He was like a hound with a scent, unafraid, using primal senses to follow the sounds of panicked breathing and running feet, focused only on following his prey until he had it cornered. He was getting closer. Wilde was fit and strong. Despite his ordeal, his body pulsed with energy, fuelled by his visceral hunger for retribution.

He followed Jung to the edge of the quarry and looked down. It was deep. One false step could see him plunging into its unforgiving maw of loose rocks and sheer sides.

To his left, he heard a grunt. Young had slipped and fallen in the wet grass. Wilde threw himself at the shadowy mass, hammering at him with the metal stock of the Sten gun – but Young was already rolling away, towards the edge of the quarry. Then the glint of a blade in Young’s right hand caught the thin moonlight, thrusting upwards at Wilde’s face. Wilde evaded the strike, dropped the gun and caught Young’s wrist in one seamless movement. Using both hands, he held the wrist ratchet-tight.

Young lashed out with his left hand, driving his fist twice in quick succession into the side of Wilde’s head. The blows stunned him momentarily and he almost lost his grip on Jung’s wrist, the blade stabbing at his throat.

Wilde scrabbled back, still not releasing his grip on Young’s knife hand. He redoubled his grip and something snapped in one of Jung’s wrists. The assassin roared with terrifying pain and the knife fell away from his grasp.

For the first time, Wilde was on top. His fist smashed into Jung’s nose, sending blood spraying from his nostrils. Then he delivered two sharp blows to his abdomen. He grasped Young’s hair and pummelled his head into the ground.

Jung lay unmoving and Wilde rolled away from him. He experienced a moment of exhilaration, then his shoulders slumped with utter exhaustion and all he could feel was the awful touch of the flame on his back once more. He fought off a wave of dizziness and hoisted himself up to his feet. For a few moments, he considered picking Jung up and slinging him over the precipice. But he couldn’t do it – not in cold blood.

Instead, he grabbed Young by the arm and dragged him up.

‘Walk,’ he said, pushing him forward.

Young stumbled, falling back to his knees. Wilde pulled him up again and got him in an armlock, his mouth close to his ear, his breath hot and urgent.

‘You walk now, Young. You try anything and I swear I will either throw you over the edge or break your fucking neck.’

‘This isn’t over, Wilde.’ He was panting as he spoke, his voice edged with something like desperation.

‘I think it is.’

‘It’ll never be over. Not while the child’s alive.’