Sarah’s blood turned to ice at Michael’s words. As she struggled to control her breathing, she could hardly focus on the metal club she held in her shaking hands. She needed to calm herself. Needed reassurance. She found it by looking at Michael. He was calm and controlled, his breathing steady. The taut muscles of his back were visible through the undersized t-shirt he was still wearing. It was the back of a strong man. Which was exactly what she needed Michael to be. This was the man who had fought a trained killer and lived. Most importantly, this was the man who had already saved her life once. And a man who – she believed – would do everything possible to save it again.
These thoughts were going through Sarah’s mind just as Michael turned to her and whispered:
‘Time’s up.’
The door to room 6.3 was torn from its hinges by the force of Noel Best’s boot. Best must have expected another secured room as the power was considerable. Too considerable. Exactly as Michael had hoped.
The unlocked door was thrown through its axis with such momentum that it came away from the frame and struck the left-hand wall of the office. It did not slow Best for an instant as he hurtled into the room. Michael made no attempt to stop him; it would fall to Sarah to engage him first. Michael’s attention was already elsewhere. Barely a flicker of time was available in which he had to predict where the second man would appear and muster his full strength to swing McGale’s five-iron towards that spot.
The swinging club met a fleeting moment of resistance in the same instant that Michael first saw Graham Arnold. Resistance that did not last. The entire shape of the man’s face collapsed under the bad intentions Michael had put behind the swing. It was bone versus metal, and bone lost. In a tenth of a second Arnold’s nose had exploded, his right cheekbone had collapsed and most of his teeth were now in his throat. Michael had no way of knowing how tough a man Arnold might be, but that did not matter. No one could sustain that level of trauma and stay standing.
Without pausing, Michael turned to Sarah, whose role had been to swing at the first man’s pistol. A simple task, but simple is not the same as easy. It had been a big responsibility to give to anyone. Especially someone alien to violence. And yet, as Michael turned, he saw she had risen to the challenge; Best was clutching his hand, his gun nowhere to be seen.
It bought them a much-needed moment, but that was all; Sarah’s second swing was much less effective, lacking both the surprise and the momentum she needed. Best caught the club in his good hand as it came towards him and wrenched it from her grip. As Sarah fought to keep hold of it, she was dragged towards Best. Close enough for a vicious left hook to send her crashing to the floor, blood streaming from her mouth.
Michael’s adrenaline was at an all-time high. At its limit, he thought. So he was shocked to feel his blood pump even faster at the sight of Sarah’s pain. The rage it brought from within him was like nothing he had experienced in decades.
It found an immediate outlet.
With a primal roar Michael ran at Best. Best’s attention was still on Sarah, aiming a kick as she struggled to her feet. It was not a blow he would complete.
Michael’s golf club had been discarded in unthinking anger. Instead he had just his own body as he took Best at a run. The two men crashed over the room’s only table and landed heavily on the floor behind it.
Michael was the quicker to react as they hit the carpet. He did not hesitate. Best, still reeling from the shock of the attack, had no time to think before being pummelled by Michael’s fists, elbows and head. But thinking was not necessary. This situation called for instinct and power, and Best had those in spades.
Reacting as an animal would, Best began to match Michael blow for blow, his fists doing damage wherever they could land. It was a dogfight. Raw. Uninhibited. Exhausting.
Both men were waning within seconds. Slowing. Weakening. The blows were taking their toll. Finally Best managed to flip Michael, sending him feet away. It was a moment’s respite, long enough for both to struggle to their feet, but over the instant they were standing.
Sarah backed towards a side wall as Michael and Best careered around the room. She had regained her wits and knew that she risked being crushed as the two men slammed from one wall to the next.
Punching. Kicking. Gouging. Biting. Both men knew that they could not keep up such intensity. Each one needed the killer blow, and were beating each other to a bloody pulp as they looked for it.
It is a common misconception that a knockout punch should be aimed at the chin. A strong enough blow to any part of the head will lead to unconsciousness, by sending the brain slamming into the side of the skull that houses it. But if a fighter has the skill to pick his spot, nothing beats a well-placed blow to the temple.
Michael found that out the hard way as Best’s left fist found its way through his guard. Best’s knuckles crashed into Michael’s temple with all the power the weaker hand could muster. It was a blow that would put most men asleep.
That Michael stayed awake was pure genetic luck. The ability to take a punch had been a Devlin trait for generations. Even so, the punch left him dazed for too long. By the time his head cleared he was already pinned to the wall, beside the remains of the shattered door. Best had lifted him clear of the floor, an iron grip encasing Michael’s increasingly damaged throat.
Michael looked down as he struggled to breathe and saw the determination in Best’s eyes. Best intended to end this fatally. There was nothing Michael could do to stop him. He tried. Thrashed weakly at the wounds he had already inflicted to Best’s face and head. But his blows had little effect, with their frequency and power decreasing as his oxygen disappeared.
Michael could feel his strength seeping from his body as his life was choked away. But Sarah still had hers.
Michael had claimed all of Best’s attention since launching his attack, and so Best did not spot Sarah as she picked up one of the discarded golf clubs, gripped it firmly in her hands, took careful aim and swung. The head of the club connected with Best’s right ear, clean and crisp. His grip on Michael’s almost-crushed throat broke.
Best turned, angry and in pain. He was determined to pay that pain back, and then some. But Sarah had learned from her previous mistake. She didn’t pause, not even to glance in Michael’s direction as he crumpled to the floor, gasping for pained but essential breath. Instead she swung again immediately, full force, and struck Best across the face, tearing a deep gash in his skin.
Michael’s eyes had cleared in time to see the second blow, and that Best was still standing. Still fighting. Michael marvelled at the resilience. The man just would not go down.
Then history began to repeat itself.
Sarah took a third swing, but she had again lost the element of surprise, and this time Best was ready. He launched his full weight towards her, bringing him inside Sarah’s swing circle. With the club no longer a threat, he shoulder-barged her, sending her careering into and then down the opposite wall. This time Sarah stayed down, the last of her fight now knocked out of her.
Michael would play the next moment over in his mind many times. A moment that would make him question his belief in the life he had created. It proved to him that, despite everything, he had never really left the old Michael Devlin behind.
Best had spotted his fallen weapon and started towards it. Even with his mind still struggling to focus, Michael knew what that meant: if Best reached the pistol neither Michael nor Sarah would leave the room alive.
In that instant Michael made a choice. A choice that cost Noel Best his life.
Michael looked to his left at the remains of the office door, smashed against the wall. He reached out and gripped a single shard of glass that hung limply from what had been the door’s upper half. Climbing to his feet, he rushed towards Best without a sound. It was a short distance, and he covered it fast. So fast that Best did not notice him until it was much too late.
Just as Best reached the spot where his gun had fallen, he half-turned. It may have been a sound that alerted him. Or perhaps just that feeling of presence when another human being is so close. Whatever it was, he never had a chance to react. He felt nothing as he saw Michael’s arm swing past his throat, sending deep-crimson droplets shooting through the air.
Full realisation took a few seconds more. It coincided with both the knowledge that the guttural choking sound that Best could hear was coming from his own throat, and with a sudden loss of strength throughout his body.
The dying man fell to his knees, blood seeping from the gaping hole that now ran the width of his neck. Then he looked up into his killer’s eyes just as life disappeared from his own.