As he dipped his head below the windscreen, Porter could see they were approaching the main road on the far side of the mine. A makeshift roadblock had been set up across the track: it consisted of two mounds of old tyres, with a wooden bar slung between them. Normally, Porter reckoned, there would be two or three soldiers there monitoring who came into and out of the mine, but there was so much chaos down below where the missile had struck there was just one guy, sitting by the side of the road, an AK-47 cradled in his arms.

At his side, Porter could see Hassad tapping his foot hard on the accelerator.

‘There may be an impact when we go through the bar,’ said Hassad. ‘Steady yourself.’

‘Won’t they let you through?’

‘This is Hezbollah,’ said Hassad proudly. ‘Nobody comes in or out of this mine without their vehicle being checked.’

Porter put his hands around his head. The Polo was accelerating now, touching sixty. Suddenly, there was a crunching noise, as the nose of their car collided with the wooden pole. Porter was thrown forward, his head bashing against the cheap plastic of the glove compartment. In the back, Katie jerked upwards and groaned in pain. The Polo served to the right as the impact deflected it off its path. Hassad was gripping the steering wheel, pulling it back onto the track. Behind them, Porter could hear shouting. And then a rapid burst of gunfire exploded behind them.

Porter heard the sickening crunch of a bullet colliding with the back the car. It pierced the steel skin of the vehicle, but lodged itself harmlessly in the boot. Porter glanced again at Katie. There was no chance of moving her now, Porter realised. Too dangerous. But lying on the back seat, she was the most vulnerable of any of them: any bullets that pierced the back window were heading straight for her.

‘Can’t you move any bloody faster?’ he shouted.

‘I’m trying,’ yelled Hassad.

His foot was jamming hard on the accelerator, but instead of gaining power, the Polo was losing it. The speedometer had touched sixty-five as they burst through the wooden barrier, and started heading down the slope that led towards the main road. But now it was slowly dropping down to sixty, then fifty-five.

Porter glanced in the wing-mirror.

The soldier had climbed on board a motorbike. His assault rifle was slung over his back, but there was a pistol clearly visible in the belt of his trousers. The bike was roaring fast, gaining on them with every metre they covered.

Hassad’s grip tightened on the steering wheel as he tried to move them back onto the centre of the road.

‘He’s on a bike,’ Porter growled.

‘The car won’t move, the tyre is punctured.’

‘Fuck it.’

The Polo was still slowing, dropping down to forty-five now. It must be the back wheel, Porter thought grimly. There was no way the car was going to build up any speed with a back tyre blown out. He could see exactly what was about to happen. The bike was going to overtake them within not much more than a minute. The soldier would spin past them, stop the bike in the middle of the road, then turn his AK-47 on them.