His final steps as he approached the footbridge were drowned out by the noise of a cargo train passing underneath it. The train ran past the disused station, past the yard, under the bridge and was probably on its way to deliver goods to Vienna. It was a distraction and nothing more.
Azrael wanted the high ground as much as he could and the steps of the footbridge would give him that. The Karambit was ready in his hand and his body was crouched low as he awaited his enemy.
The Fisherman, blade in hand, only slowed down his pace in the final few steps, until both men were mere feet from each other. Blade was pointed at blade.
Lyth assumed that the Iraqi was going to try to finish the pursuit here, resulting in Lyth’s death. But Lyth had other ideas. For him, this was a capture mission, not a kill. He needed Azrael sat in a cell at a Prism ‘Black Site’ talking about whoever was behind the attempted kidnap operation of the scientist. To do that, he would have to take Azrael alive and you couldn’t take a man alive with an edged weapon. Knives were there to grievously wound and kill.
No, to capture the Iraqi he would have to use the Sledgehammer, the Prism stun device that he had concealed in his left palm. A strike to the chest, head or back with the Sledgehammer and the Iraqi would be contained for good. But to even get anywhere near him physically, he would have to get past the fast-moving blade of the Karambit and disable the knife hand. But time was of the essence. If the fight wasn’t finished in the next few seconds, then it would become harder and harder to take the man alive.
The Fisherman and Azrael, bodies poised and feet planted firmly on the gravel, faced off against each other. There was an imperceptible shifting of their weight, a shoulder drop or a slight turn of the hip, nothing really that would have been spotted by even the keenest observer – and then their blades flashed.
The Karambit arced dangerously near to the Fisherman’s throat and it was only at the last second that the American dodged the slash of the curved knife and moved out of the way.
Lyth was amazed at the speed of the little bullet of a man as he slashed and cut with his Karambit again and again. He held his own knife ready in the guard position, close to his hip and prepared himself for the next volley of attacks from the Iraqi. It was Western knife combatives versus Asian edged weapons techniques.
Concealed in Lyth’s left palm was the Sledgehammer stun device, but in order to use it he had to disable Azrael’s knife hand. The Iraqi was moving in again fast, the blade out in front of him, slashing. Lyth stepped back and to the side, In-Quartata, and threw out a lighting-fast snap cut in the hope of hitting the other man’s knife hand.
It missed by inches and he knew that he would have to wait for his moment to come around again. He wouldn’t have to wait long, as Azrael, perhaps knowing that time was against him, moved forward once more, determined to gut his enemy.
As he took the step, Lyth lashed out with the toe of his shoe and felt it connect with Azrael’s shinbone. He saw the Iraqi wince with pain, but then smile as his Karambit cut through the jacket of the American and ripped open the back of the forearm, against the bone. Even now, Tom Lyth could feel the sharp stab of pain and the trickle of blood flowing down his sleeve.
The two men began to slowly circle each other, both looking for a chance opening. Azrael chanced an attack but was held off with fast jabs from the American, snap cuts, horizontal this time instead of vertical. In the distance, they could both hear the stomp of feet as unseen operators came running towards their location.
Azrael jabbed out once more, the blade dancing in front of him, his eyes never leaving the dark figure of the Fisherman, determined for his knife to find his target. He tried a low slash that was designed to open up the Fisherman’s stomach, but at the last moment the American spy hollowed out his body, causing the Karambit to pass smoothly past him. At the exact same moment, the Fisherman’s hooked blade cut down with power, severely wounding the first two fingers, the index and second finger, of Azrael’s knife hand.
The Iraqi screamed and dropped the Karambit. No sooner had it landed on the gravel than Lyth kicked it away out of reach. Azrael glared at the American with barely controlled fury. Very well, he thought, it will be knife versus hand.
But then the Fisherman did the strangest thing and dropped his own knife to the ground, once again kicking it out of reach the same as the Karambit, before clapping his hands together as if he was activating something concealed. There was a faint electric hum from his palm and that was when the tactical part of Azrael’s brain figured it out. This was another of the spy’s tricks – a feint within a feint. The Fisherman was not here to kill him – what a fool he had been! The Fisherman was here to capture him.
And that was something that Azrael could not allow.
The two men’s fighting styles were not dissimilar. The Iraqi had been taught the Indonesian art of Pencak Silat, taught by the same Jihadi convert who had taught him to use the Karambit, while the Fisherman had long been an exponent of Panantukan, a westernised version of Filipino boxing.
Lyth just needed one clear strike, anywhere would do, it would be enough to fell Azrael and restrain him. But the Iraqi was proving elusive, blocking and parrying his strikes. If Lyth tried an uppercut combo, Azrael patted away the shots. If Lyth tried to close the distance and grapple, the Iraqi would step off line and resist the attack.
