Both soldiers fired again. Two more five-round bursts apiece. The industrial duh-duh-duh of the machine guns filled the air. The bullets tore through the targets at a downward angle and punched through the guy immediately behind them before they smacked into the soil, flinging clumps of dirt into the air. Every fifth round was a red tracer, to help the shooters see where the bullets were falling. Several of the tracers on both sides of the truck ricocheted off the ground and fired upwards into the lightening sky, like rockets at a firework display.

More than half the targets in both groups were dead on the ground. Sixteen or seventeen bodies.

The surviving Boys instantly scattered across the exposed terrain. Running in different directions in a frantic search for cover. Every man for himself. Bowman heard the clipped report of the AWC, the deeper boom of the .50 cal as Webb and Mallet joined in with the fighting. They were taking down opportune targets while the two GPMGs dealt with the larger groups. One guy in an animal-print jacket and shades leaped onto the rear of the technical in a desperate attempt to take control of the machine gun. The AWC ca-racked. The man toppled backwards from the gun, limbs flailing as he dropped to the ground. To the left of the technical, another rebel wearing a beanie hat started to raise his AK-47 at the stronghold. The .50 cal boomed, the man’s head exploded in a bright-red spray.

The remaining stragglers fled towards the cover of the treeline, running as fast as their legs could carry them in their desperation to escape the killing ground. Mallet shot one guy in the back as he legged it across the road. The remainder disappeared into the woods to lick their wounds before the defenders could rip them to shreds.

Bowman stopped firing. So did the others.

The fight had lasted no more than ten seconds. He counted more than twenty bodies on the ground in the clearing. Which was more than two-thirds of the attacking force. The Boys hadn’t even had the chance to loose off a few rounds at the stronghold. They had been crushed. Annihilated. The definition of a one-sided victory. Like a football team racing into a five-nil lead before half-time.

Bowman focused on the treeline in case any of the surviving Boys came back for another go. But the ground remained quiet. No rebels came charging out of the woods.

‘That should shut the bastards up,’ Loader said after several moments.

Mallet stared at the dead in the clearing and nodded slightly. ‘For a while, aye.’

‘You think they’ll come back?’ asked Webb.

‘They have to,’ Mallet said. ‘They’ll know the president’s family are inside now. The Machete Boys will work that out pretty fast. They’ll be better prepared next time.’

‘They’ll want to avenge their dead mates, too,’ Bowman said.