Both guns were lodged over the wall, and Porter and Hassad fired in unison, unleashing a lethal barrage of bullets. Porter heard another scream, and the sound of a man roaring with pain. Suddenly there was a thump as something collided with the wall. He felt his heart skip a beat. In the next instant, a man had landed on the ground, just five feet from where Porter was positioned. He was about six foot tall, with a stocky build, and jet-black hair. His skin was tanned and lined, but he didn’t look more than thirty. He didn’t look like an Arab either, Porter noted. He crashed straight into Hassad, knocking him to the ground. Blood was pouring from his shoulder where he must have taken a bullet while charging the wall. His gun had fallen to the ground, but a hunting knife was gripped in the palm of his right hand, and was pointing straight at Hassad’s throat. Porter aimed the AK-47 at him, and tried to line up a shot. It was too difficult. As the two men struggled, they turned into a blur. Shoot and the chances were he’d kill Hassad as well. Glancing at the wall, he could see that there were no more men jumping over. He threw the gun aside, and jumped across to where the two men were wrestling. Hassad was lying on the ground. His right hand was sticking up, gripping his assailant’s arm, trying to stop him plunging the knife straight into him. Porter rammed a fist straight into the man’s ribcage. It was as hard as rock. The man barely flinched. He spat down into Hassad’s face. ‘Die, you bastard,’ he said.

Porter punched again. This time the blow connected, and he could feel a rib cracking under the force of the blow. The man groaned. He spat a mouthful of his blood down onto Hassad’s chest. Porter clenched his fist, drew his arm back, and smashed it into exactly the same spot. He could feel the man’s ribcage splintering: one, maybe even two bones cracked open as the blow hit home. He screamed in pain, rolling off Hassad onto the dusty ground. In the same moment, the knife in his hand lashed out. Porter leapt backwards, narrowly avoiding the blade slicing open his stomach. He stamped hard, bringing his new trainer down on the man’s hand. The knife fell away. Porter ground his foot down, making sure the fingers were driven down into the dirt. With the other foot, he kicked hard into the man’s stomach. The wind emptied out of him, and more blood dribbled out of his lips.

Hassad had already picked himself up from the ground. He had grabbed hold of the knife and was holding it tight into the man’s throat. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ Porter growled.

The man remained mutely silent.

Porter paused. Glancing again over the short wall, he could see three bodies. All of them looked dead, killed as they tried to run into the wall. At his side, the safe house was still burning, throwing off an intense heat. It looked like there had been a total of four men making the assault, and they had now dealt with all of them. He looked back at the man. ‘I said, who the fuck are you?’