Each traded a flurry of fast-moving, close-quarter strikes, kicks and off hand punches, but as for the Sledgehammer, it was proving difficult for Lyth to be able to connect it with its target. The combative dance of fending, limb clearing and parries continued for a few moments more, with each man trying desperately to gain the advantage over the other. But with each block and fend on his arm, Lyth could feel the pain increasing from his wound and he knew that the fight had to end now.
He lowered his centre of gravity, knees over toes, and threw himself forward to take out Azrael’s legs, managing to hook his right hand at the back of the Iraqi’s knee while at the same time hitting him with his body weight and blasting him backwards. Both men went down in a tangle of bodies and limbs, Azrael on his back and Lyth jockeying for the dominant mount position on top.
Lyth tried to move his left hand, his Sledgehammer hand, up to land a strike, but as if sensing that was the game plan, Azrael placed an iron grip on his wrist and then swept Lyth’s arm across their chests, locking it into position by transferring it to his other hand which was equally as strong. The compression of their two bodies trapped the arm, rendering the Sledgehammer useless.
It was now a lethal game of strength and Azrael took advantage of the situation by attempting to place a front naked choke on the American above him in the mount position. Azrael swept one arm around the back of Lyth’s neck and with the other, forced it across his windpipe.
Tom Lyth gasped and in those few seconds he knew that if he stayed in this position for too long, he would die from asphyxiation. Already he could feel the pressure building. He dragged his knees up the range of the other man’s body to give himself some wriggle room and he was able to move his trapped arm backwards. Below him, he could hear the grunting of Azrael as he tried to exert more and more pressure. Now it was a race to see who could take action first; Azrael with his choke, or Lyth by being able to strike with his hand.
It was enough space for Lyth and he slammed the Sledgehammer into the only target he could comfortably reach – the other man’s thigh. Azrael jerked and convulsed once, but the pressure did not let up.
Christ, he’s strong, thought Tom Lyth. Tough bastard.
Then he reached behind his own head, careful of where he was going to strike, and slammed the Sledgehammer down on the back of Azrael’s hand; the hand that was holding the pressure on Tom Lyth’s neck. The effect was instantaneous and the Iraqi’s hand seemed to lose all power. It was enough to relieve the pressure, but the strike of the stun device had only temporarily slowed him down and not stopped him.
The head coming crashing forward into his face had both surprised and stunned Lyth and he cried out in pain. He was dazed and only had a brief moment before the body beneath him pushed him off and to the side. Now their roles were reversed and he was aware of Azrael getting to his feet.
The Iraqi bent down, picking up his once lost Karambit and just as he was about to escape, Tom Lyth shot out his hand around his enemy’s ankle and touched the Sledgehammer to it. He felt the power surge from the device into the other man’s limb and felt it buckle. Then Azrael was on the run once more, hobbling, and the Fisherman was trying to get to his feet to reach him.
The stun gun, or whatever it was, had numbed his leg and he was limping up the steps of the bridge. Azrael knew that he was beaten, defeated and outnumbered and he knew that he was about to die here in Austria in a shit ‘out of use’ railroad in the back end of nowhere.
But if he was about to die, it would be in his own way and not by the hands of spies and deceivers. He would not be caught. He would not be interrogated. He would not be tortured. Not anymore. He thought back to all the times men had tried to kill or capture him; in Iraq, Africa, even here in Europe. All had failed. To be caught would bring shame upon him in the eyes of his mentor and all that he stood for. His mentor had rescued him and had given him a purpose.
The very least that he could do was repay that debt of honour with his own life.
He had made it as far as the middle of the bridge when he heard the noise of the engine in the distance. It was not moving at top speed, but was moving fast enough not to be able to stop in time if something was thrown in its way. He had, he guessed, merely moments left to live. He held the tip of the blade of the Karambit against the vein in his neck. The train, probably delivering goods to Vienna, was growing louder and getting nearer.
Suddenly, he became aware of figures on both ends of the bridge. To the left, a young woman appeared holding a silenced pistol and it was already up and pointing at him. To his right, and held up by a tough-looking man who had his arm around his bruised and battered body, was his nemesis, the Fisherman. He was trapped.
Azrael looked both ways for a moment, gauging the threat that both parties posed.
“Don’t do this! We can protect you!” he heard the Fisherman call.
Azrael ignored him. He, after all, served a much more powerful figure than a mere spy and his fanciful delusions. In many respects, he, Azrael, was the ultimate humanist who had been guided and inspired by his mentor and protector these many years.
He heard the train approaching them and then he opened up the vein in his neck, felt the blood flow freely, and then he leaned forward and fell into the path of the fast moving train below him.