But now he had a real problem. One bullet left, and at least one gunman still alive.

He moved back round towards the front of the house, keeping to the shadows, before sheltering behind a parked car with a view of the front door.

Almost as soon as he’d positioned himself behind the car, the door flew open and the scar-faced gunman appeared, holding an attractive woman in her thirties in front of him. Scope assumed this must be Amanda, the woman Casey had told him they were after. The gunman held a pistol to the side of her head, and he spotted Scope straight away.

Scope aimed the gun at him, two-handed, but the guy was keeping well hidden behind Amanda, who looked understandably terrified. As Scope watched, the scar-faced man walked sideways, crab-like, away from the door, still using her as a shield. When he was level with Scope, about fifteen feet away, he stopped and took a quick look over his shoulder to check there was no one behind him. Then, satisfied that Scope was alone, he poked his head out a little from behind Amanda.

‘Drop the gun,’ he demanded.

Scope knew there was almost no chance he’d be able to take the gunman down with a clean shot. It was dark, his target was well hidden, the pistol wasn’t accurate over distance and, in the end, he was too out of practice to rely on his shooting skills. But he wasn’t going to disarm himself voluntarily either, knowing this would be as good as sentencing himself to death. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said.

‘Drop it or I’ll shoot her. Right here. Right now. Do you want to be responsible for that?’

‘I won’t be responsible. You will be.’ Scope’s voice was deadly calm, giving no hint of the tension he was feeling inside. One mistake and he was dead. And if there was another gunman in the house, he was dead anyway.

‘I’m going to count to three,’ said the scar-faced gunman, sounding equally calm. ‘Then I’m going to kill her.’ As he finished speaking, he slipped from view behind Amanda.

She was looking at Scope, the expression of fear frozen on her face. Her mouth was open, as if she desperately wanted to say something but just couldn’t quite get it out.

Who is she? thought Scope. What’s she done, that these people want her so badly? She looked like anyone else – an ordinary woman, with painted nails and a pretty face – caught up in a situation far outside of her experience and control. He mouthed the words ‘it’s going to be okay’ to her, but her expression didn’t change.

‘One.’

‘You’re not going to kill her. You need her alive. Otherwise you’d have killed her already. So, why don’t you just let her go, turn round, and you have my word I won’t try and stop you.’ He paused, hoping he was right in what he was saying. ‘It’s over. I called the police half an hour ago. They’ll be here any minute. Leave while you still can.’

There was a pause, as if the gunman was contemplating Scope’s words, but it was impossible to tell because Scope couldn’t see him properly. Amanda was still staring at him, and Scope knew without a doubt her life was in his hands. And yet he was trapped. He could try and shoot the gunman in his gun hand, but the chance of success was twenty per cent at best, and the price of failure would be death. If he dropped the gun, he died. If he stayed as he was now, the gunman might very well kill Amanda, and he’d probably die anyway in the ensuing firefight.

Standing there under the cold and clear night sky, Scope suddenly felt terribly alone. The tension was loud in his head, like a steadily increasing drumbeat, and out of the periphery of his vision, he saw the pistol shake ever so slightly in his hands.

‘Two,’ said the gunman.

Jess’s nose was bleeding. She could feel the wetness on her face. The pain was sharp and intense, going right back into her head but, rather than slowing her down, it acted as a focus. She knew she was fighting for her life, but she also knew that the woman she was fighting – though amazingly strong for her age – was beatable. She had to be.

They rolled across the carpet, struggling in a brutal embrace. Jess had lost the gun when the old lady had smashed her head into the floor, but she’d managed to knock it out of range as she’d torn herself out of her grip and smacked her hard round the face.

But now the old lady had the advantage. She’d somehow managed to get on top of Jess, her knees pinning down Jess’s arms, her meaty hands round her neck, squeezing. The old lady’s eyes blazed with a cold fury that came right up from her dark heart, and it seemed to give her the strength of someone half her age.

Jess couldn’t breathe, and bright dots were appearing in her vision. She was so exhausted she didn’t know how much strength she had left to fight, but she wasn’t prepared to give up yet. A vision of Casey – beautiful, sweet Casey – burned itself on her mind, and she knew that she couldn’t die, because she owed it to her sister to look after her. So, calling on her last reserves of energy, she forced one arm out from under the old lady’s knee, grabbed her nearest boob above the dress, and gave it a savage twist, pulling at the same time.

The old lady let out a shriek, her grip on Jess’s neck easing temporarily, and Jess managed to free her other arm. Sitting up in one sudden movement, she punched the old lady in the side of the head, then scratched her down the face, drawing blood, lost in a sudden elation of violence.

The old lady fell off her and Jess pounced, smashing her knee into her ample chest, still punching and scratching, not really thinking about what she was doing. Knowing this was all about survival. That, and revenge.

‘Please stop,’ cried the old lady, the rage gone from her eyes. She looked vulnerable and scared now, her face a bloody mess, the skin already swelling and darkening where Jess had struck her.

But it was too late for mercy. Jess struck her again and again. It was as if all the anger she’d ever felt for every terrible thing that had been done to her: the murder of her birth mother; the untimely deaths of the couple who’d taken her in; the savagery of these people she’d had the terrible misfortune to have run into today – it was as if all that anger was pouring out of her gut like a volcanic eruption.

The attack probably only lasted a few seconds before Jess’s conscience got the better of her, and she stopped, but the old lady was no longer moving beneath her. Her eyes were closed, and for a shocked moment Jess wondered if she’d killed her. But then she let out a moan and, feeling a flood of relief, Jess jumped up. She had to get out of here.

As she looked round, she saw the big gunman – the one with the baby face who’d been about to shoot her – lying on his side facing her, the gun in his gloved hand. He looked in a bad way. His gun hand was shaking and his eyes were unfocused. Blood dripped steadily from the hole in his face onto the carpet. But it was clear he wasn’t finished yet. With what looked like a huge effort, he lifted the gun so it was pointed at Jess’s belly.

She leapt out of the way just as he fired, the shot hitting the wall somewhere behind her.

He followed her with the gun, ready to fire again, but luckily his movements were slow and, without thinking about it, Jess sprinted for the half-open front door as a second shot rang out, missing her. She pulled open the door so hard that it slammed against the living-room wall, and then she was through it, seeing Amanda and Scarface out on the driveway in front of her, barely registering the sight before she heard the third shot and felt something hard and painful bang into her leg.

As the scar-faced gunman counted three, both Scope and Amanda visibly stiffened, and Amanda let out a small cry that tore at Scope’s heart, her eyes wide with fear.

But nothing happened. No shot rang out.

‘I said: fucking drop it. Last chance. Or she dies.’