However, he put these minor impediments to the back of his mind and concentrated on the matter in hand because this was what he lived for and there were few who did it better.
Along with all the glass, the workshop style interior featured several wide work benches set at various intervals around the outer edge which, Locke presumed, were for the purposes of cutting and shaping. Behind each bench was a shoulder height breeze block dividing wall which the craftsmen evidently used to stack their finished panels against.
One such wall sat at an exact right angle to the workshop’s entrance. It also happened to be in the darkest corner of the large space, making it the ideal hiding place.
Quickly, Locke crossed over and huddled down behind it out of sight, the trench knife held firmly in his grip and the delicious anticipation of using it once more almost overwhelming.
Then suddenly he heard what he knew to be the soft careful sound of a footfall.
His prey was near and he grinned with wicked delight.
***
Sam’s pulse was racing as he navigated his way across the yard and into the main building beyond, expecting at any moment to be attacked by Locke.
Unarmed, it was a daunting proposition but he had to trust his training. Mikhail and Pyotr had taught him exceptionally well and he had honed those skills to perfection during his years in Africa.
Indeed, no longer was he the young, defenceless boy he had been in that glade but now a highly skilled combat veteran at the very top of his game.
Yet so was the man he was hunting.
But if Sam had any hope of surviving, of making it back to Miri alive, then he had to have faith in his own abilities and trust that justice would prevail.
However, it was difficult to be confident in the face of the unknown particular with no weapon with which to defend himself.
Nonetheless, he pressed steadily forward, deep into the belly of the darkened building, choosing each step carefully so as to be as silent as possible.
Finally he found himself on the threshold of the manufacturing area; a large workshop environment that offered many places to hide. Instinctively Sam knew that if an attack was to come, then it would be from here and he braced himself for such an eventuality.
What is more, Sam now suspected that Locke had somehow known he was being tailed and had deliberately lured him into the building for the purposes of killing him.
Indeed, he sensed that Claudette’s murderer was looking at him at that very moment, lying in wait for the perfect opportunity to strike.
So, as Sam silently stepped out into the centre of the room, he decided his best option was to draw Locke out.
“I know you’re here,” he said loudly, his words echoing off the breeze block walls.
He waited for a moment but there was no response. So he tried again.
“I’m talking to you, James Locke.”
Again he waited for some reaction but still none came.
“I am the one who killed your friends,” he said with a sense of deep satisfaction.
“You know who I mean, don’t you?” He continued. “Surely you must remember them - Merton, McCullough, Finch and Williams - oh, and Darius Purcell, too, of course. I even took care of DeVilliers - as I’m sure you’ve probably guessed by now.”
Sam then took a beat, letting his words settle, every fibre of his being in a state of heightened awareness as he finally threw down the gauntlet.
“And now I’m here to kill you.”
A couple of seconds went by, each of them seeming like a minute and he wondered if his words had fallen on stony ground.
But then, suddenly, Locke stood up from where he had been lurking in the dark, his pride preventing him from remaining hidden any longer and his over inflated ego refusing to accept that he was anything other than Sam’s superior.
Besides, the challenge he presented was all too tempting.
He smiled appreciatively as he stepped into view, respecting the boldness of Sam’s actions, the trench knife’s shiny blade gleaming in the filtered moonlight seeping through the filthy skylights above.
“And I know you, too, Sam Beresford, he said, “Because I am the one who killed that black bitch you were fucking before you had the balls to call yourself a man.”
Hearing Claudette described in such degrading terms and seeing from Locke’s body language the blatant disregard he had for the life he had taken from her, Sam wanted to run over and rip his head off.
But he did not. He remained outwardly calm, showing no trace of emotion as he coldly appraised the monster before him.
Sam remembered his piercing blue eyes and tall, six foot frame and knew unquestionably that it was the same man who had stabbed him and left him for dead all those years ago.
But at the same time he also seemed to be a completely different person.
Indeed, when compared to the tanned, muscular individual who had attacked him in the glade, this one was pale and somewhat sickly in appearance.
Even as he thought it, Locke erupted into a violent coughing fit, although he kept his eyes firmly on Sam, with the trench knife trained and ready, until it had subsided.
“You’re not well,” Sam observed. It was a statement of fact, nothing more.
“And you’re unarmed,” Locke replied, with a shrug.
“So I guess we’re about even then,” said Sam.
Locke sneered with contempt, “If you think that, boy, then you’ve still got one hell of a lot to learn.”
“Then why don’t you teach me?” Sam snarled, readying himself for combat, Mikhail and Pyotr’s relentless drilling now second nature to him.
Locke, too, adopted an offensive stance as the two men slowly began circling each other in the centre of the darkened workshop; huge sheets of glass stacked all around them and dangling precariously from the hydraulically operated arms above their heads.
But the two bitter adversaries were only focussed on what was ahead.
Until suddenly, Locke lunged forward, in a blisteringly quick attack, the trench knife aimed squarely at Sam’s chest. But he was prepared for the assault and deftly twisted his torso aside allowing the blade to pass by unimpeded.
