Without warning

His mother tucking him into bed, patting down the blanket and making sure that Thumper, his stuffed corduroy kangaroo, was snuggled in tight. A fire crackling in the pot-belly stove. Bret’s head hanging over the edge of the bed as he stared into the flames. Heat. Smoke.

Rough hands. Cursing.

He came to in the wreck of the Land Rover, American Dave’s caved-in head on his lap, as heavy as a medicine ball, spilling its glutinous contents over his legs. A dark man, without a face, rummaging in his jacket, looting his body.

No. He was alive. He stirred, and the figure jumped and swore in Arabic.

Hands closed around his throat and tightened. He gagged and tried to gulp down air, but could not. A struggle ensued, one he couldn’t hope to win, as Melton shot a hand out, reaching for the man’s throat notch. He missed and struck a bristled cheekbone.

Flames licked at the back of his neck and smoke poured out of the rear of the wreckage. His hand scrabbled like a giant fleshy spider and quickly felt its way up his would-be killer’s face, finding an eye socket into which he dug his thumb, gritting his teeth against the inescapable revulsion as he felt it push in between the eyelid and socket.

The man screamed, rearing back and hitting his head on something. Bret could see his hands, pawing at the injury. He lifted a leg and lashed out with one boot as best he could. Not a great kick, but enough to drive the man back another foot. The former soldier twisted and attempted to pull out his pistol, but pain, white fire, in his shoulder prevented him. Dark spots bloomed before his eyes, but he turned the other way and reached around with his good hand, reaching across his body and finding the weapon at his hip. Dave’s ruined head turned up to stare at him. One side of his skull had been jellied by the impact of the rocket blast. Trying not to let the gnawing, twisting rat of panic get control of his mind, Melton drew the pistol as quickly as he could, thumbed off the safety and fired two shots into the centre mass of his looter. The man flew backwards and down, hitting the pavement with a heavy thud.

Melton scrabbled at the seatbelt, only to find it was already disengaged. He had no idea how – perhaps by the man he’d just killed. He couldn’t get out of the driver’s-side door since American Dave was blocking the way. With his one good hand, he attempted to open his own door, but it was buckled and jammed. Ammunition began to cook off in the rear of the vehicle… or was that shooting from outside?

The heat was unbearable and his eyes stung with acrid smoke. He levered himself around, drew up both legs and piston-kicked the door. He was unbalanced by the ease with which it flew open, and suffered a painful blow on his shins as the door bounced back and struck him heavily just below the knee. Swearing loudly, he butt-shuffled across the seat and fell onto the cobblestone road.

The air cleared instantly, at least compared to the smoke-choked interior of the Land Rover. Left arm dangling uselessly, Melton quickly checked for the other passengers. One was obviously dead, shredded by the RPG, the other was missing. He hurried away, making for the nearest doorway.

Unsure of where they were, disoriented by the blast and probably suffering concussion, he took in his surroundings as a dizzy, discontinuous swirl of images. Burnt-out vehicles. Gutted buildings. At least four bodies in the street. A wall of four- and five-storey terrace buildings in front of him. Old but well-maintained until recently. They were now pockmarked with bullet holes and disfigured by scorch marks. He was still in the old city. Somewhere near the BBC offices, he thought – but deep inside that jigsaw puzzle of irregularly shaped city blocks to which neither the Loyalists nor Sarkozy could lay claim.

Bullets spattered and caromed off the wreckage of the Land Rover, just as the fuel tank went up with a dense, hot whump! Melton hobbled as fast as he could for cover. A doorway, hanging from its hinges just in front of him.

* * * *

‘This is the last of them,’ said Caitlin. ‘If he’s not here, or hasn’t been here, I’m tapped out, Capitaine.’

The French infantry officer patted her gently on the shoulder. ‘You have done well,’ he told her. ‘Better than we could have asked. Perhaps you should let us handle this now?’

Caitlin peered out through the window of the ruined apartment, across the street from the tenement where Baumer had met with English members of Hizb ut-Tahrir on three occasions. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ she replied eventually. ‘If that fucker turns up, there’ll be a reckoning between him and me.’

‘You are still very weak, Caitlin. If we are to get him, it will mean a struggle.’

‘I’m strong enough to pull a trigger.’

Rolland pulled her around to face him. ‘We need him alive. Both him and Lacan. We need to know the extent of the School Masters’ influence.’