‘You?’ Lona was open mouthed for a moment. ‘How this can be any more fucked up, I don’t know.’

‘Ms da Silva wouldn’t take the shot because Karen Hope was holding the boy in his arms.’

‘She wouldn’t—?’

‘No, I wouldn’t,’ Silva said. ‘Got a problem with that?’

‘I haven’t got a problem with anything, but Hope’s still alive and that is a problem.’

‘Tactically it was wrong to take the shot. The risk was too high. If I’d hit the boy then I’d have missed my chance for good.’

‘Fuck tactics, strategically we’re stuffed. How easy do you think it will be to set up another operation now Hope’s been forewarned? She’ll be whisked away from here and her security will be tightened. We won’t stand a chance of getting close again.’

‘It doesn’t matter. We’re done.’

‘I’ll need to speak with my boss and see what he says.’

‘He can say what he likes, I said we’re done.’

‘Sure.’ Lona appeared not to have heard. She pulled out a phone. ‘I’m going to call him now. Don’t go anywhere.’

Silva looked across at Itchy as Lona walked away. He shrugged and lay back in the seat and closed his eyes. Which was exactly what she felt like doing. The adrenalin from before had gone and now there was only an emptiness in her stomach. She wanted to sleep it off and go home. Fill her postbag, walk the round and deliver some mail. Forget about Hope.

‘You two, out.’ Lona had returned. She gestured at Silva and Itchy. ‘Take my car and drive to the airfield. Gavin and I will dump the gear in the van and make our own way back to the UK. Mr Fairchild will contact you when you get there.’

Silva nodded and she and Itchy retrieved their bags from the back of the van.

‘The weapons and ammo?’ Silva said. ‘My fingerprints are all over the rifle.’

‘Don’t worry, we’ll make sure there’s no evidence left behind.’ Lona pointed at the car. ‘Now go.’

And that was it. Silva glanced back at Gavin but he could only offer a shrug. Then they were in the car, Silva climbing behind the wheel and starting up, the headlights sweeping the sky as they pulled away.

‘Fuck,’ Itchy said, punching the dash. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.’

Chapter Twenty-Three

They drove through the night, stopping every couple of hours to swap over. As the sky lightened in the east, they were on a motorway an hour from Florence.

‘We need to eat,’ Silva said, taking an exit to a small service station. ‘And other things.’

‘You’re growing soft.’ Itchy laughed. ‘You used to carry a funnel and a bottle in Afghanistan.’

‘Well I haven’t got either and this isn’t Afghanistan.’