In the same movement, he chopped Locke’s outstretched arm with the side of his open palm and whipped his knee up to feel a rewarding crunch as it connected with the other man’s ribs.
It was merely a first foray, each trying to test the other’s mettle to better get a measure of what they might be up against, but it belonged to Sam.
“Very good,” Locke said, visibly impressed. “I see you’ve had some practice.”
“Yep, well, your friends gave plenty,” Sam replied with a grin, pleased to have got the better of the opening gambit but knowing there was still much to do if he had any hope of prevailing.
Locke smiled, “I’ll bet they did,” he said. “But believe me, boy, they were merely the warm up bouts - and I’m the main event.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Sam replied, “So why the fuck don’t you get on with it?”
At the invitation, Locke charged forward again. This time, however, it was a full on assault as the two men clashed in a furious, bone crunching battle. Elbows, knees, fists, feet, all being used to brutal effect as each fought for supremacy; Locke expertly slashing and stabbing with the trench knife and Sam skilfully defending himself by parrying each deadly thrust with a bruising counter.
Yet the frenzy of violence was not without consequence as Sam felt the knife first penetrate his shoulder then slice across his chest. But he was mindless to his injuries as he slammed his elbow into Locke’s nose, smashing it with devastating force, before following up with a crippling kick to the side of the knee, sending his rival reeling into a nearby work bench, shattering several thick panes of glass which were stacked beside it.
Both men were n
ow breathing hard, glad of the brief respite. Blood was pissing from Locke’s broken nose as he gobbed out red saliva onto the floor. He was wheezing and began to cough violently once more.
Sam knew it was a perfect moment to strike but he was simply too exhausted and grateful for whatever rest he could get.
The joint between his arm and shoulder had been punctured deeply, the wound almost identical to the one inflicted by ‘Psycho’ Billy Merton many years before, and blood was pumping steadily from it. Furthermore, he could feel his injured limb slowly seizing up and knew it would soon be useless.
Additionally, there was a wide bloody gash across his chest where the knife had slashed him, slicing easily through his leather jacket and flimsy T-Shirt and splitting the soft flesh beneath.
If he had any hope of staying alive then he had to relieve his opponent of the knife. Quickly.
“You want this, don’t you?” Coughed Locke holding up the knife, reading his intent.
“Hey, if you’re offering,” Sam replied with a wry smile. “Sure.”
Locke grinned coldly, blocking out the terrible pain from his twisted knee and trying not to put too much weight upon it as he silently appraised his enemy.
It would be so easy just to pull out the semi-automatic tucked into his jeans at the small of his back and blow a neat, round hole through the boy’s head - although he was clearly a boy no more, as he had just amply demonstrated.
Indeed, Locke had to concede that Sam Beresford was proving to be much stiffer opposition than he had previously anticipated.
Therefore to just shoot him seemed such a shame. Indeed, he would be robbing himself of the delicious thrill of gutting him like a fish, denying himself the sensual eroticism of the razor sharp blade penetrating his flesh and the gratifying feel of his lifeblood as it flowed from his dying body.
And his pride would simply not allow it. Locke was superior, he would prevail and no one - especially not some pampered civilian - would ever beat him.
“Tell you what,” he said, as he limped forward, preparing for battle once more, “why don’t you take it from me?”
Sam, glared at him, his eyes filled with hate, the image of Claudette being stabbed with the exact same knife he was looking at now, playing across his mind, fuelling his anger and charging his resolve. “Glad to,” he growled.
In that moment, Locke lunged forward once more, his arm at full stretch and the lethal point of the knife thrusting towards Sam’s gut, ready to gouge out his innards.
But the injured knee had made him slow, giving Sam a vital second longer to react.
As with the initial attack, he again dodged aside, allowing the knife to pass harmlessly by, but this time, instead of chopping Locke’s arm, he was able to grab it.
Then, with lightning speed, he bent it backwards and under, snapping it at the elbow with the sound of a branch being ripped from a tree as jagged shards of bone burst through the skin.
Locke screamed in agony as Sam then pulled the arm around him, using the impetus of movement to throw his opponent over his shoulder and slam him down onto the ground; Locke’s back connecting hard against the concrete with tremendous force, pounding the air from his lungs.
As Sam powered his knee down into his enemy’s groin, he twisted the mangled arm around - the trench knife still clutched helplessly in Locke’s grip, his hand trapped by the brass knuckle guard.
Sam then aimed the razor sharp blade downwards and drove it forcefully into Locke’s belly, throwing his whole bodyweight behind it as he pressed the entire length of the cold steel home until only the hilt remained.
“This is for Claudette, you fucking evil bastard!” Sam hissed through gritted teeth, spittle spraying onto Locke’s disbelieving face as he felt the knife twisting in his gut.
Locke’s eyes flew wide with shock - showing Sam the same terrible expression Claudette had worn just moments before she had died - and it felt good. Indeed, it seemed poetically just that the knife which had ended her life had now ended her killer’s.
