The air outside was hot, warmer than the fan-cooled interior of the vehicle. Jasmine felt her head swim as she stood upright, the mugginess an unpleasant disappointment. For some reason she had expected to feel cold air like water to the face, sharpening her up, helping her shake off the effects of what had just happened. Adrenalin was still thrilling through her and her ears were ringing from the noise of Ingrams’ pistol shots. Once again she felt tears begin to flow, but to her surprise, the upsurge she was feeling turned out to be as much anger and frustration as anything else.

‘You all right?’ Ingrams asked, thumbing the safety catch on his weapon and tucking it into the waistband of his trousers.

She watched him lean into the rear of his vehicle and flip open a storage bin, into which he carefully placed the damaged shotgun. His question hung in the air like it was a far more complex query, one Jasmine realised she didn’t have a simple answer for.

‘What constitutes all right, under these circumstances?’ she asked, struggling to find her voice.

‘Standing on two feet is usually a positive indication,’ he replied.

Something about this infuriated her, quite volcanically so, and she was so shocked by the ferocity of her feelings that it took her a moment to realise why. It was that he was so calm, so matter-of-fact. It was that this wasn’t new to him. He had brought her into his world.

‘I’m standing on two feet, but I’m far from all right,’ she said, a tremor in her voice that was one part aftershock, one part lingering fear and one part boiling rage. ‘You’ve been acting shifty and evasive since we met and now you’ve almost got me killed,’ she went on, fighting hard to keep her words coming steady and clear as she spoke. ‘I think you owe me some straight answers. You’re this Glen Fallan guy, aren’t you? That’s why there’s nothing else in the file.’

He shook his head solemnly.

‘My name is Tron Ingrams. I can show you my passport, my army discharge papers, anything you like.’

‘So who the hell is Tron Ingrams? You go from driving like a pensioner to driving like something out of a stunt show. You’ve got people in masks shooting at you, you’ve got guns hidden under your car.’

‘A gun. Singular,’ he clarified.

‘One gun is lots, okay? To normal people. One gun is plenty.’

She was babbling, but she was well past caring what kind of impression she was making. She didn’t care if she was acting like a hysterical girl: she had every right to be acting like a hysterical girl, and her previous air of detached professionalism had got her nothing.