Manus nodded.
Dox wished the man would say more. His calm silence was spooky. But maybe he’d loosen up once they were past the current unpleasantries.
“Oh,” Dox went on. “Just one thing. You should toss that burner you’re carrying. It’s how they’re tracking you.”
Manus looked at him. “I’m not carrying a phone.”
Dox glanced at Larison. Larison looked past Dox and said, “Oh, fuck.”
chapter
eleven
MANUS
When the wingman said, “Oh, fuck,” Manus followed his gaze. The woman jogger was back, flanked by two burly men. None of them was running. They were intent on Manus, the wingman, and the talker, methodically closing the distance from fifty yards away. As they walked, each kept a fist resting on a hip—quick access to a weapon.
He looked in the other direction. The wingman was looking the same way now. Three more large men, approaching from that side. Same distance, same fist-on-the-hip methodical walk.
The talker pulled a gun from behind his back and said something to the wingman. His back was turned so Manus couldn’t read his lips. Probably they were discussing options.
It occurred to Manus that the whole thing could be an elaborate setup. It didn’t feel likely, but—
The talker turned to him. “Sorry I don’t have an extra pistol,” he said. “But here you go, and let’s hope you can put it to good use.” He tossed the Espada underhand and Manus caught it.
The feel of the Espada back in his hand settled it for Manus. The wingman and the talker were no longer a problem. The other six were.
The talker laughed. “On the plus side, with all these blocks of concrete, at least we’ve got cover. Never really cared for Brutalist architecture before, but call me a convert.”
The talker didn’t seem afraid, or even nervous. Manus had the sense that unlike the wingman, the talker would be easy to underestimate. That in fact, the talker might prefer it that way. Probably the holding hands thing had been his idea. It had worked, too—for one second too long, the incongruity had confused Manus and delayed a proper response.
Without any need for consultation, the three of them started backing away at ninety degrees from the approaching teams. Obviously, the wingman and the talker understood a pincer maneuver and how to avoid it. That was good.
The two teams crept closer. Manus could imagine several reasons for the care they seemed to be taking in their approach. They might have been familiar with his reputation, or with the wingman’s and the talker’s. And although they had superior numbers, they were moving across open grass. There were some trees, but they hadn’t reached them yet. So they might have been concerned about their relative lack of cover. They might also have been concerned about a drawn-out gunfight rather than a quick massacre, and the attention the noise would bring.
The three of them stopped just short of one of the sheer walls of concrete blocks. The talker and the wingman were almost shoulder-to-shoulder, the talker positioned on the right and monitoring the approach of the team on that side, the wingman performing mirror-image duty on the other side. Manus drifted to the left and put his back to the wall. He wished he could see their faces better to read their lips, but it was more important to have something solid behind him.
There was an opening for a stairway a few feet to their right. The wingman glanced toward it, then went back to watching the team on the left. He said, “Don’t like the stairs. Don’t know what’s down there. They could be funneling us.”
The talker turned and glanced at the team coming from the wingman’s side. “Agreed. And I don’t fancy giving up the high ground, anyway.” He went back to watching the team on his side.
Manus thought the wingman was right about the stairs. And the talker was right, too, about not ceding the high ground. And either or both theories could also explain the slow, deliberate approach.