulling an object from his pocket. He yanks a pin out and throws it through the doorway, a split second later the flash-bang explodes with a sustained burning phosphorous light, blinding everyone in the garden. Safa fights to free herself, kicking and bucking, but the man is heavy.

‘Stay calm, Safa,’ Malcolm urges. ‘Please, we’re here to help.’

‘Fuck off.’ She fights to tug her pistol free but finds a hand gripping her wrist so headbutts up instead and slams into his already broken nose, which bursts apart with a shower of blood.

‘My bloody nose!’ Malcolm cries out as hard fists start raining punches into the sides and back of his head. ‘Bloody hell, she hits hard . . .’

The spreading warmth permeates through her body from the neck to the shoulders and down her arms and torso and into her legs. She feels herself slowing but fights it, hitting, kicking, punching, biting, gouging, and all the time trying to get her pistol free.