Tom sat on the machine, which still had its keys in the ignition, and pressed the electric start button. The first turns were slow but then the quad barked into life with a muted roar. He eased the machine out of the lean-to and headed off north into the cold, wild Cairngorm wilderness in the shadow of the dark, foreboding peak of Bynack More, the wind picking up and ominous clouds forming.

*

Tom made his way down, following the contours of the river which he knew would take him to the forestry block opposite the farmhouse. The rear of the cottage was bordered by livestock grazing, usually Auld Willie’s sheep in one of the fields and a pedigree herd of Highland cattle in the others.

He was able to maintain a brisk enough speed without revving the life out of the quad. The wind was brisk and blowing from the east, which Tom was grateful for as it meant that he would have the wind in his face as he approached the farmhouse, carrying any sounds away from the enemy within. He was well-practised in infiltration and exfiltration from CTRs, having done both in hostile environments right under the nose of the enemy, but any advantage was to be utilised: including being able to take the quad up close for a speedy getaway if necessary.

He hit the road as he left the Bynack approach and entered the forestry block through an open gate which led onto a wide, well-maintained forest track.

He was able to make good progress for the final mile and then pulled off the track through a gap in the trees where he continued at walking pace, negotiating the moss hillocks and fallen branches, the revs kept low on the quad’s engine. Having got far enough, he killed the engine, leaving the keys in the ignition slot as he quickly gathered some fallen boughs, criss-crossing them across the quad in a rudimentary camouflage. He finished it off with some sphagnum moss slabs and a few ferns, making it all but invisible from the forest track, but visible enough for him to find.

He paused for a moment and re-checked all his pockets and equipment to ensure that nothing had loosened during the bumping and lurching of the quad bike ride. He extended the telescopic stock of the MP7 and squatted, putting the sight to his eye and scanning his route. He switched the night vision on but there was still too much light to make it of any use. He was confident that his approach had not been audible with the stiff breeze that was blowing into his face, which he estimated to be twenty to thirty miles-per-hour, and would therefore carry any sound nicely away from the farmhouse.

He reached into his pocket and pressed the communications pressel. ‘Pet, you hearing me?’

‘Loud and clear, Tom.’

‘No words from Branko? I’m about to deploy close-in.’