The gun came out fast and swung towards them. Buchanan, standing right behind Goffin, had his Glock out even faster. Too fast, because the length of the silencer made a speed draw awkward and pulled his shot off target as he fired. The muted report of the gunshot coughed from the muzzle and a neat round nine-millimetre hole appeared in the plasterboard wall eight inches to the left of the little guy’s chest. The little guy had the Beretta out at arm’s length in a two-handed grip, finger on the trigger; but a fraction of a second faster than his brain could send the signal to his finger to squeeze off the shot, Ben nailed him centre-of-mass with two rounds from the silenced Browning, in such quick succession they sounded like one ragged report. The double impact jerked the little guy backwards against the wall and he slid down it, leaving an oily red smear.

Buchanan was standing there as though frozen to the spot. Ben stepped quickly over to the body, checked the pulse, found none. Stunned by the gunshots Goffin said, ‘Shit.’

That was when they heard the commotion from the other side of the wall where Buchanan’s bullet had struck. Raised voices, sounds of alarm and distress. For an instant Buchanan stared in horror at the hole in the plasterboard. Then bursting into action he raced from the apartment and out into the dingy corridor. Ben went after him, shouldering past Goffin and followed by the others. As he reached the corridor, Buchanan was already kicking open the door of the neighbouring apartment and bursting inside, gun in hand. Ben was right behind him, just in time to see a young teenage Afghan boy disappear out of the window. The boy made fleeting eye contact with them and then was gone.

Buchanan and Ben ran across to the window and saw the kid dropping the ten feet to a soft landing on the awning of the melon stall below, drawing an angry yell from the vendor. The boy slid to the ground and sprinted hard away after his two friends who’d already made it across the street and were disappearing into the crowds, one of them narrowly avoiding being flattened by a three-wheeler delivery scooter. All were roughly the same age, thirteen or fourteen. The youngest was yelling loudly. Even though few people in the crowded market were paying much attention to them right at that moment, it was clear that the kids had got a clear view of the foreigners in the apartment and might raise the alarm.

Ben glanced at Buchanan and saw that his pistol was raised and aiming at the fleeing boy, about to take a shot. Ben slapped the gun down. ‘Are you insane?’

‘They saw us.’