“Drop the knife,” Larison said. “You can have it back after we’ve talked. If we wanted to kill you, you’d be dead already.”
Manus eyed Larison. He wasn’t struggling with Dox anymore, but he wasn’t complying, either.
Dox stole a quick glance in Larison’s direction. “Tell him I said please.”
“What?” Larison said.
“Tell him.”
“No.”
“Damn it, tell him. I’m not letting go of his wrist until he drops the knife. And my hands are getting tired.”
There was a pause. Larison said, “My partner says he doesn’t want me to kill you.”
“That’s not what I said!”
Another pause. “He says please.”
But they were still stalemated.
“Tell him I’m not letting go of his wrist until he drops the knife. And of the two ways he might drop it, I’d prefer he chooses the one where he can pick it up again when we’re done talking.”
“Either you drop the knife on your own,” Larison said, “or you drop it because I’ve shot out your brain stem.”
“That’s not what I said!”
“It’s what he needs to understand.”
A long moment went by. Dox didn’t know what to do. If the man didn’t believe Larison would kill him, it would be a hell of a last mistake.
But whatever Manus saw in Larison’s stance and in his eyes, he must have known what it meant. Dox felt the man’s wrist flex. An instant later, the knife hit the wet pavement with a clang. Dox kicked it away, released the wrist, and took a long step back and to the side, making sure he didn’t get in the way of Larison’s line of sight.
“Thank you,” Dox said, looking at Manus. “Can you understand what I’m saying?”
Manus gave a single nod. It was unnerving, how silent and still and expressionless the man was. It was hard to tell what he might be thinking. Was he willing to listen? Or was he just waiting until he saw an opportunity to gut them both?
“Please, think about it,” Dox said. “My partner’s pointing a gun at you. I’ve never seen him miss, not even from a lot farther than he’s standing right now. If we were here to kill you, or hurt you, why wouldn’t we have done it already?”
Manus watched him for a moment. Then he said, “What do you want?”
The voice was a bit monotone, but overall not so unusual. He must not have been born deaf.
“We know what you’re here for,” Dox said. “Alondra Diaz. We were sent to kill you after you did the deed. But we’re not going to do that. You’re being set up. Do you understand?”
Manus looked at him, expressionless. “No.”
“I know, it’s confusing. Look, I’d like for us to put our heads together. Can we do that?”
“Can I pick up my knife?”
“Do you mind if I hold it for a while instead? I’m recently phobic about swords. It’s a long story.”
Manus didn’t respond. Dox knelt and retrieved the knife. Now that the craziness of the moment was past, he recognized the model. He would have liked to open it, but under the circumstances that would have been unduly provocative.
He held it up and faced Manus so the man could read his lips. “The Cold Steel Espada,” he said. “Very nice. The extra large?”
He’d been hoping to establish a little rapport with that, but Manus only looked at him.