‘If there’s a way, he’ll find me,’ sniffed Katie.

Dream on, girl, Porter reflected bitterly. If he can find a TV camera, he’ll pose for it. The bastard would have trouble finding his own arse and elbow. And if he did, he wouldn’t know how to get them in the right order.

‘You have to hold on in there,’ he said grimly. ‘If they have any idea where we are, they’ll come tonight.’

‘But you don’t think there’s any hope?’

Porter shrugged. He’d thought about it ever since he’d been here. He’d done hostage raids himself, he’d been trained for it, and there was no more difficult military operation, particularly if you wanted to get the hostage out alive. Even when it was on open ground, you had to get in quickly enough and take out enough of the opposition to secure control of the area before they killed the hostage. To stand much of a chance, you needed detailed maps, and you needed an access point where you could get a lot of men in fast. They didn’t have either. If they did get the location, they might try pumping some kind of nerve gas down into the mine to paralyse everyone down below: officially, those kinds of chemical weapons didn’t exist, but he’d heard rumours in the Regiment they were stockpiled somewhere for an emergency. They were meant to be sodding dangerous – unstable, rarely tested, and with potentially carcinogenic side effects – but that was all just hearsay. It was something they needed to be prepared for, though. If they had them, they’d surely use them tonight.

‘This place is bloody hard to find, and even if you get the location, it is going to be a bastard to break into, even for the Regiment.’

‘Stand closer to me,’ said Katie. ‘I’m scared.’

No point in telling Katie about the possibility of a chemical attack, Porter thought. It will only make her even more frightened. And I’m not sure there is much more terror she can handle.

‘Are you religious?’

Christ, no. The last thing I need right now is a lot of mumbo-jumbo. Porter shook his head. ‘Not really.’

‘I’m a Catholic.’ She stifled another tear. ‘At least, at school. I’m not really a churchgoer or anything.’ She steadied herself, trying to stop her lips from trembling. ‘But I would like you to read me the last rites.’

‘I …’ Porter hesitated, unsure what to say. ‘I don’t think I know them.’

She leant her head forward, and whispered two short sentences.

‘I’m not a priest,’ said Porter, and immediately felt stupid for such a weak and pointless remark.

Katie attempted a smile. His lips were too battered, however, to turn up more than a couple of millimetres. ‘I’ll call one then, maybe.’

She looked at Porter. ‘You’re the only person here.’

Porter took a step closer. He was standing just inches away from her. The stench was unbearable: a suffocating mixture of rotting excrement, sweat and blood. Like a cross between an abattoir and a boghouse, he decided bitterly. With his right hand, he crossed himself, then closed his eyes so they were half shut. ‘Through this holy anointing, may the Lord in His love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit,’ he said softly.