I turned my head too, because I'd also heard it. The sound of a car coming up the lane, its headlights illuminating the woods.

It stopped. Directly outside the cottage. And I heard the doors open.

Which was the moment I snapped out of the stony trance I'd been in and, with an angry shout, threw my shovel at the man who was about to kill me.

Thirty-seven

I didn't even look to see how my would-be killer had reacted. I saw the shovel hit him somewhere in the midriff while he was still turned the other way, and I heard him let out a surprised grunt, but by then I was charging for the tree line, splattering mud everywhere, knowing that salvation was only feet away.

I half dived, half slid into the trees, rolling on the pine needles and scrambling to my feet. Behind me I heard the pop of a shot fired through a silencer, then the sounds of barked orders and pursuit.

Sensing freedom, and with adrenalin coursing through me, I ran into the welcoming darkness, ignoring the branches that tore at my skin. I stumbled once, almost fell, but my sheer momentum, coupled with a desperate, exhilarating will to live, drove me onwards.

A powerful torch beam moved in a steady arc through the sodden foliage, trying to focus in on me, and as I weaved to avoid its glare a bullet hissed quietly past my head and popped into the trunk of a pine just ahead of me, leaving a small round hole and a thin trail of smoke. I caught the whiff of cordite as I passed and tried to accelerate but my legs wouldn't go any faster and my lungs ached with the strain of all my exertions. I wasn't fit, and it was beginning to show. But I knew without doubt that the men following me would be fitter, so either I continued to run or I died.

Without warning, the ground ahead of me simply disappeared, and before I knew it I was tumbling down a slope. I somersaulted once, hitting my head on something hard, and then I was immersed in water.

I scrambled to my feet, saw that I was knee deep in a shallow stream, then charged across it and scrambled up the slope on the other side. As I reached the top, gasping for breath and blinking the rainwater out of my eyes, I dared for the first time to look over my shoulder.

And saw him there. Standing in the darkness, at the top of the slope on the other side of the stream, barely twenty yards away, the snarling wolf face skewed slightly where it had taken a knock, but with the gun held outwards in both hands, taking aim.

I dived forward into the mud as he fired, making myself as small a target as possible. The shot sailed somewhere above me and I crawled assault-course style on my belly until I had cover from the trees. Then I got to my feet and was running again, hearing him splash through the water of the stream as he continued his pursuit.

I was tempted to drop down and hide in the thick undergrowth, knowing that it would be extremely difficult to find me there, but in the end my instincts told me that my best hope of survival was to put real distance between us and reach some kind of civilization.

I could hardly breathe now – my lungs felt like they were about to burst – but my legs somehow kept going and I'd covered maybe another fifty yards when I finally saw a gap in the trees ahead. The sounds of pursuit had faded and I had this sudden elated feeling that they'd given up, having decided that I was proving too difficult to kill.

The opening in the trees gave on to a quiet country road flanked on the far side by an impenetrable-looking hedge. As I ran on to the lane I saw the lights of houses about a hundred yards further down.

Freedom. As soon as I got there I knew I'd be safe. And this time I'd go straight to the police, regardless of what they believed or didn't believe.

But a hundred yards is a long way when every muscle in your body aches and each breath comes in a shallow gasp.

And when there are two men chasing you with guns.

I caught a flash of the torch beam in the trees to my right, but this time it was further ahead, between me and the houses. The bastards were trying to cut me off.

I took off again, arms flailing, my gait little more than an exhausted, drunken stagger.

A hundred yards. Eighty. Fifty. The torch beam had disappeared, and as I rounded a slight bend in the road I could see a red pub sign hanging outside one of the buildings. All the lights were on inside and there were several cars parked next to it. The rain was easing now.

Thirty yards. Twenty. I could hear the clink of glasses, the welcome buzz of conversation. Safety.

The pub door opened and a middle-aged man stepped out, turning his head to call out a final goodbye to those inside.

'Help me!' I managed to shout, the effort physically painful. Barely ten yards away now. 'Please help me!'

He was still grinning when he turned my way. I was, too. I'd never been so happy to see someone in my whole life. To have been so close to death and to be given a second chance at life is the sweetest, most incredible reward imaginable.

The bullet struck him in the eye with a malevolent hiss and blood splattered the pub window. He tottered on his feet for a full second, his expression one of mild surprise, then he lost his footing on the pub step and went down hard, his head hitting the pavement with an angry smack.

I stopped, all hope sucked out of me, and turned round slowly.

The Irishman was twenty yards away from me, the gun raised and pointed at me.

Strangely, I felt nothing. I think I was too exhausted for that. I'd tried everything. I'd done my best, and in the final analysis it simply hadn't been enough.

And then there was a roaring sound, getting closer and closer, and the Irishman was suddenly bathed in bright light.

A car. Coming fast, skidding now.

Instinctively I swung round to meet it, blinded by the headlights as it bore down on me, realizing at the very last second that I was right in the middle of the road; and then I was flying through the air, flailing like a madman, seeing the ground come up to greet me.

And then, bang.

Nothing.

Thirty-eight

Mike Bolt took the corner way too fast. There were plenty of reasons why: it was dark; it was pissing with rain; the road was unfamiliar, winding and very narrow; and, most important of all, he was a man in a serious hurry.

He slammed on the brakes, conscious of Mo Khan smacking a hand on to the dashboard to steady himself as he shouted instructions for back-up into his airwave radio, but the car was already going into a skid. Bolt turned the wheel hard, trying to straighten up before he hit the house looming up in front of him. He missed it narrowly, but the wheels locked and the car was temporarily out of control as it skidded along the rain-slicked road. A red pub sign appeared through the slicing of the windscreen wipers, and then suddenly Mo yelled out, his voice almost deafening him: 'Boss! Watch out!'

A guy standing in the middle of the road facing them. Frozen like a deer in headlights.

The car was slowing down thanks to Bolt's pressure on the brakes, but nowhere near fast enough. He could see the fear on the guy's face, the way his eyes were widening, recognized him from the photo he'd seen at HQ earlier that day as Rob Fallon, the man they'd gone to Maxwell's place to see, the one man who might help them locate Tina.

And then, bang, they hit him.

He flew over the bonnet, smacked bodily into the windscreen, cracking it, then bounced off and into the darkness.

The tyres screamed, the car wobbled, and then, at last, it stopped. The two men lurched forward in their seats, Bolt's head narrowly missing the windscreen.

That was when, through the rain, he spotted another figure standing in the road only a few yards in front of them. It was a man, but Bolt didn't get a good look at him, because he was pointing a gun straight at the car.