The Chaos Kind (John Rain #11)(17)

Manus glanced back. Without a word, the woman did a 180 and was on her way. Manus looked at Dox again.

“Obviously that was for her benefit,” Dox said. “We’re not really police.”

“I’m deaf. Not stupid.”

Oops. “Of course. I apologize. I have it on reliable authority that when I’m nervous, I can talk too much. Anyway, I think we should go. And at the risk of being rude, could I first trouble you to lift that parka high and spin slowly around? You can see my friend is still tense, and I think you might put him at ease that way.”

Manus complied. Nothing under the parka.

“And those pants. Maybe just lift them up a few inches so I can see your ankles?”

Manus complied. Nothing but a pair of socks around ankles as thick as a normal man’s knee.

“Thank you,” Dox said. “And forgive me, but I’m about eighty percent sure that’s a push-dagger buckle on your belt. As it happens, I’m wearing one myself. I’m hoping your pants will stay up without it, and I can give it back to you along with the Espada when we’re done talking?”

Manus removed the belt and tossed it underhand to Dox. Dox caught it and took a look at the buckle.

“Don’t recognize this one,” Dox said. “You make it yourself?”

Manus nodded.

Dox shoved the belt in one of his parka pockets. “Looks like fine work. Maybe sometime you could show me how.”

No response to that. Well, rapport didn’t always come easy.

Dox knew there might be more hardware. In fact, if the man were anything like Dox, he’d have at least three other sharp and pointy things hidden on his person. But they’d been here too long already, and even with the foul weather it was lucky they’d had to deal with only a single civilian. There wasn’t time for a more careful search. The good news was, there was no reason to think Manus would favor another skirmish without first hearing what they had to say. And besides, Larison wasn’t likely to let the man close enough to offer the opportunity.

Dox glanced over at Larison. Larison nodded and holstered the Glock.

“Okay,” Dox said. “Time for us to scram. As it happens, I know a delightful coffee emporium, about five miles south of here—All City, it’s called. Maybe we can regroup there and talk?”

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.