metal bar but, despite sustaining a bad cut to his forehead, he'd still managed to fight the buggers off, had even managed to reach his shotgun and aim it at them. It had taken all his self-control not to put some buckshot in the black bastards as they'd fled. Now he hefted the Franchi before him and moved slowly towards the door, careful to avoid the floorboards which he knew creaked. If there was someone in the shop, he didn't want them to know he was up there. Bob glanced at his watch.
3.22 a.m.
He reached down with one hand and patted the dog on the head then gripped its collar as he eased the door open with his foot and stepped out onto the landing. He stood for interminable seconds listening to the sounds which drifted to him on the stillness of the night. He heard footsteps below him, heard one of the cabinets which held the pistols being forced open. Whoever was down there obviously didn't care whether they were heard or not. Bob smiled grimly. The bastards would care when he got down there.
He began to descend.
He moved without undue haste, gripping the dog's collar to prevent it rushing away. There was a door at the bottom of the stairs which led to his kitchen and a small sitting room. Beyond that was the shop.
As he reached the door he eased his grip on the dog's collar, patting its head to calm it. But the animal was already scrabbling at the door, anxious to be let loose on the intruders.
'Steady Bitsa,' he whispered to the cross-breed. Bitsa seemed an appropriate name he'd thought, it had bitsa this and bitsa that in it. He smiled to himself. The dog was powerful and eager. Whoever was in the shop was in for a bloody surprise.
Bob paused for a moment and, as he did so, silence seemed to descend.
Had the intruders heard his approach?
He swung the shotgun up across his chest, as if seeking reassurance from the weapon.
Sod them, he thought, his face hardening. If they'd heard him, too bad. Perhaps they'd have the sense to get out while they still could.
He kicked open the door.
'Take them, Bitsa,' he hissed and the dog went hurtling through the kitchen and sitting room, swallowed up by the gloom. It was barking and snarling loudly as it reached the shop itself.
Bob prepared himself, listening to the frenzied barking of the dog.
Then silence.
He swallowed hard and edged forward into the sitting room, aware for the fast time of the numbing cold which seemed to have filled the building. It caused his skin to rise in goose-bumps and the hair at the nape of his neck stiffened.
And there was a smell too.
A rank, fetid odour which made him wince. But he pressed on towards the shop, eyes fixed on the open door which led into it.
In the sodium flare from the lights outside he could see that two of the gun cabinets had been forced open, shotguns and rifles removed, pieces of broken glass scattered over the floor.
The stench and the cold intensified but Bob's anger seemed to make him oblivious to these considerations and, wielding the Franchi before him, he advanced into the shop furiously.
`Right you bastards,' he shouted, swinging the shotgun up to his shoulder.
With his free hand he slapped on the lights.
Darkness.
Nothing happened. The shop remained unlit.
Bob's heart began beating faster as he caught sight of the motionless form of Bitsa lying in the centre of the room.
Its head was surrounded by a spreading puddle of blood, its body still twitching slightly.
The bottom jaw had been practically torn off, it hung from the battered skull by just a tiny network of muscles and ligaments.
Bob took a step towards the animal, his attention suddenly wandering, his concern not for the weapons which had been stolen from him but for his dead pet. Bitsa had been a big dog. Whoever had killed him had done it quickly and with incredible power.
Whoever ...
The hand closed on his shoulder and instinctively he spun round.
It was at that point that the lights came on.
Bob found himself staring into the face
3.22 a.m.
He reached down with one hand and patted the dog on the head then gripped its collar as he eased the door open with his foot and stepped out onto the landing. He stood for interminable seconds listening to the sounds which drifted to him on the stillness of the night. He heard footsteps below him, heard one of the cabinets which held the pistols being forced open. Whoever was down there obviously didn't care whether they were heard or not. Bob smiled grimly. The bastards would care when he got down there.
He began to descend.
He moved without undue haste, gripping the dog's collar to prevent it rushing away. There was a door at the bottom of the stairs which led to his kitchen and a small sitting room. Beyond that was the shop.
As he reached the door he eased his grip on the dog's collar, patting its head to calm it. But the animal was already scrabbling at the door, anxious to be let loose on the intruders.
'Steady Bitsa,' he whispered to the cross-breed. Bitsa seemed an appropriate name he'd thought, it had bitsa this and bitsa that in it. He smiled to himself. The dog was powerful and eager. Whoever was in the shop was in for a bloody surprise.
Bob paused for a moment and, as he did so, silence seemed to descend.
Had the intruders heard his approach?
He swung the shotgun up across his chest, as if seeking reassurance from the weapon.
Sod them, he thought, his face hardening. If they'd heard him, too bad. Perhaps they'd have the sense to get out while they still could.
He kicked open the door.
'Take them, Bitsa,' he hissed and the dog went hurtling through the kitchen and sitting room, swallowed up by the gloom. It was barking and snarling loudly as it reached the shop itself.
Bob prepared himself, listening to the frenzied barking of the dog.
Then silence.
He swallowed hard and edged forward into the sitting room, aware for the fast time of the numbing cold which seemed to have filled the building. It caused his skin to rise in goose-bumps and the hair at the nape of his neck stiffened.
And there was a smell too.
A rank, fetid odour which made him wince. But he pressed on towards the shop, eyes fixed on the open door which led into it.
In the sodium flare from the lights outside he could see that two of the gun cabinets had been forced open, shotguns and rifles removed, pieces of broken glass scattered over the floor.
The stench and the cold intensified but Bob's anger seemed to make him oblivious to these considerations and, wielding the Franchi before him, he advanced into the shop furiously.
`Right you bastards,' he shouted, swinging the shotgun up to his shoulder.
With his free hand he slapped on the lights.
Darkness.
Nothing happened. The shop remained unlit.
Bob's heart began beating faster as he caught sight of the motionless form of Bitsa lying in the centre of the room.
Its head was surrounded by a spreading puddle of blood, its body still twitching slightly.
The bottom jaw had been practically torn off, it hung from the battered skull by just a tiny network of muscles and ligaments.
Bob took a step towards the animal, his attention suddenly wandering, his concern not for the weapons which had been stolen from him but for his dead pet. Bitsa had been a big dog. Whoever had killed him had done it quickly and with incredible power.
Whoever ...
The hand closed on his shoulder and instinctively he spun round.
It was at that point that the lights came on.
Bob found himself staring into the face
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