As he ran his head jerked one way, then the other. To his left, still high in the sky but now more definable, was the single-engine plane approaching down the valley formed by the River Roeburn, with Salter Fell to the right and Mallowdale Fell to the left. In that glance Henry could not even begin to estimate how far away the plane was, he just knew it was closer. Then, with a head jerk to the right Henry saw the gunmen emerge from the garden, reminding him of a team of mercenaries, killing machines, and in that glance he saw each man was now brandishing a machine pistol as opposed to a handgun, much deadlier and requiring less skill. They must have seen him, he knew that, but he powered on, knowing that to hesitate would get him killed. Then he was there, launching himself into the dense grass and rolling until he stopped with a jar against the roots of a tree, an impact that winded him, but he kept on moving, doing a snake crawl further into the trees where he came up onto one knee and hid behind several low-hanging branches. With horror he saw that Chalmers had run into the middle of the airstrip and was standing, facing the oncoming aircraft which was on its final descent. He was making a gesture that resembled repeatedly opening an up-and-over garage door.

Henry got the meaning. He was telling the pilot to stay up, do not land. But the plane was getting closer. Henry stretched his neck to see without actually sticking his head out of cover. To the right, the plane was virtually on the airstrip, the wheels only feet above the cut grass. Dead ahead of him stood the desperately gesticulating Chalmers. Away to the left were the gunmen, each now holding their machine pistols in firing positions. They had fanned out into a line and were jogging inexorably towards Chalmers, who continued to throw his arms upwards.

The plane touched the ground. Chalmers ran towards it, waving, signalling, but he had run only a few yards when the men opened up and fired a short burst from each weapon, cutting him down face first into the grass as a criss-cross of bullets slammed into his back. It was the second horror Henry had witnessed in the last few minutes, another brutal, seemingly senseless killing, and Henry was as certain as he could be that Chalmers was as dead as his security guard. Henry ducked down. He heard the sound of the plane's engine growl as the pilot pushed the throttle forwards, sending more power to the pistons. The wheels had touched the grass but now as the wing flaps were turned down, it rose easily and flew over the heads of the gunmen who followed its trajectory with their upturned faces and also their weapons as they opened fire as it skimmed overhead. Henry heard the bursts of fire above the roaring sound of the engine. He also heard the metallic slap as at least eight bullets punched into the fuselage.

Henry saw the plane wobble uncertainly, but then lift and continue to rise, banking, rise again and then it was gone. He ducked flat down on his belly, rubbed his hands in wet soil and scrubbed his face with it, primitive camouflage, and attempted to control his breathing and his fear. He watched through the grass as the three men approached Chalmers' splayed-out body. One of them flipped his machine pistol on its strap over his shoulder and took a handgun from his waistband. He stood over Chalmers and put two further bullets into the back of the man's skull. Literally overkill, Henry thought: professional overkill. Terror swept through him like a tidal bore when all three men turned as one towards the spot where he had disappeared into the trees. In a line they walked towards him.