I kept moving forward, trying to focus only on what I could hear and see and not to lose myself in the great tumult of thoughts assaulting me. Why had Walt given me the lighter? Why would a man who valued human life and who left the Service over its moral decline suddenly make a pact with the weapons of oppression? Why bring me into it? Why Cranham? And why here and now?

I could have screamed with fury if not for my terror at giving my position away. Every few moments I stopped to look through the specialist sniper-scope; the world turning green and hazy as I focused on the static figures scattered around the rear of the house. There was a mad moment when I considered pulling the trigger. I wasn’t a terrible shot. I could perhaps have taken down a couple of them before they started firing on me in return. But it is no easy thing to take a life. I’ve never been a killer. I’ve never had the cold blood needed to stop a heart and never think upon it again. The lives I’ve had a hand in ending still weigh heavily on me and there’s barely a night goes by I don’t have nightmares about the things I’ve done and seen and endured. More than anything, I feared that any commotion might add to the jeopardy facing Felicity and John. All I could do was get to the house. I think I entertained some half-baked idea of grabbing whoever I saw first and putting the rifle to their head – demanding to know where my friends were being kept and then quietly escorting them away to safety. After that I could contact the Service. I could try and put the pieces together. I could call in the people better equipped than I to deal with an armed death squad under the command of a traitor.

I heard a sound away to my right. Glanced up and saw a flurry of white-brown feathers: a ghostly outline swooping down against the line of trees. Its hoot loud and shrill: an announcement of breeding rights; of hunger and virility – a warning to all.