The Chaos Kind (John Rain #11)(15)

Fifteen feet. Manus was no longer pretending not to notice them. He was watching intently, his eyes leaving their faces, where he could read whatever was available in their expressions, and settling on their torsos, which would give him a peripheral-vision view of hands and therefore an early warning of a reach for weapons. Probably the only thing that had kept him from taking action already was the incongruity of Dox and Larison holding hands, and maybe of Dox’s banter.

But that would last only for another second, if that.

Manus’s hands were empty, which was good. And while he was wearing a backpack, that wouldn’t offer ready access to a weapon. But Dox could see the clip of a folding knife in the man’s front pocket. And who knew what he might have behind his back, or under his rain parka.

Ten feet. Dox could feel Larison beginning to tense up, seeing where this was going, determined to stay ahead of the action-reaction curve. Shit.

“Pardon me,” Dox called out, improvising. “I wonder if you could advise on the location of the world-famous Seattle Space Needle?”

Ordinarily, giving a person’s brain one additional thing to process could buy you a precious extra second. But it was like Manus didn’t even hear him. The man’s eyes never left their torsos. And even as the words were leaving Dox’s mouth, Manus’s left hand was coming forward, his body blading off, his right hand dropping to the clip of that folding knife in his front pocket—

Everything slowed down. The sound of the rain faded out. Dox felt Larison letting go of his hand and breaking right, saw the umbrella dropping to the ground. He didn’t have to look to know Larison was clearing leather. The miracle was that he hadn’t done so already.

Manus had taken hold of the folder. It was coming out of his pocket now. And coming. And coming. God almighty, what the hell kind of knife was this?

In his peripheral vision, Dox could see Larison bringing around the Glock.

Without thinking, Dox dropped the selfie stick—judging from the size of this guy, getting hit with it would probably have done no more than make him mad—and rushed in. “Don’t shoot him!” he yelled.

Manus had cleared the knife but hadn’t yet opened it. Still, the damn handle itself looked almost a foot long.

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—