Locke gagged and choked as blood erupted from his throat and bubbled over his lips.
He simply could not believe it. The fact that he, James Locke, had been bested by someone so insignificant as Sam Beresford was utterly inconceivable.
Yet laying there, with death about to take him he knew it was the truth.
By now, though, Sam had seen enough. He had done what he had sworn to do. He had honoured his vow.
Now the killing was over.
With Locke gasping for his last few lungfuls of air, Sam rolled off him and clambered slowly to his feet, no longer concerned by the dying man on the floor. He could rot in hell.
However, as he began to walk away, Locke, using every ounce of his considerable resolve and all the strength he could muster, reached painfully beneath his impaled body with his one good arm and pulled the Glock 18 out from the back of his jeans.
“Hey!” He gasped, blood dripping in long gooey strands from his agonised lips as he lifted the gun and pointed at his enemy’s back.
Sam was weary from battle and his body ached, yet he turned to listen to the dying words of the man he had hated for the past eleven years - who he would continue to hate even though he had fulfilled his oath.
But he turned anyway.
In that moment he saw the semi-automatic aimed directly at him and realised, too late, the grave misjudgment he had made.
“I win mutherfucker!” Exclaimed Locke grinning murderously, his teeth stained red.
However, no sooner had the words left his mouth, when a loud mechanical groan tore through the silence of the deserted workshop.
Startled, Locke instinctively looked up in the direction from which the sound had come, just in time to see the hydraulic arm that was stretched out high overhead release the giant sheet of glass it had previously been holding.
Sam stared aghast, completely powerless, as the heavy pane plummeted silently through the air, like the huge transparent blade of a giant guillotine speeding towards its victim.
Sam dived out of the way as the sheet of glass then sliced down and severed Locke clean in half, completely separating his legs from his torso and killing him instantly as it smashed into tiny pieces upon impact with the hard ground.
Curling himself into a tight ball, Sam covered his head with his arms as shards of glass sprayed all around him, covering the grey concrete with a carpet of sparkling fragments.
Yet miraculously he was not harmed.
When he was certain it was safe, he looked up, aware of someone standing close by, thinking for the briefest moment that Locke had miraculously survived.
But as he stared through the darkness he saw it was not Locke, but Miri.
She was holding the rectangular control box that operated the hydraulic arm in her hands, her finger still pressed firmly on the green ‘release’ button.
Her face was set, completely unfazed, as she met his astonished gaze.
“That animal murdered my best friend,” she said with utter conviction, “and I’d be damned if I was just going to stand by and watch him kill you too!”
Sam stared at her with a mixture of love and tremendous pride, realising, with absolute certainty, that the strong, resourceful Miriam Dufour he had known at university was now most definitely back.
And there was nothing more that needed to be said.
***
Unbeknownst to Sam, Miri had followed him all the way. Whilst he had waited on the Pont des Arts, she had concealed herself a short distance away, near the Institut de France on the riverboat side of the bridge.
She had even seen something fall from Sam’s pocket into The Seine but had been too far away to see what it was.
Nonetheless, she feared shouting out might alert Locke, wherever he might be, to Sam’s presence.
So she followed behind, haili
ng a taxi just a few moments after Sam, not knowing that he had Locke in his sights.
She had tailed him to the street where he was dropped off, too late to see Locke enter the glass merchant’s yard ahead of him.
But she followed Sam anyway, determined to have his back if plans went awry.
However, she had still been bumbling through the building’s dark interior, some distance from the workshop, when the fight broke out and had only arrived after the battle was raging.
She had watched, terrified, from the sidelines. Purposely staying out of sight, knowing her presence might distract Sam should he discover she was there.
But as the two men fought, she had time to think, which was when her eyes fell upon the hydraulic arm and the control box that just happened to be hanging on a thick, black cable beside her.
And Sam would be eternally grateful to her that it was.
For now Locke was dead and only Faraday remained.
Part Eight:
An Eye For An Eye
Chapter Fifty
Niamey, Niger, three months later.
Ekon Sekibo’s hair was now pure white and his mahogany skin wrinkled with the passing of the years. Indeed, at almost seventy, he had recently become a grandfather for the third time.
Having initially lost everything after resigning his government post in the wake of Claudette’s death, he had been a broken man, utterly bereft by her passing and his failure to prevent it.
Slowly, however, he had managed to rebuild his life. But it had not been easy as the weight of her loss had been a heavy burden to bear and still haunted him to this day.
Nonetheless, he now lived in a small house on the outskirts of Niamey earning a modest living as a lawyer.
Preparations were currently underway for the wedding of his youngest daughter who was now twenty-one, the same age as his eldest girl had been when she had been so cruelly taken from him.
Yet he had never been able to forgive himself for the things he had said to her during their last meeting on the eve of her murder.
He had raged about the illegitimacy of the child she was carrying and refused to recognise her relationship with the father whom she had clearly adored, all because of his own outdated beliefs and small-minded prejudices.
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