Harry wiped a residue of cold baked beans from his moustache. 'What about Malone?' he asked, belching softly.
'Malone is going to be right in there -' Dillon jabbed his finger at the turf-covered hide ' – out of our way!'
That was Plan A. Plan B Dillon was keeping under his hat, at least for the time being. Within the half-hour he had his lads deployed: sending Jimmy, Don and Steve down to the salmon tanks while Cliff and Harry kept watch through night binoculars. Illuminated by two large battery arc lamps, the compound seemed peaceful enough, the large steel tanks clearly visible under their wire-mesh netting. The police had turned up, and through the binns Cliff could clearly see Jimmy gabbing away to two young uniformed officers, who seemed to need a bit of persuading.
'Come on, cut the gas, Jimmy,' Cliff muttered, sharpening up the focus. Then he grinned and reported, 'They're trotting back to the Panda, radioing in… we just scored out.' Glancing round at Harry, already on the move, two flak jackets under his arm, he called out: 'We need their caps as well, and get the car hidden.'
Harry gave the thumbs-up and went off through the heather.
Malone was squatting by the radio, headset on, when Dillon poked his head inside the hide. Spread across his knees a 1:50,000 Ordnance Survey map squared up with red lines, which he was marking with pencil crosses. 'Who've I got on the south ridge, Alpha Three? Ahh, yeah, got it.' He made a cross, spoke into the mike, 'So we've covered the entire area, okay, okay… I'm all set.'
Malone couldn't organise a piss-up in a brewery, Dillon thought, but if he had delusions of grandeur that he was running the show, then let him. As long as the bastard stayed put and didn't get in their way.
Dillon gave him a level-eyed stare. 'An' we're depending on you – these guys could be armed and we've got nothin' but a few pickaxe handles. So we keep in radio contact at all times.'
Malone nodded, sure, no sweat, and watched with hooded eyes, waiting until Dillon had scrambled out before easing over and flipping back the corner of the blanket. Grinning, he touched the polished stock of the large-bore shotgun and ran his fingers along the blue-black barrel. Sure, Dillon, old buddy, no sweat.
Dillon had all the angles covered. At least he hoped to God he had. With the type of refrigerated rig Steve had described, it was obvious that these guys were tough, committed professionals. They'd invested thousands, knew where to lay their hands on the right equipment, had done their homework, and were playing to win. Well, so was he: Plan A the shop-window dressing, Plan B the sucker punch; come the dawn he'd know if his pass with distinction in tactical battlecraft at Pen-y-Fan in the Brecon Beacons was all it was cracked up to be, not just a scrap of paper with his name in fancy scroll letters.
3.29 a.m. Silent as the grave, the pale sliver of moon now riding high behind thin trailers of cloud scudding in from the west.
3.30 a.m. The peace suddenly shattered by the roar of engines – the white truck careering along the narrow lane, headlights blazing, picking up speed on the slight downhill slope leading to the main gate, the two scrambler bikes close behind like flanking outriders.
Reinforced with steel bars to take the impact, the truck smashed through the gate, immediately tripping the wires and setting off the sulphur flares which zoomed up and burst with dazzling brightness over the compound. The raiders had planned it to the split-second. Even before the truck had slewed to a stop alongside the first tank, the rear doors had been flung open. Two men in balaclava masks leapt out, shotguns in their hands. Up front, the driver jumped down and ran round to assist his companion, the gang's leader. He was already up on the wooden walkway, hauling back the covering mesh. Two men working the tanks, the other four forming a shield around them. It was that simple.
Don ran forward, holding the dogs on a long leash. The Alsatians were going crazy, snapping and snarling. About to release them, Don hesitated. He cared for the animals, and he'd seen the shotguns the raiders were carrying. Even if the dogs got one man, two at the most, they'd still get blasted. Halfway across the compound, he met the first masked raider head on. Only his eyes could be seen through the ragged slit, bulging, bloodshot in the corners. Shotgun at the hip, finger on the trigger, the raiders snarled. 'Get the dogs in, leash 'em before they get their heads blown off!' He jerked the weapon. 'Come on! Come on, you wanna die?'
At Don's word of command, the dogs immediately quietened, heads down between their paws. The raider swung up the shotgun, indicating a wooden post next to the office. 'Tie ' em up. Move it!'
Shortening the leashes, Don obeyed, then put his hands on his head. He hoped the gesture might be conciliatory, but it wasn't. For his trouble he got the butt of the shotgun in his ribs, a gentle warning not to try anything as the raider frisked him for weapons.
The low whine of an auxiliary power unit started up, increased to a high-pitched howl. Swinging the plastic suction hose into position, the leader dipped it into the first tank. The driver reached inside the cab and threw a switch. The water churned. Under the powerful force, the thousands of swarming salmon were sucked into the large nozzle. Their flashing silvery bodies shot down the transparent tube and into a square plastic container supported by a metal framework, on the ground next to the rear doors. Layer by layer, the fish piled up inside, packed solid.
The two young police officers, now wearing flak jackets over their blue shirts, were being herded out of the bushes. One had foolishly tried to use his personal transceiver, attached to his collar. It had been torn off and stamped into pieces, and now he found himself staring into the business end of a shotgun.
'Move… come on, and get face down!'
'We are police officers,' the other one bravely tried. 'Put down your -'
'Yeah, an' I'm Sylvester Stallone, pricks.' The raider prodded them forward with savage jabs in the back. 'Down… get down on your faces!'
The two policemen lay down, hands stretched out in front of them. The other raider came up, pushing Don ahead of him, his hands clasped behind his neck. One of the officers tried to get up. The raider smashed a boot into his back and stuck the shotgun barrel into the nape of his neck. Don, forced down on his knees, his hands being roughly tied behind his back, yelled at the two young coppers. 'Just do what they want, do what they tell you!'
The raider swung the butt, gave Don a crack across the head that sent him sprawling, semi-concussed.
'Thanks,' the raider grinned. ' – You heard him, keep it shut, all of you.'
From his station on the rough ground overlooking the tanks, Steve dodged from bush to bush, hoping to sneak in on their blind side. But it was too late, he'd been spotted. One of the scrambler bikes came bucking up the hillside towards him. Steve broke from cover, wielding a crowbar. The rider charged straight for him, and Steve swung the crowbar over his shoulder, ready to swipe him from the saddle. Almost on top of Steve, the rider slammed on his brakes, flipped over the shotgun strapped to his back, cocked it and aimed it. He knew how to handle it, and he was in no mood for funny business.
'Start heading to the tanks,' the rider barked, 'move!' And as Steve took a few steps forward, growled out, 'Chuck the spanner, sunshine. Hands on your head – get down to the tanks!'
Steve tossed the crowbar down. Hands on his head, he moved down the hillside, the rider revving a few yards behind. He'd done his best, feeble as it was; now it was up to Dillon and the lads – and Plan B.
Malone had an ace up his sleeve – or so he thought. Having crept out of the hide and circled round, he suddenly leapt out, shotgun blasting, doing his Clint Eastwood act. Reacting too late, he heard the stuttering roar of an engine behind him. Before he knew what was happening, the second bike rider rammed him in the legs. Malone went tumbling, arse over tip, the shotgun spinning from his hands. He scrambled up, wild-eyed with panic, sense of direction gone. The rider skidded over the steep rough ground, trying to make a turn. The bike went out of control, lost traction, and bike and rider went slithering downhill, sideways on.