She turned back to look out of the windshield and saw the two men as Milton yelled his warning. They emerged from behind the burning SUV in the yard with their rifles raised. The windshield exploded over them both as a hail of gunfire converged on them, taking out the glass and exiting through the rear window and holes that were punched in the roof. Milton and Beatrix were down below the line of the windshield, with partial protection from the engine block ahead of them. She threw the Vivaro into reverse, stomped on the gas and yanked the wheel, operating blind and entirely on instinct. She realigned the people carrier, skidding back through ninety degrees so that she was pointing down the road.

“Hit it!”

She jammed it into first, hit the gas again, and risked a glance back into the yard as they jerked away.

She checked the wing mirror, expecting to see the two men chasing after them from the yard, but her attention was taken by a figure atop the overturned SUV. It was a man and he, too, was dressed all in black.

The man jumped down from the wreck, landing lightly on the balls of his feet, and then he started to run.

Beatrix changed up into second. They reached the pocked asphalt, the tyres gripped, and they started to pull away.

She checked the mirror.

The man was still running.

He reached to a holster that crisscrossed his chest and pulled out a handgun.

“Milton!” Beatrix yelled.

Beatrix looked back to the road ahead as a large flatbed truck rumbled out of another exit to the yard. It was slowly turning away from them, the tractor angled sharply as the trailer followed suit. It blocked the road. Beatrix hammered on the brake and swung the wheel to the left, bleeding away enough speed so that she was able to swerve around the obstruction. The Vivaro left the road, bouncing over a raised lip of sun-hardened dirt and crashing down onto a flat expanse of loose gravel and scree.

Beatrix swung the wheel to the right and changed down into first. She looked into the mirror.

They had lost speed and the man had gained on them.

“Take him out!”

Milton swung around, aimed the rifle between the front seats and out of the back of the cabin. Koralev pressed himself against the door and covered his head with both arms as Milton opened fire. The rifle chugged through the third magazine, the rounds chewing up chunks of road as the rounds sought Milton’s target. The man danced to his left and right, zigzagging. None of Milton’s rounds found their mark, and the man kept coming.

“I’m dry,” Milton yelled.

Beatrix reached for the MP5 in her lap and held it up.

Milton took it.