‘Christ, have they got more hardware coming in?’ Bowman said in despair.

Gregory crinkled his brow. ‘I didn’t think the rebels had any Brownings.’

Bowman spoke into his throat mic. ‘What’s going on out there?’ he asked.

Silence.

He tried again. ‘John? Patrick?’

Still nothing.

Then Webb came over the radio, shouting excitedly, ‘They’re here! It’s D Squadron! They’ve arrived!’

Bowman and Gregory hastily dragged the bookcase away from the door. They paused outside the study for a moment, checking for any sign of the enemy. Then they hastened down the hallway into the salon, Bowman sweeping his eyes left to right as he led the way. Gun smoke hung like a veil over the room. He hurried over to the shattered window, gazed out past the empty terrace at the rear garden.

An armoured vehicle had gone static to the east. Bowman recognised it at once. A Regiment-modified Jackal, rigged up with a fearsome amount of firepower. Twin-mounted GPMGs on the front, a belt-fed MK19 grenade launcher operated by a third man on the back. Twenty soldiers in camo kit and plate armour charged forward on foot while the bloke on the back of the Jackal pumped the grenade launcher. They were engaging the enemy using the tried-and-trusted fighting tactics of 22 SAS. The Jackal providing the heavy support fire, the men on foot sweeping forward in five-man assault groups. The soldiers blasted away with their C8s at the rebels as they bolted towards the rear fence.

Mallet had made contact with D Squadron. Bowman heard the Scot in his earpiece as he talked with the squadron over the open comms system.

‘There are friendlies in the stronghold,’ he was saying. ‘Do not engage, repeat do not engage.’

Behind the assault groups, the guy on the MK19 chugged away at the fleeing targets. Grenades churned up the earth, shovelling clumps of loose soil into the air, atomising the few rebels left standing. Within seconds, the ground to the rear of the stronghold had been almost cleared of enemy combatants.

Bowman felt an indescribable sense of relief. ‘They made it. Thank fuck.’

‘They’ll slice through this lot in no time,’ Gregory remarked. ‘It’ll be over in a minute now.’

‘Yes.’

He turned to Gregory. The two men shared a look. Something unspoken passed between them. A bond only those who had stared death in the face could understand.

‘Check on the family,’ Bowman said. ‘I’ll check on the rooftop.’

They jogged out of the salon. Back down the corridor, past the study, into the atrium. Casey appeared from a separate hallway to the left, a dazed look on her face.

‘Is it over?’ she asked in a weak voice.

‘It will be shortly,’ said Bowman. ‘The lads in D Squadron are taking over now. Our part’s done.’

‘Thank God.’