Fred West did what he’d done since his first patrol in Northern Ireland, and momentarily visualised a winning hand of cards – a Royal Flush of spades. Nodding happily, he adjusted his daysack slightly.

John Carr’s own mind was empty of everything except the information he needed to perform his task.

As long as he did his job, and his mates did theirs, they stood a good chance.

Though fate had a way of fucking up the very best of men.

He looked at his watch.

‘We’ve got ten minutes to be in position for our first chance on the perimeter guard,’ he said. ‘If we miss him we’ll we have to wait forty minutes, and that’s not an option. You all know what you’re doing. See you at the main gate when phase one’s done.’

With that Carr stood up and started moving towards the northwestern corner of the compound, followed closely by McMullen.

Geordie took up position so that he had the trigger on the main gate, and the western aspect. Fred covered rearwards, back in the direction he had come.

Eight minutes later, Carr was in position, standing up, back flat against the wall, just around the corner.

His Diemaco was slung across his front, the barrel pointing at the ground. In his right fist, down by his side, was a Welrod.

Kev McMullen was beyond him, about ten metres out from the wall, and covering back towards the north-east, just in case.

Carr pressed his transmit button. ‘Geordie, we’re in position,’ he said.

‘Roger, mate.’

Carr looked at his watch: half-past the hour.

He felt the tension beginning to build.

Fifty metres away, Skelton heard the scrape of the metal bolt from the gate – bang on time.

If nothing, they were punctual.

He watched the gate through his night-sight, waiting for the man to show.

‘Standby, standby,’ he said. ‘That’s him, one Bravo, Foxtrot out the gate, turning right, right, towards the first corner.’

‘Roger,’ said Carr.

‘He’s stopped. He’s lighting a fag.’

‘Roger.’

A creature of habit.

‘He’s at the first corner, and towards you,’ said Geordie.

‘Roger,’ said Carr, turning so that his stomach and body were flat against the wall, his right arm now closest to the corner. This would reduce his silhouette to the sentry when he made his turn.

‘Halfway.’

‘Roger.’

In Carr’s mind’s eye, he pictured the target’s location.

Any moment now, Geordie would begin to count the guy down in five metre increments, to the corner where death waited for him.

And now he made the call.

‘Fifteen metres.’

No response from Carr.

He repeated the call.

Nothing. His comms had failed.

Shit. Battery fucked.

No time to mess around replacing it.

Carr had lifted his weapon now, so that the barrel was parallel with the ground and the muzzle was about five inches back from the corner of the wall.