Mesmerised, she looked at it, and only tore her gaze away as she saw the man’s eyes turning towards her.

For the thousandth time, she tried to work out what her chances of survival were.

She had had no contact with the outside world from the moment she’d been seized in Marbella, and her captors had said very little to her. The fact that she was still alive meant that she had some value to them – whether as a bargaining tool for some prisoner release, or a political goal of some sort, or as a mere commodity to be traded for a sum of money, she didn’t know.

She hoped it was the latter: she knew that her father could raise almost whatever capital sum was needed, but that there was no way that her mother would be able to make significant and overt changes to British government policy just for her own daughter. Charlotte had listened to enough dinner table talk to know that.

Though it was probably a moot point, anyway. Even if it was just a financial thing, she had very little confidence that the people who were holding her would keep their side of any deal.

So, as it did dozens of times each day, her mind turned again to the question of whether there was a way – any way, however impractical or risky – that she could get herself and Martha out of here.

Several times, the guards – clearly comfortable that she was no kind of a threat – had left one of their weapons close to her.

An AK47 – everyone knew that was what they were called, and everyone knew where the trigger was, too.

She’d thought about grabbing for it – dreamed about shooting these two, blowing their brains out, consumed by a pure, furious hatred that she didn’t recognise in herself.

But she knew that there was more to it than just pulling the trigger. She’d fired shotguns, and they had safety catches, and so must AK47s. She imagined them laughing at her as she held it, not knowing what to do: more than anything, the horror and shame of trying and failing in front of them was what stopped her trying.

That, and the realisation that she had no idea what was on the other side of the door. She didn’t even know which town, or which country, she was in.

It was all…

And then she heard the gunshots.

Chapter 97.

97.

JOHN CARR AND Kevin McMullen were fifteen or twenty metres away, in the shadows.

It was McMullen’s turn to be No. 1 – first man through the breach.

The breach was to be created by Carr, using a strip-charge made up of three 6ft sections of detonating cord applied to double-sided tape, which could be quickly unrolled down the hinge side of the door.