Just then, a bank of cloud passing over the face of the moon plunged the slope of the escarpment into murky darkness and gave Ben the cover he needed to reach the ledge without getting shot. He peered over its lip and spied a rocky hollow partially shaded by thick shrubs and sheltered by an overhanging rock shelf. In the hollow sat Jaden Wolf, just twenty-five yards away, his outline clearly visible among the shadows.

Ben watched him. His former comrade looked a little older, but if anything he appeared leaner and stronger than in his SAS days. He was sitting cross-legged on the ground and looked perfectly calm and relaxed, as though the experience he’d just come through had barely touched him. To his left lay the scoped hunting rifle that he’d taken from Diego. To his right was a black holdall. A small stone circle showed where he’d been lighting fires, and nearby was a stack of cut wood. This was Wolf’s temporary base camp, and he’d chosen an excellent spot. Ben couldn’t have picked better. The lights of Albarracín twinkled warmly in the distance, maybe a mile and a half away, within easy hiking distance.

Wolf had found his heaven, all right. Until trouble came to visit.

Now the clouds passed away from the face of the moon and the rocky hollow was filled with light. Ben inched forwards until he dared venture no further. He drew his pistol from his belt. Loaded and cocked. Fourteen deadly rounds of 9mm Parabellum. If he did his job right, he would need only one. He slowly, slowly eased the weapon into position. The slightest wrong move, the tiniest scrape of steel against rock, and he risked alerting Wolf’s sharp senses to his presence.

Ben aligned the blade of his front sight between the notches of the rear sight and drew a bead on Wolf. At this range the Browning would hit right on the point of aim. He squared the sights on Wolf’s head. Finger on the trigger.

Wolf didn’t move.

Ben took in a breath, let half of it out. Achieving perfect stillness for the most flawless trigger release. For an accomplished pistol marksman like Ben, it was an easy enough shot to make. Or it should have been. But as he began to mount his finger’s pressure on the trigger, pictures began to flood through his mind. He visualised the young trooper as he’d been that day in Afghanistan when he’d talked so passionately about his love of this place. From that recollection Ben’s memory cut to the image of Wolf turning up for duty with his leg in plaster, the time when Ben had intervened on his behalf. He remembered all the meals and laughs they’d shared with their comrades in the mess room, and all the close experiences of combat that make brothers out of strangers.