The man in black was standing in the weak beam of the train lights. The sneering smile was still there, only this time it was joined by something much worse. The glimmer of a long blade, held in his right hand.

Michael knew what that meant. The fighting was over. Now only the killing remained.

He placed his injured left foot in front of his right. An attempt to stabilise himself. But as much as he tried to focus, the impact with the rail had left him bloody and dazed. The world seemed to be spinning. Filled with the roar of a train that didn’t appear to be moving.

‘You’re in bad shape, counsellor.’

‘I’ve had worse.’

Michael’s words were defiant, but his condition said otherwise. Sheer will to survive was all that was keeping him upright.

He threw a punch. It was slow. Clumsy. Weak. The man in black leaned backwards with a taunting grin, avoiding the blow as easily as if he were up against a child. As he did so he brought his blade upwards, under Michael’s outstretched right arm, and cut deep into his triceps.

Michael pulled his hand against his chest and stumbled backwards. His left moved instinctively towards the cut, only for agony to fire again through his dislocated shoulder and broken wrist.

The sight made the agent laugh. A cruel, mocking sound.

‘You’re just delaying the inevitable.’

Michael didn’t respond. The man was right but he could not let him see that. He forced his mind to focus through the pain. To look for a way out. For just a moment, he thought he might have it.

The agent had not noticed how close he was to the power rail. Two feet at most. Stumbling distance, if Michael could only push him in the direction.

It was a moment of hope. But only that. In his weakened state Michael was far from subtle, and the agent had followed his glance.

‘You think you can force me onto that?’ he asked, his voice as scornful as his expression. ‘The condition you’re in?’

Michael knew then it was hopeless. The noise and the pain in his head were deafening now. Disorientating him. Whatever strength remained, whatever he could put into one final, desperate blow, it was not going to be enough.

He tried anyway.

The punch was even weaker than before. And, inevitably, the agent saw it coming from Michael’s first movement. As before, he leaned backwards to avoid the blow. An exaggerated distance. Much further than was necessary as the fist that sailed clumsily past. A cruel attempt to humiliate a beaten man.

That vicious smile never left his lips as he began to correct himself and raise the blade. This time it would not be Michael’s arm that took the razor sharp cut. He was done playing with his prey.

Even through the disorientating roar of the tunnel, Michael could see the focus in the man’s eyes. The murderous intent.

And then, for just an instant, Michael could see the horror.