The clicker counter in his head told him that he’d expended three clips of 5.56 × 45 mm ammo already. Two on the rooftop, one at the front of the mansion. Which meant he had one magazine left, plus the ten bullets in the clip housed in the weapon. A grand total of forty rounds. Not much. Not against a large force of rebels. Once he was out of ammo, Bowman would have to resort to his secondary weapon. The Glock 17 pistol holstered to his belt.

We’ll be taking pistol shots at these bastards soon.

He centred the weapon on the rebel to the left, pulled the trigger. The muzzle flared. Two rounds blasted through the windowpane, shattering the glass into a million pieces before they thumped into the rebel. The man tumbled backwards, arms windmilling. Gregory fired simultaneously at the other guy, giving him a two-round burst to the face.

The third rebel ducked left and scampered towards a classical statue mounted on a stone pedestal. Bowman fired twice, missed, depressed the trigger again. The bullet struck the man in the ankle, shattering bone and ligament. The rebel screamed and crashed to the tiled floor, hands pawing at his fucked-up lower leg. Bowman permanently silenced him with a double-tap to the face.

Three enemies down.

Two rounds left in the clip. Thirty-two rounds in total.

‘How many mags have you got, Mike?’ Bowman called out.

‘Down to my last two,’ Gregory said.

‘We’re in the shit. Big time.’

‘Keep fighting. Don’t let the bastards win.’

Bowman threw a quick glance at his old OC. The guy has still got it, he thought to himself. He might be older and worn around the edges. But he’s the same tough officer I fought alongside in the Regiment. Now we’re fighting shoulder-to-shoulder again. Just like the old days.

Except this time, there’s no one to bail us out.

Another four rebels ran up the stairs to the terrace.

Bowman and Gregory opened up as soon as they popped into view. They cut down two of the enemy with surgical precision. Bowman put two bullets into the lead rebel, stitching him in the groin. The man howled in agony, hands cupping his shredded balls as he sank to his knees. The other two KUF men immediately responded with a couple of bursts of their own. Bullets smashed through several of the windowpanes. Bowman felt a searing pain as a round streaked past him, grazing his cheek. He gritted his teeth and lined up the two rebels darting for cover behind the statue. Depressed the trigger. Got the dreaded click.

He dipped his head below the window, released the empty clip. Reached for another.

‘Reloading!’ he shouted to Gregory. ‘On my last mag!’

Thirty rounds left.