Blood was dripping from Porter’s wounded hand, and the bolts of pain from the wound were jabbing up from his left arm and thumping straight into his chest. It was like having a hundred hammer drills boring into your body at the same time.

‘My, my …’

The boy was struggling for the words in English but they wouldn’t come. A burst of Arabic, frantic and desperate, erupted from his lips, then he subsided into the stunned silence that sometimes overwhelms even children when they are certain they are about to die.

Ten yards behind him, Steve and Keith were holding the line, using assault rifles to fight back another wave of Hezbollah attacks. Amid the din and roar of the gunfire, the hostage had bottled it, screaming his lungs out with raw fear.

Porter held the knife in his hand, his eyes flicking across the smooth skin of the boy’s neck as he searched for the windpipe he would need to sever to make the death as quick and painless as possible.

He lowered the knife into position, nicking the skin, and drawing a speck of red blood. He thought briefly of Sandy. How old was she now? Into her second day, allowing for the time the telegram had taken to reach the ship.

‘Fuck it,’ muttered Porter, the words wheezing through his exhausted lips.

He’s just a kid.

With his left hand, he ripped the explosives off the boy’s chest, flinging them to one side. He folded the knife into the palm of his hand, using it as a weight rather than a weapon. Tensing his shoulder muscles, he smashed his right fist into the side of the boy’s face. His deformed lips quivered, then he spat some blood and a broken tooth up into Porter’s chest. ‘Amiat al-Ikhwan al-Muslimun,’ he whispered. His eyes closed, and Porter could tell there was no fight left in him, but he punched again, and then again, draining the last few ounces of consciousness from him. Slowly, he lifted himself from the boy’s body. You’ll take at least three hours to wake up from that, mate, he thought. But you’ll live, at least. Maybe even find something better to do with your life.

In front of him, Steve and Keith had dealt with the latest wave of attacks. The firing had subsided long enough for them to rush up towards the roof and the Puma. ‘Get out to the chopper,’ shouted Steve. ‘We’ll lay down the covering fire.’

‘I’ll stay and fight my way out of here with the rest of you,’ said Porter gruffly.

Steve took two paces forward, standing so close Porter could smell the sweat and grime dripping off his face. ‘You’re fucking wounded, you tosser.’

Porter was clenching his left hand. The pain was aching, and the blood was still dripping from the two stumps where his fingers had once been. He could feel the strength bleeding out of him. ‘I can hold on until we get the hostage back to the chopper.’