After a few hugs and kisses, he quickly gathered around him a small group of men, most with AKs slung over their backs or in hand, and began using a long stick to draw in the sand.

Carr couldn’t hear what was being said, but he’d delivered enough sets of orders to know that the bastard was running through the final plan with his senior guys, confirming their roles before he sent them on their merry way.

And the bike and the general air of urgency told him he had only a few minutes to act.

Carr had requested some air support to level the compound, but the assets were all tied up with several major troops-in-contact across the AO.

No Apache could get to him within thirty minutes, and below him the briefing was already wrapping up.

The guy on the Honda revved his engine.

It had taken them months to get eyes-on The Butcher.

They might not get a second chance.

Carr made his decision.

Lying in the dust, he turned to Kevin McMullen, who was alongside him with his Accuracy International L96A1 rifle.

‘Can you take that fucker out, Kev?’ he asked.

McMullen never moved his eye from the scope.

He’d come out without his laser range finder – you can’t carry everything – but he was a good judge of distance, and he knew the location of their op and of the compound from his map.

‘It’s a longish one, John,’ he murmured, ‘but, yeah, no problem.’

‘You cannae miss, mate,’ said Carr. ‘You’ll blow the whole fucking op, and we might never see the cunt again.’

‘I won’t miss,’ said McMullen, quietly.

He saw some clothing hanging just outside the compound; it was flapping slightly in a gentle east-to-west breeze.

He adjusted for that wind, laid the centre of his cross-hairs on the Butcher’s face, and then dropped his point of aim to the man’s chest, to give himself some room for error.

Carr watched through his sniper spotting scope as McMullen slowed his breathing, the cross hairs lifting and falling slightly on the target.

Totally focused, the sniper then held his breath, keeping the rifle rock solid now, and gently squeezed the trigger.

The report was deafening, close-up, but The Butcher never heard it.

A 7.62mm Lapua round travels at a shade over 850 metres per second; sound itself lags far behind at a mere 343m/s.

The Taliban leader was halfway through a belly laugh when ten grams of lead collided with his forehead – McMullen had been slightly short in his range estimate – with a force of around 2,500 foot-pounds of energy.

The round took off the top third of his skull, and was deflected into the stomach of one of the onlookers.

The rest of them watched open-mouthed, and covered in blood and exploded brain, as their leader collapsed in a heap in his own sand drawing of FOB Wishtan.