I can smell something start to cook—it’s not a great idea to hold a brake-stand for very long even if your engine isn’t turbocharged—but I’ve got to give the boys at least a few more seconds. Even with my eyes streaming from the almost blinding reflection of the Bulldog’s fragging lights, I can see movement among the cargo boxes. In one of my mirrors I spot little Piers on his feet and sprinting for the truck. Then there’s a triple boom, and he doesn’t so much go down as rupture when a three-round burst from the auto-shotgun slams into him.