He came up. Through the blown-out pane he spotted five more figures storming across the terrace. He lined up the sights with the nearest target. Double-tapped. Missed. Gregory shot a second guy through the chest. The other rebels spread out and found cover, firing at the salon from behind statues and stone ornaments. One figure bolted towards an enormous planter crowning a stout plinth. Bowman clipped him with three rounds to the guts. His body slapped dully against the floor, like dropping a bag of cement.

The six others kept up a continuous stream of gunfire, punching holes in the French doors and the Steinway. One burst struck the wooden bar on the back wall of the salon. Bowman glanced back and saw the bottles racked on the shelves exploding, spilling shards of glass and premium whisky over the counter.

As he returned fire, Bowman noticed two of the rebels were moving off to the left side of the terrace. He hooked the C8 round, but they swept out of sight before he could pull the trigger. A moment later, another three enemies sprinted up from the lower garden level to join the fight. The nearest rebels were twenty metres from the salon.

They’re almost on top of us now.

‘There’s too many of them!’ he yelled.

‘Keep engaging,’ Gregory shouted back. ‘Don’t let them get inside!’

Bowman put down another two rounds.

He didn’t think about dying. He didn’t think about anything beyond the next three seconds. He was operating on a purely mechanical level. Picking out targets, aiming, firing. Like a runner fixed on completing the next mile, the next lap, the next metre. His entire world had reduced to the twenty metres of ground in front of him.

He shot a scrawny soldier through the head as he scrambled across the terrace. The round uncorked his brains like champagne. Then Bowman heard the shrill crash of shattering glass. It came from somewhere to his left. His nine o’clock.

The room next to the salon.

‘They’re coming through the dining room windows,’ Gregory said. ‘Get over there, Josh!’

Bowman shrank back from the window, his heart hammering frantically. He scudded round to the open door on the left, past the abandoned teddy bear and the dried patches of blood marking the spot where the president’s brother and niece had been killed hours before. Bowman stopped just inside the doorway, his rifle at shoulder-height as his eyes skated across the chandeliered room. He saw a mahogany table the size of a spaceship, pictures of bare-breasted women on the wall.

He saw a rebel in wraparound shades on the other side of the room, jumping down from a broken window. A second figure was climbing through the opening after his comrade. The rebels freeze-framed at the sight of Bowman standing in front of the door. They stared in horror at the dark mouth of the rifle barrel.