“Three,” he said with his fingers. He then held up just the index finger. “One of them looks dead, or dying.”

George followed Tariq’s jerky hand signals accompanied by the odd word of English, and understood what they were about to do; Tariq would dart from cover towards the Toyota truck, which was a mere fifteen yards away. George would offer covering fire from his hiding place if required, but if they didn’t turn around, Tariq would fire a warning shot into the rocks when he reached the vehicle. Finally, all being well, George would use his command of the English language to demand and then accept the American surrender.

It seemed like a good enough idea, so he nodded his approval. He particularly liked the fact that if all went according to the plan, he wouldn’t need to fire a single shot. He still didn’t know if his earlier vomiting had damaged the firing mechanism, so he offered the gun to Tariq to check over.

The Egyptian glanced at it briefly and gave a quick thumbs-up.

He checked round the corner one last time, then gave a brief nod towards George and made for the Toyota. George brought his AK-47 up and swung it round the rocks.

They were much higher up than he had imagined, despite Tariq’s best efforts to explain the layout. The two men who were firing over the cliff’s edge were about thirty feet above him, and the third lay motionless on a small ledge a few feet further away. In his peripheral vision, he saw Tariq slide behind the front end of Ben’s Toyota. He regained his footing and took aim at the men, who were still unaware of what was going on behind them.

George could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins as Tariq completed the outflanking manoeuvre. Without a shot fired, they were now in a winning position behind enemy lines, and he waited for Tariq to fire his warning shot before announcing their demands for surrender.

When the shot didn’t come, he looked quizzically towards Tariq and saw him grappling with his gun. George could only imagine it was jammed, and so making sure he kept Tariq in his line of sight, moved back under cover while he waited for him to un-jam it. As he watched him feverishly taking his rifle apart, it suddenly occurred to him that he was dangerously exposed to the Americans. Despite the cover of the Toyota, he would still be visible if any of the men on the cliff happened to turn round to face the car, due to their elevated position.

Which meant that he would have to provide cover for him.

He felt an odd reluctance to emerge from his hiding place; while he realised it was clearly the right thing to do, the wall of rocks he was leaning against offered him some protection against the raging battle. The internal debate was short lived, and he sucked his gut in before swinging out and aiming directly at the Americans.

“Hey!” he tried to say as he pointed the barrel of the gun at the two men. Unfortunately, his having not said anything loudly for some time together with the effects of the dry atmosphere made the word come out as a croak, like a teetotaller knocking back a shot of whisky. Somehow his voice failed to carry far enough to be heard above the noise of the battle, so he summed up his courage, cleared his throat and tried again.

“Hey, hands –” he was about to say up when the thundering sound of an explosion tore through the air. Moments later, a couple more loud bangs came from the plateau, and he saw a cloud of dust and grit pour over the cliff’s edge and fall down towards him. “Don’t move!” he shouted to the two Americans, who had turned to face him more to shield their eyes from the fallout of the explosion than to question his ‘Hey, hands -’ challenge. “Throw down your weapons!” he added, his voice shaking as he realised the fragility of his position: two heavily armed professionals against him – a quiet Englishman with an antiquated rifle he hadn’t even fired a shot in anger from yet.

The look of surprise on the men’s faces was evident. Standing on the track below was what looked like a tourist, covered in dust. It was only after a second take that they realised he was carrying a weapon, and that it was being pointed straight at them.

“You wanna think real hard about what you’re doing,” the man on the left said. He sported a thick moustache, and an even thicker Texan accent. To show what he thought about George’s ‘ambush’, he levelled his gun at him, and very deliberately took aim. The second man nodded to his colleague before returning to the fight over the top of the cliff, effectively ignoring them both.

Oddly, it wasn’t the thought of Gail needing to be rescued that made him see red, but the wonton disregard for what should have been an unassailable position of authority: him pointing a loaded weapon at two men should have been met by humble resignation, when instead it had been met by pure indifference.

He snarled, aimed for the chest of the Texan, and squeezed his trigger finger to let out a volley of bullets.

But none came. The trigger didn’t budge.

The Texan grinned.

George fumbled for the safety. Surely it had been off!

The Texan pulled his trigger.

A loud crackle came from the Toyota, and the Texan thumped into the cliff wall, spraying bullets as his gun-arm flew sideways. The second man turned just in time to see the barrel of his buddy’s gun pointing into his face, and a fraction of a second later the man’s trigger finger went limp.

He slumped against the cliff, motionless, while his shooting partner cart-wheeled from the ledge and rolled down to the ground, leaving behind a trail of blood and brains.

George clicked the safety off in time to see the two corpses settle into the dust.

And then, almost serenely after what seemed like hours of shooting, the final echo of gunfire dissipated. His hands and forearms were numb from having held the AK-47 upright for so long, and he pulled them down till the rifle was pointing at his feet. His gaze fell on the man who had tumbled to the ground.

The top half of his head was missing.

Of the part that remained, only his bottom lip and chin were recognisable, the rest was covered in blood and fleshy fragments.

He didn’t think there’d be much sick left in him after his earlier episode, but then the human body always had the capacity to catch you by surprise. After he had finished throwing up, he turned and faced the dusty plains that led to the green-belt of vegetation bordering the Nile. A cool breeze came to meet him, bringing with it the smell of the river. The smell of vegetation and oxygen. The smell of life.

Tariq placed a hand gently on his shoulder. For a brief moment, the language barrier between them seemed to dissolve. George looked up at the Egyptian and saw complete understanding in his eyes; understanding that George had seen more death today than ever before, and understanding that for one heart-stopping moment, he had seen his own, too.

Had it not been for the soft click of the magazine loading perfectly into Tariq’s un-jammed AK-47, the Texan would have certainly killed George.

“Hello!” came a shout from the cliff top behind them. They turned in unison and saw Zahra waving down at them, a grim smile on her face. “Thanks for that!” She gestured for them both to come up the cliff, and Tariq helped George to his feet.

They gathered near the smouldering remains of the two 4x4s and a pile of rubble which used to be the gatehouse. Leena had her arm around Manu, whose red eyes came not from the dust but the death of Haji. Tariq stood guard over the one surviving American who sat bound and motionless in the dirt, staring fixedly ahead. According to Zahra, he had run from cover moments before the explosions in an effort to outflank them. Ironically, the daring move had saved his life.

“George,” Zahra said apologetically. “Your wife was with them, and so was Ben. They ran down the stairs just before the explosion destroyed the entrance.”