‘Michael!’ Levy slid to a halt next to Michael’s unmoving body. ‘Michael, can you hear me?’

Michael was unconscious, but up close he looked in much better condition than Hirst. Levy placed two fingers of her right hand on his neck and felt blood pumping upwards through his artery.

His pulse was strong; it made survival likely.

‘Michael?’ she asked again. This time more gently. ‘Can you hear me, Michael?’

Levy examined Michael as she spoke. From his head downwards. Blood on his forehead made her search for a wound to his skull. She found it quickly. The blood came from a shallow cut close to the hairline. It was easy to find; the presence of Hirst’s two front teeth – ripped from his mouth by a collision with Michael’s head, where they were now embedded – saw to that.

Michael’s other injuries were just as obvious. His left hand was beaten and bloody. The knuckles shattered. Levy did not need to wonder what he had used to leave Hirst in the condition she had observed. The injury to his right arm was more serious. Michael’s sleeve was soaked in blood. More than there would be if the blood were not his own.

Levy looked for the injury, found it quickly and concluded that it was not life-threatening.

She turned at the sound of running footsteps. It was the pilot.

‘Is he OK?’

‘He’ll live,’ Levy called back. ‘But he’s been shot. We need bandages and whatever kit you’ve got in the chopper.’

‘And the other guy?’ The pilot indicated towards Hirst.

‘I’ll check him while you get the kit. Now go!’

The pilot turned and ran back towards the Comanche.

Six hundred metres, Levy thought. There and back. Plus time to collect the gear. Two minutes max.

She got to her feet, walked over to Hirst and dropped to her knees beside him.

The damage Michael had done to Hirst was severe. But it was not fatal. At least not instantly. Air was inflating and deflating a blood bubble below his right nostril with every breath.

Levy looked up. Towards the Comanche. The pilot was halfway there.

She reached into her inside pocket, found her handkerchief and opened it up fully. So that it covered her entire right hand.

She looked up again. The pilot was nearing the chopper.

Levy looked again at Hirst. For a moment she thought of trying to bring him round. In the hope that he would know what was coming.

There would be justice in that, she thought. But Levy did not need such perfection.

Instead she reached out, placed the handkerchief on Hirst’s bloody face and covered his nose and his mouth.

And then she squeezed.

SEVENTY-SEVEN

Michael Devlin wiped through the condensation that clung to the bathroom mirror. His reflection stared back at him. Stripped to the waist, a collection of scars dotted his torso.

Some were old. Some were new. And some – like the bullet wound through his right bicep – were obscured entirely by bandages.