Bowman said to Loader, ‘I’ll take on the guys to the left of the group. You aim for the rebels on the right. We’ll work our way in and meet in the middle.’

The last of the rebels stole through the archway.

‘Nowhere for the bastards to go now,’ Loader said eagerly.

Mallet said, ‘Patrick, do you see the bloke with the RPG? The guy in the trapper hat?’

‘Got him,’ Webb said.

‘Wait for my signal. As soon as I give the word, take him out. Then the two Gimpys can get to work.’

Bowman locked his sights on the Boys. They were as strangely dressed as the men he’d seen outside the presidential palace. One rebel wore a zebra-print jacket. Another had a rusted steel chain wrapped around his neck, like some oversized necklace. The guy to his left wore an animal headdress. A fourth man had a pair of ivory tusks draped over his shoulders. Their bodies were festooned with amulets and pouches containing their good luck charms.

The Boys were five metres inside the estate now, shuttling down the front drive in a disorganised rabble as they stole past the weeds and the burned-down trees. One rebel drew his machete and raised it above his head, encouraging his mates forward, like an officer on the Western Front.

Six metres beyond the entrance.

Eight.

‘Now,’ Mallet said.

Bowman heard a splintering hollow crack as Webb fired a single shot from the AWC. He didn’t see the guy in the trapper hat drop. Bowman was focused on the main cluster of rebels. But he knew Webb had hit the target because Mallet was suddenly shouting, ‘That’s it! Let them have it!’

Bowman gave the rebels a five-round squirt from the Gimpy. Loader unleashed a burst at his targets in the same beat. The machine guns roared, chewing up the enemy. Bowman saw the guy in the zebra-print shirt go down, and the Boy with the headdress, the guy with the steel chain. They went down one after the other, like pins in a bowling alley. The rebels didn’t stand a chance. Not against the combined firepower of the GPMGs.