Templar rose, looked around and picked up his rifle. Blood poured from his busted nose. He wiped it on his sleeve and walked to the north of the house. No one. To the west of the empty barn was a disused piggery. He padded around it and found the smaller guard holding a handgun to Brent’s head, who’s rifle was in the grass. As he came into sight, the guard swung to point his handgun at Templar and as he did Brent threw a fast backhand punch into the guard’s face then let his legs go, dropping straight to the ground. Templar moved two paces, threw a low roundhouse kick at the guard’s right knee, shattering the joint and dropping the guard like a rock. Brent seized him, stamping on his wrist and recovering the handgun.

‘Cuff and gag him,’ said Templar. ‘I want to see who’s around.’

He stalked to the west of the farmhouse, rifle held on his sightline, and keyed the radio. ‘Jean-Michel, you there?’

Jean-Michel replied, ‘Another guard just walked out the front of the house with a mug of coffee, he’s lighting a cigarette.’

‘Armed?’

‘Handgun, in his holster.’

‘You come in from the west, I’ll approach from the other side.’

Templar circled back and ran along the eastern side of the house. From inside he could hear morning TV cartoons. At the front of the farmhouse, he paused and looked around the corner as blood dripped onto the concrete path beneath him. The guard sat on a wooden chair on the front porch, coffee in one hand, smoke in the other. Jean-Michel emerged from the other end of the porch, swiftly swinging a rifle butt into the man’s head. Teeth rattled on the wooden boards, and the coffee cup bounced and broke. The guard tried to get up but Templar trod on his wrist and put a hand over the man’s mouth.

‘Who else is in there?’ asked Templar.

The man shook his head, wide-eyed. Templar knew he had a reputation, but this was ridiculous. ‘One?’

The man nodded.

‘More than one?’