‘Do we run?’ she managed to whisper. Mark shook his head. The tank headed straight for the burning car, perhaps looking for their victim’s burned remains. Their colleagues across Hertfordshire would want to know when to stop hunting survivors.

When ten metres remained between the tank and the burning vehicle, Mark leapt to his feet.

‘You numpties cost me my whisky…’

It had been so long since they had used their firearms that Kate had forgotten about the assault rifle hanging from Mark’s shoulder. He pointed it straight towards the tanker behind the car and emptied the rest of his magazine into its side. A dozen leaks sprung from the side of the tanker, and Kate buried her face into the grass as the flurry of petrol spilled onto the carriageway and spread towards the flames.

Unlike the car explosion, miniature by comparison, the shockwave of the exploding tanker threw all three of their bodies down the side of the bank.

Mark later said that her sensory overload had lasted several minutes. All Kate remembered was coming to her senses as if waking up from some kind of empty hallucination, and staggering to the top of the bank. Once she was lucid again, she noticed that the tank lay motionless, in flames but undamaged.

‘It’s not destroyed…’ she mumbled.

‘We didn’t need to kill the tank,’ answered Mark, ‘just the clones inside. They either burned to death or lost all their oxygen. Don’t know which, don’t care either. Now let’s run home.’

Kate followed as instructed, too tired and deep in grief to appreciate the brilliance of Mark’s achievement. Maybe someday she would care that an eighteen-year-old youth offender had become the second person ever to destroy a Challenger 2, but it would not be that day. And, most likely, not for as long as she mourned Raj.

Chapter 10

As he passed the welcome sign into Lemsford, Jack checked his watch. Four in the afternoon. Their strike on Oakenfold had started thirteen hours ago, and he had barely stopped moving since.

Gracie, to her credit, was only five steps behind. She had slowed on their approach to the village, but despite her worries about this place she had never been to, she had kept up.

‘Where now?’ she whispered.

‘The Hunters’ house. Eighteen, School Lane. Follow me.’

‘You remember the way?!’

‘I was here less than a month ago. And I have the memory thing. Now come on.’

Jack was thankful that Gracie didn’t offer a response. In the old days, any discussion about his Asperger’s traits – positive or negative – usually resulted in the other person giving some kind of belittling response, such as ‘you don’t look autistic’, or ‘oh, I’m so sorry’. At that moment, the predictable response would have been ‘oh, but I can remember directions too! That’s not an autism thing!’