‘When the time comes,’ said Ewan as their three thumbs lined up, ‘you won’t have to push it alone. None of us should feel alone right now.’

He had no doubt that Kate would have pushed the button herself either way. She didn’t even know how to fail when it came to facing her fears. But this wasn’t about whether she would do her duty. The trembling in her hand slowed down, and her breathing steadied.

‘You guys are the best of friends,’ she said.

Ewan smiled.

‘United by our differences, guys,’ he said.

‘United.’

10:29 p.m.

McCormick was flat on his back, his shirt dampening in a growing pool of his own blood. But it didn’t matter. Despite his blurred vision, he could see the time.

Fifty seconds.

Iain Marshall was no longer recognisable as the war veteran and arms dealer he had once been. He was panicked, and there was nothing more dangerous than a panicked man with a gun. As demonstrated by the second and third bullets Marshall had fired: one into McCormick’s shoulder and the other into his left hand.

‘Tell me,’ Marshall snarled. ‘Tell me where you planted it.’

McCormick swallowed, and dared to smile.

‘In a minute.’

Marshall did not take the joke well. Grant’s Head of Military was a man without control, utterly clueless about the war-changing event moments away, and McCormick could sense how much it scared him.

His fourth bullet struck McCormick in his lower thigh, a few inches above his knee. It hurt twice as much as the others, resting inside a big bunch of his nerves. McCormick yelled out, tears streaming down his face.

Forty seconds remained. Talking would occupy some time, and perhaps result in fewer bullets.

‘The bombs are… are spread across Floor Z,’ McCormick said. ‘Exactly where Adam King told you.’

‘They are not!’ Marshall yelled. ‘Even you’re not stupid enough to have that kind of plan! The explosions would kill more civilians than they would save! Hundreds around the Inner City borders would die. Thousands would crush each other to death inside the corridors. My laser cannons and speed mines would start a massacre, and any survivors would get sniper bullets to the backs of their heads as they ran for the electric fences!’

‘Oh,’ McCormick answered with the friendliest face he could manage. ‘We’ll be sure to cross that idea off the list then.’

With twenty seconds remaining, Marshall was using up the last of his cool. He pushed a foot down against McCormick’s wounded thigh, and pointed his handgun straight down.

‘Tell me the truth,’ he said, ‘or I will shoot you at point-blank range in the chest.’

McCormick raised his hand – the one that had not yet been shot – and twirled a weak finger around the centre of his ribcage.

‘This is my heart. Let’s see how well you can aim.’