As the outer door swung open Nazim caught a glimpse of someone standing there. Someone he’d seen before. Someone holding a pistol. Then, before anyone could react, the loud detonation of a gunshot filled the fire escape. The back of Dariush’s head blew out like an eggshell. Blood spattered across the side of Lebrun’s face. The hostage screamed. Dariush folded at the knees and slumped dead to the floor.

For a fraction of a second, all Nazim could do was stare. The shooter was a tall man, about the same height as him. Thick blond hair hanging across his brow. Blue eyes as hard and cold as the mountain glaciers of Afghanistan. The weapon in his hands looked like an extension of his arms. As though he’d been born holding it.

The foreigner. The white shaitan. The man with no name.

He wasn’t alone. A darker-haired man Nazim had never seen before was standing at his side with a submachine gun and the steely expression of a combat-hardened veteran.

Then in the next split second, everything erupted into chaos. Abbud fired at the doorway, in such haste that his bullets stitched a ragged line of holes up the wall and a pane of reinforced fire glass. A return chatter of full-auto fire spat from the doorway and Abbud staggered backwards, dropping his weapon, crimson flowers blooming on his shirt. Jafar never even got the chance to open fire before a lightning double-tap from the blond shaitan’s pistol punched through his forehead and chest and snatched the life out of him before he even began to drop. Zahran rushed in front of his leader to defend and protect him. He raised his weapon and yanked the trigger, but the AK had jammed. He hurled it down. Whipped out his knife, still wet with the blood of the lorry driver. Charged towards the doorway with the blade raised high and a furious bellow of ‘ALLAHU AKBAR!’ bursting from his lungs.

Nazim heard the ensuing gunfire, but he saw no more. Because by then, he was already retreating at a wild sprint down the corridor, dragging the hostage along with him.

Chapter 63

The surviving jihadist was only a young guy, barely in his twenties, but his short life would soon be over. He was moaning pitifully and reaching out for help with a red-slicked hand. Not everyone who thinks they’re willing to die for their beliefs still feels that way when the moment actually comes.

The blood pumping from the several bullet wounds in his torso was the least of the dying man’s worries. Clear liquid fentanyl was still spouting from the holes in the shot-up drum, spattering and splashing over him where he lay unable to move. Ben was standing at a distance to avoid breathing the toxic fumes. What Roth had said about the sniffer dogs dropping dead from just one whiff had been enough to make him very cautious.