It wasn't a woman he wanted, not a woman, there had been too many, no one special. He was never with one long enough to give them any serious thought, or care if he saw them again, he was too young, had been too young to think about settling down, having a wife, kids, raising a family, he didn't ache for that. He cried out for the Steve that was always the centre of attention. The Steve that nudged and winked and said, 'I'll have the blonde' – or the redhead – the one every bloke was trying to get their hands on, he didn't cry for that or call out his name for the loss of pulling a chick. He cried out to the Steve standing up on the table in the bars and clubs, the Steve who jumped up on the stage and took off Tom Jones, the Steve who could sing himself hoarse, to the cheers and catcalls of his mates. He ached for the Steve everyone liked, the joker, the guy everyone made sure was along for the piss-ups and the curries, because if Steve was around, you'd have a good time, and if Steve was pissed, he'd get up and sing. He'd always fancied himself fronting a band, and with a beer bottle as a microphone he looked the business, was the business, but that Steve Harris was someone he had known a long time ago, in another lifetime, now he ached for the loss of himself, the Steve Harris who was never coming back.
CHAPTER 19
The light was ebbing away, a few faint early stars sprinkling the darker sky to the east, and a pallid segment of moon creeping up behind the brow of the hill, directly ahead. Steve wasn't drunk yet – so far just three or four pulls from the bottle of Teacher's – but that was his aim, pure and simple. Blind stinking into sweet oblivion. It wasn't the answer, he knew that, but it was the only answer he had.
Bordered by thick hedgerows, the lane wound upwards, curved back on itself before rising above the treeline and most of the surrounding countryside, then dipping down into the next glen. Steve unscrewed the cap, treated himself to a good belt, felt the ball of heat expand from the pit of his stomach and radiate outwards. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he went suddenly still, his meandering eye caught by a flurry of activity further down the hill. The light wasn't good, but Steve had 20/20 vision. Two caravans were parked under the trees, half-a-dozen men moving about, and at first he thought it might be a gypsy encampment until he spotted the scrambler bikes being wheeled from the back of a van. That didn't seem right.
From the top of the bank he had a better view, and it definitely wasn't right. A large panel-sided truck with a fretwork of aluminium refrigeration tubes above the cab was being backed out onto the road, chugging blue diesel smoke. One of the men appeared round the side of the caravan and went up to the passenger side window and handed something up. At this distance and in this murky light Steve couldn't be sure – not absolutely – but it looked to him like a double-barrelled shotgun.
'Take it easy, come on, breathe slowly,' Dillon said, holding Steve by the shoulders to steady him. The lad was done in, sweat pouring off him, the neckerchief soaked through. He tried to speak, but all Dillon could get were gasping croaks and gurgles. The other lads, sprawled on the grass outside the hide, eating out of mess tins, couldn't have given a toss. The useless pillock in one of his usual drunken flaps, so what else was new?
'Easy now… slow… what's up, Steve?'
Dillon listened close as Steve finally got a word out. Poachers. And then in a burping, gulping rush, he got the rest of it. Dillon patted Steve on the back, well done, and turned to the others.
'Six men, two scrambling bikes – and they'll be armed.' He leaned nearer, nodding, as Steve burbled on. 'Yeah, yeah, okay…'
'Good double act you two've got going,' said Jimmy sardonically, glancing round the circle.
Dillon was stung. 'We're going to have to have a good act, because if they're armed to the teeth I'm not prepared to endanger any one of you,' he told them all straight.
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.
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 wi
ndpipe. 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.'
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