It had taken twenty minutes. Dempsey had crawled through three hundred yards of mud, caked to the hillside by Wicklow’s almost perpetual rainfall. He had moved slowly. Silently. Giving no hint of his presence.
The plan had played out to perfection.
Right up until Turner rose to his feet.
Caught off guard, Dempsey hadn’t yet brought out his gun, still strapped to the small of his back, as Turner turned towards him, a pistol gripped in his right hand and his rifle in his left.
In an instant Dempsey was moving, launching himself at Turner just as their eyes met. The explosive momentum allowed him to tackle Turner before he was steady on his feet, throwing his full bulk at high speed into the older man’s ribcage, sending them both crashing into the undergrowth. The impact forced Turner’s gun from his grip.
Dempsey leaped back up immediately, reaching for the gun still strapped to his back. But the strapping had been put in place to keep it secure during his crawl, not for a quick-draw contest, and before he could release it Turner had also scrambled to his feet and covered the ground between them at speed.
Dempsey saw him coming, but his effort to free his gun left him open. And Turner took the opportunity. His timing impeccable, he hit Dempsey at a run just as the weapon came free.
Dempsey reeled backwards from the powerful impact, managed to keep his grip on the gun, but was unable to recover in time to avoid the expertly placed knee-strike that Turner then delivered to his ribs.
The air in Dempsey’s lungs rushed outwards as he felt several rib bones give way. He was stunned. Only for an instant, but long enough. Turner struck again, this time aiming the back of his fist at Dempsey’s exposed wrist. The blow knocked the Glock 19 from Dempsey’s hand, into the cover of the nearby undergrowth.
Turner’s arm was still swinging away from himself as he switched direction and threw his entire bodyweight into a second knee-strike, this time to Dempsey’s solar plexus. Every drop of power he managed to rip through his torso was delivered with pinpoint accuracy. A shuddering blow that took both men back to the floor.
Dempsey hit the ground hard. Disarmed and with ribs already broken, the third blow had sapped his energy and torn up his insides. He did his best to ignore it. To hide it. But he knew he could not fool Turner.
Turner seized the advantage. He pulled himself upright before Dempsey had a chance to move and manoeuvred his body on top of the bigger man. Dempsey felt his arms crushed under Turner’s knees. It left his upper body completely exposed for Turner to rain blow after blow upon it. Head. Neck. Chest. None of the blows were the most powerful Dempsey had suffered; Turner was hampered by his position. But they were hard enough. And they were relentless.
Dempsey could feel his strength sapping and his consciousness failing. He could not survive much more of this.
Instinct, experience and skill kicked in.
He ignored the blows. Stopped trying to avoid them and just allowed them to land. Instead he focused on his right arm. Consciously targeted every last ounce of strength towards it.
At first Turner did not seem to notice as Dempsey slowly pulled his right arm from under the weight of Turner’s knee.
When he did notice, it was already too late.
As soon as his arm was free Dempsey reached up and grabbed Turner’s left wrist. He held it in place. Dempsey was still the stronger man, and his desperation only widened that gap between them. It caused the ferocity of Turner’s attack to falter. He hesitated, as if torn between the blows his right fist could still deliver and the vice-like grip on his left wrist. It was all the invitation Dempsey needed.
Seizing the moment, Dempsey freed his left arm, now able to fight back. Much the broader and heavier, Dempsey had always been a powerhouse. It was an advantage he now brought to bear, pulling him closer. From here Turner could cause Dempsey no real damage, and his attack weakened.
With an explosion of power that tore through his abdomen, he brought his legs up high and used them to envelop Turner’s body. A further gut-busting thrust and Turner was thrown clear across the undergrowth.
Separated, both men climbed back to their feet.
Dempsey finally had a moment to shake off the blows he had taken. To regain his breath. His composure. He faced the rising Turner as he did so, and for the first time he could see fear creeping into his old friend’s eyes.
It was all the encouragement he needed.
‘Predictable spot you chose, wasn’t it?’
Dempsey’s question was delivered with a smirk. It was designed to delay. To give him more time as the breath returned through the pain of his broken ribs.
‘Still couldn’t get the drop on me, though, could you?’
