The first vehicle came to a stop about forty metres from Carr, and the others stopped behind, virtually blind in all that dust.

The vehicle commander, sitting in the front passenger seat, leaned over and said something to the driver.

Then both men got out.

Chapter 82.

82.

THE COMMANDER – A TALL, skinny man in a yellow T-shirt and a chest rig – stayed where he was, watching carefully, while the driver started towards Carr.

All show and bravado.

Holding an AK, but it was slack in his hand, he was that cocky.

Big bloke, big beard.

Big mistake.

He realised just how big when he got within ten metres of Carr and saw first the camouflage trousers and boots below the white robe, and then Carr’s grin, and then the 9mm Sig.

That was the last thing he ever saw.

Carr put four rounds into the centre of the guy’s chest and ran for his Diemaco as Fred West and Geordie Skelton both opened up with their belt-fed Minimis.

The commander in the yellow T-shirt took off back around his vehicle, running and shouting.

That saved his life, for the moment: almost before the big guy had even hit the deck, Kevin McMullen stood up and fired the 66mm straight into the engine block of the first pickup.

As it exploded in a ball of fire, he dropped the empty tube, picked up his Diemaco and started putting rounds down.

‘With me, Kev,’ shouted Carr, and he and Kevin McMullen punched forwards, moving quickly and aggressively, not giving those men who had survived the machine guns and the LAW the chance to get their heads up and react.

Carr shot one guy in the face, Kev put another down with three gut-shots and finished him off with one to the head, and then it was all over.

Just two men were left, lying curled up in the dirt on the far side of the middle pickup, unarmed, fingers in their ears, terrified.

One was the tall skinny guy in the yellow T-shirt, who had been blown backwards by the blast from the LAW, but was unhurt.

The other was another big fucker with another big beard.

‘Cease fire,’ shouted Carr. ‘Cease fire.’

The gunfire still ringing in his ears, he stepped over one of the dead men and walked carefully to the pair of them.

He pointed his weapon at them and, in Arabic, told them to put their hands behind their heads.

‘What?’ said the guy in yellow, looking at him with staring eyes. ‘I don’t fucking speak Arabic.’

The man’s accent was unmistakeable.

‘You’re a Brummie?’ said Carr, incredulously. ‘Hands behind your heads.’

Both men complied immediately.

‘Who are you, bro?’ said the guy with the beard.

‘Shut the fuck up,’ barked Carr. ‘Do not speak unless I speak to you. And I’m not your fucking bro, you cunt.’