A crazy thought raced through his brain: Please God not another sword fight—
And then he slammed into Manus, coming in low under the free arm, hitting him in the gut with his right shoulder like a linebacker trying to blast through to the quarterback. The force of the impact knocked Manus back—not by much, but enough to buy Dox just enough space to wrap his hands around Manus’s hand and wrist and pin the knife to the man’s hip. They struggled for a second, and Dox realized with a tinge of panic that even with a two-on-one grip and bearing down hard, he was having trouble controlling the knife hand. Worse, if he had two hands occupied, it meant that Manus—
He sensed the elbow blurring in a second before it landed and managed to get a shoulder partly in the way. Still, the shot glanced off his head and he saw stars.
“We’re here to help you, goddamnit!” he shouted. “Listen to me!”
But Manus didn’t listen. He brought in his free hand, grabbed Dox’s right wrist, and began to pry it back. Good lord, the man’s grip was like the damn jaws of life. Dox couldn’t see Larison and was afraid he was angling off for a shot. “Don’t shoot him!” he yelled again. “Get in here and help me!”
Dox struggled desperately to hang on. Manus’s hand was slippery from the rain, and if he broke Dox’s grip, an instant later that knife or sword or whatever the hell it was would be in play.
“Listen to me!” Dox shouted again. “We’re not trying to hurt you!”
His arms started to shake with the effort of trying to control Manus’s knife hand. And just as he was sure he was going to lose it—
Larison crashed into Manus from the opposite side. He took hold of Manus’s free hand and dragged it back. Now each of them had a two-on-one grip. They circled clockwise for a moment, like dancers locked in a weird waltz, everyone taking little mincing steps so as not to slip on the wet pavement. Somehow they managed to shove Manus back against one of the concrete walls. They tried to pull his arms wide, but the man was so strong the most they could manage was a stalemate, everyone hanging on to whatever they had.
Well shit this is certainly going well—
And then Manus seemed to tap into some hidden reserve of strength. Gritting his teeth but not making a sound, he started to retract his left arm. Larison braced and pulled the other way, grimacing with the effort, eyes bulging in disbelief, but inch by inch Manus hauled him closer until he’d gotten him in front of Dox. And then he began to drag the knife hand back, using Larison’s body as a kind of brace.
“Goddamnit, can’t you tell we’re not trying to hurt you?” Dox shouted. “What are you, deaf?”
From just behind him, he heard Larison say, “Oh, hell.”
Dox thought, What?
And then Larison was gone, disengaged. Instantly Manus seized Dox by the throat with his freed left hand. He started to squeeze. Dox turtled in his chin to save his trachea from being crushed but still he couldn’t breathe—
“Dumbass . . . we’re . . . trying . . . to . . . help . . . you,” he rasped.
But Manus ignored him. Dox could feel his grip on the knife hand slipping—
And suddenly Manus stopped, as still as if he’d been turned to stone. Dox jerked his head back, coughed violently, and sucked in a huge, heaving thank-you-sweet-lord breath. He glanced right. There was Larison, five feet back, angled out, the Glock up in a two-handed grip and pointed directly at Manus’s face. The danger vibe was gone, replaced by pure ice. The angel of death himself, and Dox had never been gladder for his company.
“Can you read lips?” Larison said.
Manus looked at Larison. There was a long, frozen moment. Then he gave a single nod.