Tuesday swivelled the rifle a few degrees right to the spot Jeff was watching through the binocs. He saw the two men from the Range Rover walking up the forest track in Grace’s direction, about forty yards from her. They weren’t talking. There was a purposefulness in their step. It wouldn’t take them long to reach her. She was facing the other way and hadn’t yet noticed their approach.

Not taking his eye off them, Tuesday unlocked the rifle’s bolt and drew it smoothly back. A long, tapered .338 Lapua Magnum cartridge snicked up from the magazine. He pushed the bolt closed and locked it. In battery and ready to rock.

From behind the binoculars Jeff muttered, ‘Steady as she goes, Tues.’

‘Don’t you worry about me. You worry about those guys.’

‘To hell with those guys,’ Jeff said.

Three-two-five was short range for Tuesday Fletcher, as short as if he’d walked up and pressed the muzzle to the target. Like plinking coconuts off a stand at a funfair. His image in the scope reticle was as clear as a mountain spring. The tall, bulky guy on the left, the nearer of the two, was a slow-moving barn door centred rock-solid in his crosshairs. He slipped off the safety catch.

The two men kept walking towards Grace, now just thirty or so paces away. She still hadn’t seen them. Then one of them must have called her name, because she suddenly whipped around to face them and froze, staring.

Jeff tensely watched as the men kept on coming. Grace reached into a pocket and pulled out something Jeff guessed was a police warrant card. He could see her lips move but it was too far away to hear. He thought she said something like ‘Police officer. Stop right where you are.’

The men kept walking towards her.

Jeff muttered, ‘Keep it sharp, mate.’

Tuesday said, ‘Don’t crowd me.’

The men approached another step.

Then another.

Then they reached inside their jackets and pulled out pistols. They raised them to aim at her. The one who’d spoken now spoke again. Grace shrank away in alarm at the sight of the weapons.

Jeff said, ‘Engage.’

And before the word was even out of his mouth, a pink mist burst from the head of the tall, bulky guy on the left and he folded to the ground like a wet blanket cut from a washing line.

Tuesday had the bolt back and forward and the next round chambered before the weapon had even finished recoiling against his shoulder. The second man was covered in the blood and brains of his associate, and stood there stunned and motionless just long enough for Tuesday to pin him in the crosshairs and touch off another round.