Michael followed his pale eyes as they locked onto the lethal weapon. A weapon Michael could not let him retrieve.

Hirst scrambled towards the gun. An ordinarily simple task, but less so with a bullet lodged in his shoulder. The injury restricted Hirst’s movement. Slowed him.

It is a rare occasion when previous bullet wounds can be called an advantage, but this was one of those times. Hirst seemed surprised by the debilitating effect of the shot. By just how much damage it had done.

Michael was not. He had been shot before.

Of the two men, Michael alone knew his sudden limitations. And he knew Hirst’s.

He roared as he ran towards Hirst. A roar of pain. Of anger. Of desperation. It distracted Hirst for no more than an instant, but that instant was enough.

The impact of Michael’s left shoulder into Hirst’s torso was agony for both men. Powerful enough to lift Hirst from the floor and send him crashing into a headstone six feet away. Wild enough to send Michael in the same direction.

Michael lay motionless where he fell, his head thumping from the inside. The pain and effort of his shoulder charge had torn into his energy reserves. Little remained. He could only hope that Hirst had suffered more.

To know for sure, Michael needed to stand.

One glance towards Hirst and the question was answered. He was slowly climbing to his feet. Mirroring Michael’s own movement. Sharing Michael’s suffering.

They were just feet apart. Each moving with the same exhausted effort. If the bullets they had taken had changed the game, the collision that had followed had assured its imminent end.

Only one question remained. Who wanted it more?

Hirst moved first. A wild lunge towards Michael. Too slow. Too weak.

Michael saw the movement. And he reacted. What was left of his adrenaline surged through his veins. Energised him.

Michael gave no thought to his own wounds as he stepped inside Hirst’s blow and slammed his right shoulder into Hirst’s nose. Hirst was already unsteady on his feet. Already weak at the knees. And so the force sent him careering backwards. Into the same headstone he had hit just moments before.

The blow sent shockwaves down Michael’s right arm. They tore into his bicep, damaging it further and increasing his blood loss. But it did not slow him for a moment. Driven by the knowledge of what Hirst had done – of what he still planned to do – Michael leapt forward.

The balance and coordination Michael had enjoyed when fighting Patrick O’Driscoll was absent, sapped by his injury. But Michael did not care.

This was not a street fight. This was a fight to the death.

He thought of nothing but the need to damage as he rammed his head into Hirst’s face. The gaping wound that the blow left in Michael’s own scalp was meaningless. All that mattered was Hirst, his face a shattered mask of blood.

The headstone at the base of Hirst’s spine was the only thing now keeping him upright. Michael neither knew nor cared. His primal rage was all there was left. Directed at the man who had threatened his life. The man who had taken his best friend. The man who would be a danger to Sarah for as long as he still drew breath.