And Ben recognised him instantly. He didn’t care what Saunders’ real name was. All that mattered was that the man was still here. Saunders was wily enough to have got wind of the imminent attack on his cult, but luck had been against him if he’d thought he could get away fast. He and the old man must have been hiding in the house while the helicopter flew in to evacuate them.

They mustn’t get away.

Ben kept running, but saw that he wasn’t going to catch them before they took off. Saunders reached the open hatch and shoved the old man through it, then clambered aboard after him. The turbine screeched. The blast of the rotors became a tornado. The skids flexed as the aircraft found its grip on the air and started to go light; then its nose dipped and its tail lifted and it was away, banking hard and gaining altitude. Its sound was deafening and the wind tore at Ben’s hair and clothes as it blasted directly overhead.

Ben turned to watch it go. He saw Wolf running hard to catch up, and Jeff close behind him. The chopper had overflown Karswell Hall on its way in, and now it was heading back the way it had come. Soon it would be gone.

Not if Ben could help it.

He raised the rifle and saw a magnified flurry of movement and lights in the lens of the scope. The target was too close to be focused and there was no time to take a properly aimed shot. He worked the bolt hard and fast. Felt the .338 Lapua Magnum shell slide and lock into the chamber. His finger found the smooth curve of the trigger and he fired.

The report of the rifle was a sharp, harsh bark in his ears and the recoil hammered his shoulder. It was a powerful rifle but it was no anti-aircraft weapon. Like shooting a .22 at an elephant. Bolt back, eject. Bolt forward, chamber, lock. The chopper was flying hard away, almost directly above the roofline of the house. Wolf and Jeff had almost caught up with him now. Jeff yelled something that Ben didn’t hear because he was too intent on his target.

He fired again. He reckoned on having six rounds left in his magazine, and he’d keep pumping them into the fleeing chopper until it was empty.

But then he realised that he wouldn’t have to. A dark plume of oily smoke suddenly belched from the rear of the aircraft and blotted out the moon. The roar of the helicopter’s turbine changed note and became a yowling clatter. Whatever he’d hit, it had hurt it badly. Now the chopper was banking dramatically. Its nose dipping. Altitude dropping. Yellow flames appearing in the tail of black smoke.

Ben watched in amazement. He heard Wolf yell ‘Shit!’