Tom felt his pulse move up a gear. He had the Glock in his hand, with a nasty feeling that that was just where he was going to need it. Then Kyle took a step towards the door just as it burst open, slamming back against the trailer’s side. But the doorway was a black void. Jefferson must have been hovering a few feet inside, in shadow. Kyle stepped away from the trailer so he had a better angle but, in doing so, showed himself to Jefferson. Any element of surprise was gone.

The shot came from inside the trailer. Kyle’s legs buckled under him, but he still had his Glock raised and fired wide. Now Jefferson appeared in the doorway. Tom aimed centre mass of the dark doorway and rapid-fired until the door slammed. It was pointless putting subsonic rounds into the trailer hoping to hit the target; it’d just waste ammo. Tom sprinted over to Kyle, who waved him away.

‘Deal with him first. Get over there and get it done.’

Tom ignored him and started tearing at his T-shirt to get a look at the wound but Kyle pushed him away. ‘Finish it.’

The choice was made for him. The trailer door opened again: a shotgun muzzle pointed straight at Tom. He fired again and the weapon fell limp before hitting the metal steps up to the doorway. He ran forward and wrenched the door open, then lunged at Jefferson, who was struggling to pull himself up.

‘Back in there – now!’

Tom thrust the muzzle of the suppressor into Jefferson’s neck, grabbed him by the belt and dragged him deeper into the trailer. Jefferson lashed out with a foot. Tom managed to keep his balance and smashed down on his face with his boot.

Jefferson started to roar. Tom bore down on him, ramming the Glock’s fat suppressor into his mouth. He kept his voice low. He didn’t want Kyle hearing this. ‘Any noise and you’re gone, okay? You will die.’

Jefferson got the message and calmed down, his breathing heavy and noisy as he tried to exhale through his nose now that his mouth was blocked.

Tom reached up and hit a lamp switch that dangled from the unit above them. He quickly took in the features and general state of the place: a small hob with a filthy pan on it, a screened-off toilet and shower and an unmade sofa-bed, with a half-smoked joint in a saucer on the pillow. Hanging on one wall was a Confederate flag – nothing unusual about that in this part of the world but, above it, a poster of a swastika left no doubt as to his political affiliations.

The man below him was mid-thirties, shaved head, steroidal frame.

Tom stared down into his eyes. ‘You want to live?’

Jefferson nodded and the weapon slowly moved with his head.