‘This is great,’ she was about to say. But the look on Ira’s face shut her up and made her turn and look. She gaped in terror at what she saw. The colt wheeled, unsettling her in the saddle.

The shadow passed over her.

The helicopter roared in out of the sun, nose low, tail up.

The colt reared, and Zoë felt herself flying. She tumbled into the dust. Ira was running to her, eyes wide with alarm. The black chopper moved in closer, like an attacking shark, its noise filling the air, hurling up dust and dirt with the wind blast. Zoë scrambled to her feet. The red dot of a laser sight raked across her body. She screamed. The colt was rearing and bucking in a crazed panic.

Then suddenly the ground was whipped up by automatic gunfire.

Ira had Zoë’s arm and was dragging her out of the paddock and back towards the house. The man with the rifle, hanging out of the side of the chopper with one foot on its skid, let off another prolonged burst that kicked stones up in her wake as she sprinted and stumbled. She threw a terrified glance over her shoulder and her eyes met those of the man she’d hoped she would never see again.

Jones grinned at her over the top of the M-16. He fired again, savouring the moment, the rifle hammering in his arms. His heart gave a little jolt as the bitch tumbled and fell. But then the Indian was yanking her back to her feet and he realised that she’d just tripped.

He yelled at the pilot to hold the chopper steady, and brought the gun back up to aim. But the targets had made it to the house, staggering inside, slamming the door shut. He cursed and let off a long blast that strafed the front porch. Windows burst apart and splinters flew as bullets tore through the fabric of the house.

Inside, Ira was dragging Zoë across the floor, covering her body with his own. Glass shards flew around them. The curtains fluttered, ripped to rags by the gunfire that punched through the walls and churned up the floor. Zoë was screaming.

Ben and Alex ran from the barn to see the chopper hovering over the yard, just twenty feet from the ground. Ben drew the Beretta from the back pocket of his jeans and raised it up as the chopper veered round to face them, coming lower, skids almost on the ground.

Ben had recognised the figure with the rifle instantly. He didn’t hesitate to fire. Jones quickly withdrew and scrambled out of sight as he loosed off a string of double-taps that punched holes into the fuselage. Then the chopper veered off suddenly, climbed steeply and roared overhead. Ben put a couple more shots into its underbelly, but 9mm ammunition just wasn’t enough to make an impression. He swore.

They ran to the house as the chopper made its escape. Ben pounded up the porch steps and threw open the door. He saw Ira inside, lying protectively across Zoë’s body. ‘Anyone hurt?’ he shouted. Ira shook his head, dazed, getting up and helping Zoë to her feet. Riley came stumbling into the room, eyes bulging in horror. He was clutching a scarred Ithaca shotgun in his fists.

The dust was settling in the house, silence descending in the aftermath of the attack. Ira helped a weeping Zoë upstairs as Riley paced the wrecked kitchen, still clutching his shotgun and cursing loudly.

Alex followed Ben back outside. He stood on the porch steps and scanned the horizon thoughtfully, his eyes narrowed against the sun. ‘That was Jones. And he’ll be back.’

‘He’s going to bring an army with him,’ Alex said. ‘A few hours, tops. We should get out of here.’

‘See if you can get that starter motor transplanted.’

‘Where are you going?’

But Ben was already heading back inside. ‘Riley, I need to know if you have some kind of rifle in the place.’

The old man stared at him for a second. There was a gleam in his eye, a fire that looked like it was returning after lying dormant a long time. He grunted and beckoned for Ben to follow. He hobbled down a passage and pushed open a door leading down some wooden steps to a crumbling basement. On a home-made rack on the wall was a rifle. It was slender and compact, walnut and blued steel. The old man lifted it down and handed it to Ben without a word.

Ben examined it. It was.22 calibre underlever Marlin. Welcome, but more of a rabbit or squirrel gun than anything else.

Riley saw Ben’s face and smiled. ‘I know what you’re thinking, son. It’s heavy iron you want.’

Ben said nothing.

‘Let me show you something.’ The old man hobbled across the basement, into the shadows where packing cases and broken furniture were piled up and thick with dust and spiders’ webs. He started clearing things out of the way, panting with the effort. He stooped down low and dragged something heavy across the floor. Ben looked down. It was an old trunk.

‘I haven’t opened this since I came home from Korea,’ Riley said. ‘Guess part of me never wanted to see it again. But if there’s any truth in fate, maybe now I know why I hauled the damn thing back halfway round the world.’ He blew dust off the lid, and opened it.

Inside the trunk was a load of old packing material. Riley scooped it out and dumped it on the floor. Underneath was a layer of sacking cloth. It was smeared with grease and smelled strongly of old gun oil. Riley gripped the edge and peeled it back. ‘Here it is,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t hardly lift it no more. But I was pretty useful with it, back in the day.’ He stepped away to let Ben see.

Ben blinked. ‘I don’t believe it. You’ve got a BAR.’

Browning Automatic Rifle. It was a model he’d only seen once before, a hefty American light machine gun that had been used from the First World War and been decommissioned during the sixties. The kind of weapon that belonged in a military museum – but this one looked brand new. Grey gunmetal and oiled wood and iron battle sights, the way things used to be before the era of rubber and polymer, red dot optics and lasers.

Ben reached inside the crate and lifted it out. It was heavy and oily. He checked it over. The rifle was in perfect condition, the bore clean and the action slick. Even the canvas sling was as new. The magazine was long and curved, and there were five more like it in the bottom of the trunk.

Riley smiled. ‘Special high-capacity anti-aircraft version. We used to shoot down planes with these babies.’ He waded deeper into the basement and knocked some more junk out of the way. Reached down with a grunt and dragged a heavy metal ammo case into the middle of the floor. It was olive green, rusty around the edges with faded yellow lettering on the side.

Riley flipped the steel catches and the lid creaked open. Old brass gleamed dully from inside. Neatly stacked bottleneck cartridges, more than a thousand of them. They were.308 military issue, well preserved, lightly greased. Over half a century old, primers still gleaming. ‘All you need to start a goddamn war, son.’

‘This is where it’s going to happen,’ Ben said. He unclipped the magazine and started pressing rounds into it.

The old man watched him, and nodded to himself. ‘You got the look of a soldier. Tell me I’m right.’

Ben nodded. ‘Was, once.’

‘Unit?’

‘British Army. Special Air Service.’

‘I heard about you people. Black ops. Iranian Embassy siege in London, right?’

‘Ten years before my time,’ Ben said. ‘I served in the Gulf. Afghanistan. Africa. Mostly covert ops. Things you don’t want to know about, and neither do I.’

Riley snorted. ‘Classified shit.’

‘Doing the dirty for the men in suits to feather their nests. Never again.’

‘Same men in suits that have business with us today.’

‘Pretty much the same species,’ Ben said. ‘But it’s me they have business with. This isn’t your war, Riley. I’d appreciate it if you stayed out of the way.’

Riley spat. ‘We’ll see about that, boy. I’ve been at war with the damn government for fifty years. And you saved my ass. Least I can do is return the favour.’