Then Ben’s mind came back to the present moment. The prospect of this confrontation had been tormenting his thoughts every moment since his encounter with Saunders. Now that the time had come, it was as though he’d been asked to turn the gun on himself. Like stepping over the edge of a cliff, both eyes open and staring into the thousand-foot void below.

Get a grip on yourself. Think straight. He summoned up a mental picture of Grace in danger from Saunders’ spooks. Forced himself to imagine in graphic detail what they’d do to her if he failed in his mission. Saunders would get his wish. Grace would be safe. And Ben could go back to his life. Such a simple task, in theory. But some things were never meant to be so simple.

Wolf still didn’t move. Just sitting there, immobile as a statue, as though he was meditating or deep in reflection. Clearly illuminated in the moonlight. Ben had seldom been presented with such a perfect target, and he knew that this window of opportunity wouldn’t remain open much longer.

Shoot, you damned fool. His Browning had been worked on by an expert gunsmith and given a light, crisp trigger that broke at just four pounds of pressure. All he had to do was exert four measly pounds to drop the hammer on the primer and let the shot go, and this would be over. But the trigger felt like it was welded solid into the frame of the pistol, and no amount of force could make it break. The weapon began to shake in his hands. He blinked. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple.

Can’t do it.

Ben lowered the gun. Breathing hard.

And suddenly, everything changed.

Ben spotted a movement on the rocky shelf that overhung the hollow. He realised that both he and Wolf had made the same mistake earlier, in thinking that the hunters were all eliminated. There was one opponent left in the game. A large, swarthy man with a sawn-off shotgun was very quietly, very slowly creeping up the rock shelf above Wolf’s camp, making his way towards the edge. Wolf had not noticed the approaching presence, and neither was the man with the shotgun aware of Ben’s. He inched forward on his belly, moving like a big fat snake, clutching the pistol grip of his weapon in his right hand and supporting its stubby forend in something that was not a hand, but a curved shiny hook that glittered in the moonlight. He was almost at the edge. Canting the short double barrel of his weapon downwards to get a killer shot. Two rounds of twelve-gauge directed at the top of Wolf’s head. Unsurvivable.

Wolf still didn’t move.