It was only a minute or two later that the first dog came upon them. The leader dropped to his knee again, fighting his fear as the huge animal bounded at him, silent and fast. Lifting the spray can, he pointed it at the animal. Then, as soon as it leapt, he pressed the nozzle, directing the fine mixed spray of cyanide and CS gas into the great slavering jaws and eyes.
The hundred-and-thirty pound weight of the dog hit him full in the chest, and they both hit the ground with a thump. But the dog was already blind and dying, its great lungs having drawn in a fatal dose of the spray. With legs scrabbling, it rolled off him, huge blind eyes streaming as it rolled in its death throes, trying to understand what had happened to its strength and balance.
The man watched, pleased for a second, and then moved forward, the rest of the team hard behind him, the last man walking past the still twitching corpse three seconds later.
Two more dogs died in the next four minutes, the last near enough to be touched by his handler – except that the man was dead too, killed by the same lethal mixture.
Carlo Benitez was twenty four years old that day and had spent the morning in the village with his brother, drinking coffee and watching the village girls, and just enjoying being of the estate. He liked the work. God knows, he thought, few men in Espania pay wages like the Italian – but it was nice to be off for a few hours. He worked his way round the wire in the dark, his shotgun over his shoulder, its sawn-off barrel stubby and menacing. He had developed a fondness for it in the army, where in the elite unit he was proud to be part of, they were encouraged to innovate and show individual style. They had even guarded King Juan Carlos one summer when the Basques had threatened the unbelievable, but the drugs scandal had put paid to that career. Seventeen of them had been thrown out for the crimes of three.
Afterwards, the Italian had been there – or his people had – with offers of employment for all. At first he refused, deciding to return to his home on Majorca – but he remembered the offer when times got hard. Now here he was with six months pay guaranteed for what could be a shorter job. He had two other men with him trailing behind and to the left. There was another group somewhere opposite. The system of challenges worked well enough. He moved at a steady pace looking for the turnaround point and almost fell over the body of the dog by the wire.
He didn’t pause for more than a second. Pulling the gun from his shoulder, he snapped a command at his men and began to run for the house, pumping a cartridge into the breach as he ran, feeling the adrenaline begin to course through his blood. The excitement was hot, like the matador in the ring before the horns of the bull. This was his honour and he was young and a man.
The guard at the heavy oak bodega doors saw the intruders seconds too late and took a full dose from the spray can in the face. He fell, a muffled rattle coming from his lips, his leg muscles beginning to convulse before he hit the ground. The intruders were pleased. They were at the doors and not a shot had been fired. Now there was time to take the locks the silent way. One of the group moved forward and pulled from his baggy pocket a set of master keys, keys that would open any lock made outside of the Iron Curtain. All had been purloined from their makers. The fifth key, a Chubb, turned the levers and they were in.
Confident that the other team would secure the grounds behind them, they broke into two pairs and began to move through the building, its circular shapes, turrets and solid walls unfamiliar, flashing powerful torches with hooded beams as they went. While the first pair moved all the way through to the kitchen, the second pushed through their third door and found Holly Morton curled up beneath a peasant quilt in bed. A powerful gloved hand covered her mouth and a dark shadow leant over her as she struggled.
“Come quietly puta, or you are dead like the rest!” one of them hissed. The accent was local, and thick with garlic. As the hand lifted up, a wide strip of white surgical tape was plastered across her mouth, and a second strip bound her hands. Then she was pulled from the bed with one mighty tug.
By now, the small procession was re-entering the living room, the man carrying the wide-eyed and terrified woman following the leader’s hooded torch beam. Moments later, Marco Gambini appeared at the top of the steep stone stairs, a gun in his hand.
The leader turned, dropping into a crouch, and snapped away two rounds from his silenced gun. Marco staggered and fell back onto the landing, and they moved on, the two from the kitchen waiting at the door.
All hell seemed to break loose.
One of the waiting men seemed to be lifted by a flash of blue orange flame, flung backwards into the stone walls as the second man, turning too late, took the second deafening blast from Carlos Benitez’s
