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!'

Dillon squared up to him. He'd had as much as, and more than, he was ever going to take from Malone. But his tone was quiet and calm, and he was in total control.

'Okay, Malone,' he said evenly, 'in front of witnesses. We want that five hundred quid you nicked from us. If you want to make it double or quits, now's the time.'

Malone got his meaning loud and clear. It wasn't just the money Dillon was on about. Something more important had to be settled, once and for all. It almost amounted to a blood feud between the two of them. Like a festering boil of bitter black hatred, it had to be lanced. The wound had to be torn open, the gangrene exposed and gouged out.

Griffiths, as well as any of them, knew what was about to take place; he sensed that it was inevitable, and no matter what he said or did it was bound to happen. But he wasn't prepared for its raw brutality, for its sheer animal ferocity.

But then, he'd never witnessed a one-to-one brawl between two ex-Paras before.

Malone didn't wait for the off. He charged straight in, head-butting Dillon, opening up the old sniper abrasion above his right eye. Blood spurted out, running freely down Dillon's face, soaking into his shirt collar.

Leering, Malone raised both hands, waving him on. 'Come on then, Dillon, you been beggin' for it, come on…'

Still dazed, Dillon shook his head to clear it. He looked at the blood on his fingers, and then stripped off his camouflage smock.

Although both men were expert in the techniques of unarmed combat, they'd had their share of dirty street fighting too, and that's what this turned into. It was ugly to watch. Clawing, biting, scratching, kicking, each sought to disable his opponent by any means possible. Malone, bigger and heavier, could have beaten Dillon in a test of pure physical strength, but Dillon wasn't going to give him that chance. He kept in close, fingers clawing at Malone's eyes, trying to rip off his ears. Malone bit into Dillon's forearm and it took a knife-edged open palm across the bridge of the nose to make him let go. Then a savage kick swept Dillon's legs from under him. Down he went, dragging Malone with him, the two of them rolling in the dirt, using fists, elbows, knees to inflict maximum damage.

Appalled, Griffiths watched as the two men grappled with each other, tumbling and rolling across the compound towards the stables and the fodder barn. The lads kept pace with the action, crouching, fists clenched, cheering Dillon on. It was a fight to the finish, to the bitter end; no truces, no split decisions; one victor, one vanquished.

Scrambling up, Malone grabbed a rake, swinging it viciously at Dillon's head. Ducking low, Dillon dived for a pitchfork leaning against the barn door. The two weapons clashed together, striking sparks. Dillon twisted the pitchfork, snapping the rake in two, then jabbed at Malone's stomach, forcing him inside the barn. The lads crowded in the doorway, yelling Dillon on. Half-blinded with blood, his face and neck covered in cuts and bruises, Dillon was eking out his last few precious ounces of strength. Malone sensed it. He waited, arms spread wide, for Dillon to jab again, then wrenched the pitchfork out of his grasp and turned it back on him. Dillon tripped, went sprawling backwards onto the straw-covered floor. With a snarl, Malone thrust downwards at Dillon's head, the four sharp tines burying themselves in the earthen floor as Dillon squirmed out of the way. He made a grab at Malone's leg, bringing the big man down – splat! – in a heap of horse manure.

'Good one, Frank!' Harry's usual florid complexion was shining beetroot-red. He pumped his fists like pistons. 'Go for it, finish him off, Frank!'

Smeared with horseshit, Malone pulled a fire bucket off its hook and hurled sand in Dillon's eyes. As Dillon backed away, temporarily blinded, he followed up with a kick to the groin that made every man there's eyes water. Dillon went down clutching himself, doubled over in agony.

'For God's sake,' Griffiths cried out, ashen-faced, 'someone had better stop this…'

Cliff raised an eyebrow. 'You want to get between them sir?' he inquired.

Malone spun a tap above a metal drinking trough and sluiced his head, shaking water out of his eyes. He pushed his hand through his glistening black hair, alert once again, ready for the final round.

'Look, Dillon, call it off,' Griffiths begged, wringing his hands. 'I'll make up the five hundred he owes you, this has gone far enough.'

Dillon spat out a mouthful of sand. He was back on his feet, but none too steady, and even after Harry tipped a bucket of water over him, he seemed dazed, blinking at Malone as if unable to focus. Chest heaving, water dripping off him, Dillon looked exhausted, all but done in.

'You quittin', Dillon?' Malone taunted him, teeth bared in a sneering grin. 'Want to quit, Dillon…?'