Sweating with fear, Malone legged it up the hillside. The perimeter fence lay ahead, but he knew of a gap, and once through it he'd have the sheltering woods to hide in. Malone didn't intend getting a bullet in the gut for a few stinking fish. Nor for the benefit of that upper-class twit Griffiths, no way. The idea that he was also leaving his mates behind didn't even enter his head.
Herded forward by the bike rider, Steve stumbled towards Don and the two policemen, lying face down, hands and legs tied. One of the men guarding them kicked Steve's legs from under him, the other dragging his arms behind his back and tightly knotting his wrists together. The second bike rider came bouncing down the slope, steering with one hand, the other clutching the knee he'd injured in falling.
'Hey, come on, over here – we need help!'
The leader waved his men over. Two of the three plastic containers were packed to the brim, ready to be lifted into the back of the truck. The third was half full, the driver up on the walkway suctioning out the last tank.
Leaving one man to watch over Steve and the others, the two bikers gunned their machines across the compound, the second raider following at the run. Together with the leader they heaved two of the containers inside the truck. With the third not yet full, the leader ordered them to pack up. Unhooking the suction tube, the driver jumped down, and while the others manhandled the third container into the truck, he stowed away the equipment. As the bikes were handed up, the driver was already in the cab, revving up, ready for off.
The raider standing guard hung on until the very last moment, waiting for the truck to reverse. But he was getting jittery, and finally as he raced across, burst out yelling, 'Come on, come on, move it, move it!'
He leapt up and was dragged inside by three pairs of hands. Engine bellowing, the white truck sped towards the gates, rear doors swinging and banging, and roared off in a cloud of blue diesel smoke.
CHAPTER 20
'What did I tell you?' Ripping off his mask, the leader tossed it onto the windscreen ledge. He lit up, sucked in a deep lungful, the flare of the match lighting up his grinning features. 'Like taking candy… Yeerrsss, beautiful, even more than I thought. Bloody beautiful…'
The driver nodded, concentrating on the narrow lane in the splay of headlights, anxious to keep clear of the deep ditches on either side. He slowed for a bend, and as they came round it, the leader sat up sharply, staring through the windscreen. 'Shit, what the hell is this?'
A police Panda was tilted over, one wheel in the ditch, headlight beams shining into the undergrowth. The officer behind the wheel was obviously trying, without success, to back it out. Another uniformed policeman in a flat cap stepped into the centre of the lane and flagged them down with his torch.
A scared voice from the back of the truck hissed through the grille, 'For Christ's sake, drive on, keep moving!'
The leader snatched his mask from the ledge and stuffed it under the seat. 'Get your masks off,' he ordered curtly, 'guns out of sight.'
He wound the window down as the policeman approached, flashing his torch. Leaning out, all smiles, the leader said, 'Trouble, officer? You want us to give you a hand?'
The officer came right up to the open window. The face underneath the checked cap was lean and hard, with a dark moustache, a thin vertical scar on the left cheek.
'Had a blow-out, deer ran straight into us,' Dillon said. 'Might need you to haul us out of this ditch.'
Inside the truck, crammed between the plastic containers packed with salmon and the two scrambling bikes, the four raiders stood in darkness, waiting tensely. One of them raised his shotgun, cocked the hammer. A hand gripped his wrist, warning him to stay quiet.
At the open window, Dillon casually looked back at Cliff sitting behind the wheel of the Panda. He gave the signal with his torch. Cliff put the car in reverse, and the Panda, far from stuck, shot back into the lane, blocking it.
'Must be your lucky night,' the leader said, still faking his sunny smile.
Dillon said, 'But it's not yours, mate,' and rammed the torch in his face. The leader jerked back, shocked by the light in his eyes and the blow in his teeth. Dillon chucked the torch away, and reaching right in, he got a lock on the man's throat, crushing his windpipe. Cliff was at the door opposite. He yanked it open and dragged the driver onto the road.
Behind the truck, Harry came out of hiding, and signalled along the lane. With Jimmy driving, Steve and Don in the back, the jeep screeched up and stopped a couple of yards away, completing the ambush. The men jumped down and formed a semi-circle round the rear doors, pickaxe handles at the ready.
Still holding the man by the throat, Dillon yelled back, 'Nobody goes in… wait, wait!'
Dillon jerked the leader forward until their faces were practically touching. 'You got three seconds to get them to lay down their guns. I want them out, hands on heads.'
His fingers dug harder into the windpipe, throttling the man.
'One… two…'
The leader flailed his arms, banging the back of the cab with his fist. A voice from inside yelled, 'Okay, okay… we're coming out!'
Malone was laying into Griffiths, as if holding him personally to blame. Standing outside the estate office in the grey light of dawn, they were toe-to-toe, Malone stabbing his finger in Griffiths ' chest, then jabbing it towards the tanks.
'They cleaned 'em all out… no weapons you said, you got no friggin' fish now!'
Griffiths cupped his forehead in his palm. 'Oh Christ…' he murmured wearily, totally beaten.
The blast of a horn made them both whip round. Malone's jaw dropped. Griffiths just stared, blinking incomprehendingly.
With Don at the wheel, Dillon beside him, the white truck drove into the compound and pulled up with a gasp of compressed air. The jeep was right behind it, horn tooting, the rest of the lads aboard, standing up and yelling their heads off.
'Morning, sir,' Dillon greeted Griffiths cheerfully, jumping down. He gestured with his thumb. 'Salmon's ready for collection, save the buyers getting their hands wet. We've got them all on ice, ready for the weigh-in.'
Malone pointed at Dillon, neck pumping. 'That bastard set this up with the gippos -'
Dillon jerked his head at Steve, who reached into the jeep and took out a shotgun. He tossed it to Dillon. 'What's this, Malone?' Dillon hefted the shotgun, his eyes flat and cold, his voice scathing. 'Only one of us was armed, and you still turned tail and ran…'
Griffiths was still having trouble taking all this in. He went to the back of the truck, where Don opened the doors and proudly showed him the containers of salmon inside. Malone knew something was in the wind. Something stank, and it wasn't rotten fish. It was starting to look bad for him, and he wasn't going to stand for it. That bastard Dillon was behind this, he felt it in his water. He strode after the estate manager, anxious not to have his nose pushed out. And sure enough, Griffiths was smiling, clapping Don on the back. Malone was about to lay into him when Dillon strolled up. White to the lips, Malone turned on him instead, almost incoherent in his fury.
'Guys like you, Dillon, are bein' churned out into civvies every day of the week… an all of them thievin' bastards.' He pointed at the back of the truck. 'You set this up!'