He paused for a full minute to check that there was no activity from within the farmhouse following the two shots. The subsonic ammunition and large suppressor had done their job; the report was as quiet as Tom had heard from a weapon and, while it was not silent, it certainly did not sound like a gunshot.

He advanced on the two bodies, the MP7 held on his shoulder, slowly and deliberately aware that the low-calibre, low-velocity round may not have immediately killed the men. Unless they were dead, they were still a danger.

He needn’t have worried: he didn’t need to be a doctor to see that both men were dead. He had seen many dead bodies—he’d killed more than most, as many snipers of his generation had—and those guys were as dead as any he’d seen.

Both had small entry wounds, one centre-forehead, the other had gone straight through his left eye. Neither had exit wounds and Tom could well imagine the small round bouncing around inside their craniums, smashing their frontal lobes and destroying the central cortex of their brains. He took their handguns, one of which was still clasped by its now-deceased owner, and tossed them over the fence. He quickly patted them down, finding nothing else of value but noting that neither wore body armour or had a mobile phone on them.

Nearly two minutes had passed since they had left the back door and Tom had no time to waste, so he grabbed hold of the bigger man by the shoulder of his jacket and dragged him behind the large rhododendron bush at the edge of the parking area, about four metres away. He repeated the process with the other body, breathing heavily with the exertion.

He took a moment to regain his breath and prepare for his next move. Three minutes gone; nearly enough time to finish a cigarette. Whoever was left inside would be expecting them back soon.

*

He advanced to the farmhouse at a steady pace, not bothering to try to be silent as he strode down the path towards the back door. As he arrived in the storm porch, he squatted down and opened the small wooden box door that Cameron had made to shield the electricity fuse box. It had been replaced with a modern circuit breaker a couple of years before and was now simply a bank of switches which isolated various circuits in the house. He could hear the TV booming away from inside the house with what sounded like a sports game.

He readied himself for his final assault. He just needed an edge: darkness and surprise would give him that. He flicked the isolation switch and the house was plunged into darkness, the sudden silence overpowering.

He entered the utility room with his eye pressed against the scope, the room bathed in the pale green and black shades of the image-intensified light.