Bullets buzz by Jenks' head, too close for him to be able to guess their trajectories. They just resemble a fast-moving grey swarm of midges like the ones familiar from football by the conifers in his parents' garden. I am of course standing nearby, blending in. Jenks' helmet is large, the lip overhanging his forehead by about an inch-and-a-half. It has brownish camouflage netting hooked over the top, and he looks silly, like a dirt-smeared mushroom crouching behind an armoured vehicle in the dust of a street a long way from England.
A small speaker positioned near his ear tells him to break from cover and make towards a building less than ten feet away. The voice is extremely clear - millions of pounds in investment have banished the phantom tinny voice breaking up over distance. The commmands are clear and precise. As Jenks moves, I move.
I position my body behind his, the curve of my back equal to the curve of his back. As he straightens, I straighten, and place my flattened palms either side of his head. Jenks cannot feel it, but as he scurries frantically from the cover of the truck to the shadow of the door, I guide him smoothly from side to side; his head tracing a complex trail across three planes while he moves. Bullets buzz by Jenks' head, and I see every one of them.