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.

'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.