A scream pierced the sky, a child’s, so loud he dropped his cup, his right hand ready to reach for a weapon that wasn’t there. A survival reflex from another city, another part of the world. He tried to relax, but the scream had been real. Not like the whining wail he loathed, not even the shocked cry of a kid who’d just hurt himself. This scream had mortal fear in it. After three tours in Afghanistan, he knew the difference.

I’m a soldier,’ Nathan said. ‘We’re all soldiers, now. Soldiers don’t leave people behind.

I’m not convinced we can take them out from a distance, Nathan. That’s always been the American solution, by the way. Bigger guns. Nukes. Drone strikes.

Nathan had to admit it was a highly effective war strategy. You didn’t need an army; just a way to turn the native, indigenous creatures against each other, wait until there was no serious resistance, and then move right in.

Sally wiped the blood from Anderson’s mouth with her sleeve. She spoke to him, but also loud enough for all to hear. ‘Go find your son, Mr Anderson. This is our war now.

Nathan had never wanted children of his own. Plenty of reasons. Babies screamed as soon as they were born – wasn’t that warning enough of what was to come? And when they grew into toddlers, and then young kids, they were far worse: tantrums, more screaming, whining. How many business trips, restaurant dinners, theatre visits, you name it, were ruined by one small, precocious loud brat and its doting, utterly useless parents? No discipline any more. Nathan had sure been disciplined.

He glanced at Sally. She sat on the edge, her feet dangling over the two-hundred-foot drop, just like he’d done all those years ago, secretly hoping his parents would tell him to come back, that it was dangerous. They never even got out of the car.