As McMullen ran off, Martha back over his shoulder, Carr turned and began to put fire back into the compound, to allow Geordie and Fred to withdraw.

He moved to get into a better position, and almost tripped over Charlotte Morgan, who was kneeling on the ground and had clearly not run with Kev.

‘Get out the fucking way, Charlotte,’ he said.

She moved to the side, and lay flat.

‘Geordie, move now, Geordie, move now,’ shouted Carr.

Inside the compound walls, Skelton heard the call.

‘Time to fucking go, Fred,’ he said. ‘You move first.’

He fired a long burst through the area of the front door and the windows either side.

‘Moving,’ shouted Fred West, getting up and sprinting a short bound beyond Geordie, in the direction of the gate.

There he stopped, down on one knee, and began firing towards the building.

‘Move, Geordie,’ he shouted.

‘Moving,’ said Skelton.

They pepper-potted back like that for thirty seconds until both were clear of the gateway and alongside John Carr.

He took a final look inside the compound, through the night sight on his Diemaco.

It looked like hell on earth in there: the villa itself was alight where Geordie’s 66 had hit it, and the three vehicles were well ablaze. Every window was shattered, every square metre of wall pock-marked with bullet-strikes or Claymore ball-bearings.

He could see at least five bodies.

There was no fire coming back at them, now.

‘Geordie,’ he said. ‘Cover me towards the plantation.’

‘Aye, man,’ said Skelton. ‘Get fucking going.’

Carr bent, grabbed Charlotte Morgan under the arm, and dragged her to her feet.

‘Come on, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘Time to move. You’re doing well. Nearly there.’

Half a minute later, they were with Kev and Martha.

Charlotte Morgan put her arms protectively around her friend and held her tight, as the two men took up positions covering back towards Geordie and Fred.

They had both ceased firing, had put a new 200-round box on their weapons, and were scanning for movement.

There was none.

‘Move, Geordie,’ said Fred. ‘Move now.’

They repeated their withdrawal drill, but this time they were silent, their weapons ready but unused, their instructions and acknowledgments to each other hissed, not shouted.

They quickly crossed the open ground towards the plantation, where Geordie slumped down beside Carr.

‘How the fuck did we get away with that?’ he whispered, hoarsely. ‘The bastards shot me. I always get fucking shot when I’m with you.’

Carr looked over, concerned.

‘You okay?’ he said.

Geordie chuckled, quietly. ‘Don’t worry about me, mam,’ he said. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Fuck off,’ hissed Carr. ‘I just don’t want to have to carry you, you fat bastard.’

He glanced at his watch.

Seven minutes since he’d stepped through the gate and killed the guard.

‘And it’s not over yet, mate,’ he whispered.

He looked at Charlotte.

‘You okay?’ he said.