If he took them out now, he would then have fifty metres to cover to get to the house, which would take at the very least thirty seconds bearing in mind the terrain and fence at the boundary. He also didn’t know for sure that there were only three opponents. He needed more information and more intelligence to come up with a plan. There had been one smoke break and logic said that there would be others. He had time: the longer it went on, the more likely that the Serbs would relax, offering a greater element of surprise.

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.