With his left hand, Collinson reached out to grab hold of her arm, pulling her towards him. He looked back to Porter, a twisted smile on his lips and a smirk in his eye. Then he raised his Beretta.

‘To quote Sir Winston, “The armies must cast away the idea of resisting behind concrete lines or natural obstacles, and must realise that mastery can only be regained by furious and unrelenting assault,”’ he said. ‘“And this spirit must not only animate the High Command, but must inspire every fighting man.”’

He looked straight into Porter’s eyes, and chuckled. ‘And indeed, that spirit animates me today.’

I don’t mind dying if I have to, thought Porter. But I don’t think I can listen to this tosser much more.

He could see Collinson’s finger hovering on the trigger. And he could see into the man’s eyes, and tell that he meant to kill him.

There was a movement. Somewhere behind the window.

Suddenly, the rattle of a machine gun filled the air. The window had shattered, and a lethal storm of bullets had ripped through the hut, slicing into the backs of the two men standing guard. They had both tried to respond, their fingers reaching for the triggers of their guns, but the ordnance had already smashed up their spinal cords so badly they were no longer able to control their muscles. They had collapsed on their faces, their weapons sprawling out on the floor in front of them.

Porter threw himself to the ground, narrowly missing the bullets that were starting to slam into the wall behind him: he could feel the used rounds falling onto his body as they pinged off the wall. As he dropped to the ground, he caught sight of the man standing behind the window.

Hassad.

His AK-47 gripped to his fists, he was spraying round after round of bullets through the window and into the bodies of the men who had taken them captive.

Porter reached forward, grabbing hold of one of the guns that had spilt out onto the floor. He rolled away, so that his back was against the wall, then flashed the gun up and lashed his finger onto the trigger. It was pointing straight at Collinson.

Outside the firing had stopped. Hassad must have realised he’d already killed the two men, Porter guessed. To get any more he’d have to come inside.

He doesn’t need to bother, Porter told himself grimly. That’s my job.

As he looked up, he could see that Collinson had shaken Katie free. She was standing next to him, tears of terror and exhaustion streaming down her face. In his right hand, Collinson was still holding the Beretta. Porter gripped the AK-47 tighter in his hands, and although he hadn’t had time to line up a shot, that probably didn’t matter. Press the trigger, and he should be able to pump out enough bullets to bring the man down.

‘Drop it,’ Collinson spat, ‘and I’ll let you go back to the ragheads.’