In the Land Cruiser, Casey reacted fractionally quicker than the rest of the team. She flipped her door open, jumped down and raised her Colt rifle at the Boys. ‘Put your guns down! Hands in the air!’

The Boys ignored her. They had already made up their minds. They weren’t going to abandon their goods. They were going to stand and fight.

Bandana and Portugal let rip first, firing from the hip as they emptied a couple of wild bursts at the Land Cruiser. Three rounds missed the target completely, slapping into the tarmac eight or nine inches short of the wagon. Two other bullets struck the grille in a shower of flying sparks. A sixth round glanced off the bodywork near Casey, forcing her to dive for cover behind a statue of the president, two metres to the right of the driveway.

Then Pinkie discharged a third burst. Slower reactions, but a marginally better marksman. Two bullets glanced off the ground at the spot where Casey had been standing a moment earlier. Another round ricocheted off the statue, taking off a chunk of the president’s face.

In the Land Cruiser, Mallet, Bowman, Loader and Webb instantly snatched up their rifles. They didn’t need to communicate with one another. There was no time for a debate, anyway. They knew exactly what to do.

Engage the targets. Neutralise the threat.

The three soldiers leaped out of the wagon. Bowman and Mallet took up positions behind the front side doors, using them as cover. Behind them, Loader and Webb shielded themselves behind the two rear passenger doors. A brief glance at his six o’clock told Bowman that the Karatandan soldiers were still bottled up in the back of the Unimog. Awaiting orders from Major Mavinda, presumably.

In the next half-second the Boys opened fire on the Hilux. Rounds hammered against the pickup bonnet in a piercing din. Two rounds struck the windshield, spider-webbing the glass. Mavinda and his deputies made no attempt to debus. Illogical. But an instinct thing. We’re safer inside than out. Through the rear windshield Bowman glimpsed four heads ducking down as another vicious torrent of incoming rounds peppered the truck.

Four seconds had passed since the first shot had been fired.

Bowman held his weapon in a steady two-handed grip, the telescopic stock tucked against his right shoulder as he coolly lined up the holographic sight with Bandana. He aimed for the midriff. The best target. The percentage shot. Like buying tech stock. Obvious, but lucrative. A 5.56 × 45 mm round could do a serious amount of damage to a person’s torso. Enough to put Bandana and his mates out of the game.

The Boy was still spraying rounds at Hilux when Bowman pulled the trigger.