Somewhere overhead, an owl cried out.

The huge, masked Chechen pulled the trigger of the pistol.

The shot was aimed slightly to the right of Emily Souster’s spinal column, and was designed not to kill her immediately, but to cause pain and suffering, and to increase the horror of the footage.

The round exited her throat underneath her chin and sent her sprawling forward, her eyes wide with shock as her body tried to draw in air through the ruptured airway. The noise of her dying gasps filled the otherwise silent air, as her lungs filled with blood.

From somewhere, Charlotte Morgan heard a high-pitched scream; she only realised that the scream was her own when the man holding her punched her in the back of the head, sending her face forwards into the sand.

Shishani kept rolling as Kadyrov leaned over the dying Emily and casually dispatched her with another shot to the head, as a hunter might destroy an injured rabbit.

The giant Chechen turned back to the camera.

‘We will be in touch with your government very soon,’ he said, placing the pistol back in its holster.

‘Perfect, Khasmohmad,’ breathed Shishani, before clicking the camera off.

Kadyrov pulled off his balaclava.

‘You will transmit that to our friends in the Ivory Coast, for them to disseminate?’ he said. ‘Along with our message?’

‘I will upload it as we drive,’ said Shishani.

‘And we’re a hundred per cent sure it’s secure? They won’t trace our location?’

‘We’ve been using these systems for long enough now, Khasmohmad. The encryption is superb.’

‘Designed by American nerds and made available for free to the world,’ said Kadyrov, shaking his head and chuckling. ‘It must drive the CIA crazy.’

He tapped Charlotte Morgan and Martha Percival on the heads and said, ‘To the vehicles.’

They stayed stock still, so the men who were holding them dragged them to their feet.

They were pushed roughly back towards the waiting Land Cruisers, where Kadyrov threw black sheets at them both.

‘Make yourselves decent,’ he said.

Charlotte slowly wrapped the sheet around herself, but Martha Percival simply stared vacantly at the ground, until one of the men threw the cloth over her.

Another man produced flatbreads, dates and a bottle of water.

‘Eat,’ said Kadyrov. ‘And drink.’

Martha Percival stared at her feet and said nothing.

Charlotte Morgan looked up at him.

‘No,’ she said. ‘You can kill me if you like.’

‘All in good time, my dear,’ said Kadyrov, with a smile. ‘What is your expression? Good things come to those who wait. I won’t force you to eat, but it has been some hours since you were taken, and I cannot allow you to die of thirst. So…’

He nodded at the man, who grabbed Charlotte’s face, forced her mouth open, and thrust the bottle into it.

She choked and spluttered, but a good half-litre of water found its way into her stomach.

When the bottle was removed, Charlotte looked at Kadyrov, defiance blazing from her eyes.