With a flicked shake of his head, the anger was evident in Steve’s eyes. ‘You’re wounded, and we have to get the hostage out. We’ll put down some covering fire, and keep the Hezbollah bastards back. No one gives a fuck whether we get shot, but if we lose Bratton then we’re all in the shit. Now run like fuck, get on that chopper and get back to the ship, and there’s a chance the medics can still save that hand. Tell the pilot to call in the backup, and we’ll get out of here as soon as it’s safe.’

‘My hand –’

‘Bloody move, man,’ snapped Steve. ‘This is the Regiment. We get paid to fight and win. Not to lose a hand, and spend the rest of our careers behind a desk because we’re too sodding stupid to know when to clear out.’

Porter paused. He was about to speak, but he could see that Steve was already telling Keith how they could make certain the building was safe enough for the chopper to drop down onto the roof.

He held tight to his gun, then glanced up at the staircase. Bratton was standing right next to him: the man was shaking with fear, and his nerves were so shot he could no longer speak. Porter’s feet were pounding against the concrete as he started running. Behind him, he could hear one shot ring out, then another. He dragged Bratton with him, up one flight, then up the second, before bursting onto the open roof. Down below he could see the rest of the unit laying down more fire to keep their attackers at bay. Up ahead, he could see the chopper hovering a few feet above the roof. Within seconds, he had covered the last few remaining yards, and grabbed hold of the Puma’s doorway. He pushed the screaming Bratton through the open door, and flinging himself onto the floor, he shouted to the pilot to take him back, then unhooked a first-aid kit from the floor of machine. As the Puma lifted up into the sky, and started to soar over the city and out towards the sea, Porter found the disinfectant. He winced in pain as he splashed it over the raw, stubby mess where his fingers had once been. If he didn’t clean the wound soon, he knew there was a chance the thing might have to be chopped off at the wrist.

And the Regiment has no use for a bloke with only one hand.

Porter walked slowly from the operating theatre. The antibiotics they had pumped into him had made him woozy, and the local anaesthetic injected into his arm and chest left him numb and dopey. It had been a terrible hour, but at least the worst was over now, he told himself. After being dropped down onto the Dorset’s deck, Bratton had been led away, still shaking and sobbing with fear, and he’d been rushed down to the medics, who quickly concluded they could save the hand, but only if they cut through the remaining flesh and bone and reduced both missing fingers to nothing more than stumps. There was an operating theatre on board, but he’d probably be sent on to Cyprus at daybreak to get some more treatment. ‘If you’d kept the fingers we could have had a go at sticking them back on,’ said the doctor with disturbing cheerfulness as he sawed through what remained.