As Kev moved around to the front of their vehicle and hid himself, Carr looked over at the approaching men.

Three minutes away now, tops.

No deviation, still heading straight for them.

He reached into the back of the pickup, and pulled out a white dishdash and a red shemagh.

Quickly, he pulled them on.

Then, one last look.

He lifted his binos.

At least two of the vehicles were flying black flags.

‘Fucking Muj, guys,’ he shouted. ‘All or nothing, here they come.’

‘Let’s light the fuckers up,’ roared back Geordie.

Carr had a final look around.

If these bastards suspected anything, saw any threat, then all bets were off.

But Geordie and Kev were hidden on the blindsides of their vehicles.

Fred was hard to spot up on that little ridge, lying down and camouflaged in the thin salt bush and esparto grass.

So if Carr could look as unthreatening as possible…

He leaned his Diemaco against the side of his Hilux, strolled out into the open, and put a hand up to wave.

Saying, quietly, ‘Come on, you wankers. I’m just a guy who’s got bogged down in the desert and thinks you might give me a tow.’

Up to his left, Fred West rocked his Minimi back and forth, took a bead on the rear vehicle, and started tracking it.

Almost within range now, and no sign of them standing off; he pulled the butt of the machine gun tight into his shoulder, and breathed slowly, closing his mind off to everything but the target.

Down below, a few metres behind Carr, Kev McMullen lay prone, his heart pounding against the hot, baked earth, his mouth full of the taste of salt and adrenalin.

He pulled the cocking lever forward on his 66, gave the Diemaco lying next to him a gentle tap, and crossed himself.

Carr glanced back and saw him do it.

‘God might help out later, Kev,’ he said. ‘I’d put more faith in yourself and the weapons at the moment.’

McMullen said nothing, a sheepish look on his face.

Carr turned back to face the oncoming vehicles.

‘Four hundred metres,’ he shouted, with a slight smile. ‘Stupid fuckers are planning to rob me and chop my head off if they don’t like the cut of my jib.’

‘None of us like the fucking cut of your jib,’ shouted Geordie, and then all four men went silent and readied themselves.

Carr took the pistol from his robe pocket, and stood with it behind his back, in his right hand. He raised his left again, this time in a show of acknowledgment to the approaching vehicles.

Now they were close he could see that the rear two were driving directly behind the point man.

Clowns, he thought. When it went noisy they were going to be too busy trying to get the shit out of their eyes to see what was killing them.