He decided to wait, continuing to study the two smokers. The newer of the two was very similar to his friend in terms of build and gait. He was perhaps even bigger, with a bull-neck and shaved head, and was wearing baggy sports gear. Tom couldn’t be sure if either man was wearing body armour, such was the looseness of their clothing. He filed that fact away for future reference.

They finished their cigarettes and tossed them on the path, the embers flaring away on the ground as both turned on their heels and re-entered the farmhouse, closing the door as they did so.

*

Tom remained utterly focused on the farmhouse despite the stiffness and cold that permeated his clothing and into his bones. Discomfort was a feature of CTR that every soldier knew only too well.

The past three hours had demonstrated something of a pattern of behaviour of the captors within. Every forty minutes or so, the two Tom had previously seen would come to the back door, smoke a cigarette, and appear to converse in a calm manner for as long as it took to do so. He checked his watch again: nearly midnight. He would probably see the men again within the next twenty minutes. It was time to act.

He crawled slowly forwards, keeping his belly low in the dirt as he edged inch by inch with the night-sight glued to his eye. He intended to get within twenty metres of the fence that separated the cleared forest from the track.

When he was fifteen metres away from the fence, he found another rut left by the forestry tractor which he crawled into. That gave him an ideal firing position with a clear view of the back door. He settled and looked through the sight once again, checking that his view was clear and he was ready to engage. He knew what he had to do: he had no choice, these people were his enemy. He was back in sniper mode, ready for the moment, ever-patient, waiting for the target to appear, ready to engage. He had been in that situation on many occasions in Afghanistan: twenty-eight times to be precise, with twenty-eight confirmed kills. This was no different, he told himself, knowing it to be a lie.

He didn’t have to wait long. The familiar flaring of the scope brightened the scene before him, and he tightened his grip on the MP7 as time began to slow for him imperceptibly. The first figure came into view, a cigarette already pursed in his lips, the lighter sparking as he raised it up to his mouth, exaggerated greatly by the image-intensifying properties of the sight. He was immediately followed by his comrade who was laughing, his hand extended and waiting for the cigarette to be handed over to him. The first man was having difficulty lighting the cigarette, owing to the wind that had picked up and was howling down the pathway, his hands cupped around the end of the lighter as it formed a bright flare in Tom’s vision. He lit it and then handed the cigarette pack and lighter to his friend, who repeated the process, managing to light his much quicker. They both stood just away from the door, smoking and talking, the ends of their lit cigarettes like torches in their mouths.