Turner also spoke through hard-fought breaths. The struggle seemed to have tired him as much as it had Dempsey. Maybe more. And Dempsey now saw why. Turner’s hand pressed into his ribcage as he pulled in air; the act of a man trying to restrict the movement of broken ribs. He was carrying an injury as well, Dempsey now realised.
The two men started to close the distance between them, drifting around one another. Slowly, with all of the caution of two natural predators.
Turner moved first.
He feigned a blow with his left hand once they were in striking distance. Dempsey pretended to buy it, moving his right arm up to protect himself. It was the movement he knew Turner’s feint was designed for, as it exposed Dempsey’s broken ribs long enough for a second knee-strike.
Only this time that strike did not serve Turner so well.
Aware of what was coming, Dempsey used Turner’s movement against him. With his parrying arm raised and so able to add momentum, he brought his elbow down with phenomenal force. It caught Turner as he threw himself forward and sent him crashing to the ground, the skin above his eye torn apart in the process.
Turner was down, but he did not stay there.
Though blood was seeping into his left eye and his head was still reeling from Dempsey’s blow, Turner struggled to his feet. But it was a slow movement and it left him vulnerable.
Only halfway up, Turner could not defend against the perfectly timed knee-strike that crashed into his face. It smashed into his exposed nose and sent him careering into a nearby tree. His legs buckled beneath him as Dempsey watched, causing short, sharp branches to dig into his back as he slid down the tree’s trunk.
This time he was that little bit slower in climbing back to his feet again. More painfully than before. Slow and unsteady.
Dempsey stood and watched. He was now ignoring his own pain as he made Sam Regis’ killer suffer.
‘You’re getting old, James.’
‘Maybe,’ Turner replied, his breathing now audibly painful. ‘But I’ll be around long after you.’
Turner launched himself at Dempsey without warning, throwing parried blow after parried blow. Punches that kept coming, but with no clean strike landing. Dempsey blocked or avoided whatever Turner could throw at him, but in doing so he could not switch from defence to offence.
It was a stalemate that could not continue, and it ended when Dempsey lost his footing on an exposed tree root. It was just the slightest stumble, but it gave Turner the opening he needed. He sent a well-timed kick towards Dempsey’s chest as the agent struggled to place his feet. It sent Dempsey reeling backwards and to the floor, where he landed heavily on his spine.
He was back on his feet just in time as Turner rushed towards him, and, moving with an unexpected speed, swept Turner’s legs out from under him. Bringing himself upright with the momentum, he quickly followed up with a kick to Turner’s jaw.
Turner was sent sprawling backwards. Blood was flowing freely from his mouth, but Dempsey could tell that this was the least of his problems. Turner’s eyes said it all. The last blow had defeated him. He was done.
All Turner could do was scramble backwards through the dirt as Dempsey walked towards him.
‘It’s over, Jim.’
Turner did not answer. He just continued to crawl away. To put distance between him and the approaching Dempsey.
And in the next moment both he and Turner spotted the abandoned Glock, laying within Turner’s reach.
Dempsey reacted first, but Turner was closer. He moved faster than his physical condition should allow. In a moment the gun was in Turner’s hand, just as Dempsey reached him, in time to block Turner’s turn and grip his wrist, preventing a clean shot. Allowing Dempsey to grab the gun itself.
Each man had a firm grip on the weapon. And each was determined to be the one who used it. But this was not a battle won by the greater will to win. It would come down to something much more basic. It would come down to physical strength.
Turner gave it his all. Used every ounce of strength he had left. Still the weapon was turning towards him. Dempsey was winning, and he was pinning Turner to the tree behind him as he did so. Its fledgling branches once again dug into Turner’s back. Deeper this time.
Dempsey pressed ever harder, wrestling control of the pistol.
The barrel of the gun kept turning, until it faced fully inwards. Towards Turner’s chest. His best efforts had not been enough and – as he looked away from the gun and into Dempsey’s eyes – he must have known it was over.
He snarled at Dempsey in defiance.
‘I should have killed you in Colombia.’
The words were simple, his mouth contorted by blood and bitterness as he spoke.
Dempsey needed just two words in reply. He uttered them as he squeezed the weapon’s trigger and sent three bullets into Turner’s chest.
‘You tried.’