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.