Fly by Wire

Chapter TWENTY-SIX

They appeared out of nowhere, three men fifty feet ahead. Shoulder-to-shoulder, they stood facing Davis and Sorensen. No motion, no purpose. Just stood there. Any of them would have looked right at home in a police lineup. Together, they practically made one. There was no one else in sight.

"Jammer!" she whispered harshly.

"I know," he said, "keep going."

They moved closer. Thirty feet, twenty. The three men fanned out to block the sidewalk. Davis and Sorensen had to stop.

Davis checked all around. They were in front of a bakery, a commercial patisserie. No going left. To the right, across the street, was an auto parts store. It was shut down, the windows above dark. No help there. Then he sensed movement behind. He half-turned and saw a really big guy closing off the rear. Davis stood so as to keep everyone in sight.

"You guys want something?" he asked. Davis said it in English, playing the stupid tourist. Hoping they'd feel free to talk among themselves in French. Unfortunately, the group of three began babbling rapidly in a language that made no sense to him. Or maybe it wasn't rapid. Some languages just sounded that way. They looked North African — dark olive skin, curly black hair. There were a lot of North Africans in France — Algerians, Libyans, Moroccans. Right now Davis didn't care much about their heritage.

He saw a calm confidence in their posture, in their eyes. This wasn't just a random roust. These guys were here with a purpose. The oaf in back had to go six-six. He was heavy, but bigger in the waist than the shoulders. He'd have lots of momentum, a good thing if you knew how to use it. The one in the middle of the trio was skinny, a kid. He pulled out a knife, flicked it open like he'd seen West Side Story one too many times. The one on the right was hard-faced — flattened nose, cauliflower ears, a few missing teeth. A man imbued with the richness of life's experiences. He had a hand in the pocket of his jacket, gripping something big and bulky. Brass knuckles, a sock full of coins. Or maybe a gun.

It was the one on the left who took a step forward.

Not big, not small, he seemed to have a little more European blood than the others. His prominent eyes were unusually round and his ears pointed, one anchoring a big gold earring. His nose and cheeks were sharp, framing a wide-open stare. Davis figured, a few generations back, one of his relatives might have modeled for the gargoyles up the street.

He looked at Davis and said, "We take your money." Then a nasty grin for Sorensen. "From her, we take something else."

Davis glanced at Sorensen. She seemed steady enough.

He said, "That's not nice." Then he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. "And Lurch here smells bad. One more strike and you're out."

The Americanism seemed to escape them. Which was fine with Davis. He looked at Sorensen, saw her gnashing through a decision. He hoped she would reach the same conclusion he had.

Davis watched their feet. You could tell a lot by the way a guy stood before a fight. Martial arts training, police or military experience. It was there if you looked. He saw little — some puffed out chests, stiff stances, itchy hands. They were comfortable with their numbers, expecting a tussle. Not ready for war. Of the group of three, Davis decided that the ugly guy fondling his pocket was the most pressing problem.

Jammer Davis had been a Marine. He'd boxed at the Air Force Academy and spent years training in the arts of hand-to-hand combat. But his move was pure rugby. With quickness that defied his size, he lowered a shoulder and ran straight at the rough-looking guy. The hand came from his pocket, but it wasn't fast enough. Davis crashed into him with a lowered shoulder, wrapped up and kept driving. Five feet later he planted the guy hard into a stone wall. There was a crunch, an expulsion of air, and he collapsed to the sidewalk.

Davis turned fast and looked for the knife. He saw it coming in an arc, a glint of steel that might have sliced his chest had he not blocked with a forearm. But he didn't just block — he held on, grabbed the weapon with one hand, then pulled the kid close and clamped down with his other arm. The kid was half Davis' weight, and short of chewing off his arm at the shoulder, there wasn't much he could do. So he flailed, screamed for help.

Davis took the moment to assess his tactical situation. The big guy had Sorensen by the arm. She didn't seem to be struggling much — he wished she'd raise a ruckus, at least go for a shin kick. But the gargoyle was lunging for something on the ground — Davis recognized it. It had been a gun in the ugly guy's pocket. He swept the kid's feet out and twisted his arm viciously. Between the opposing motions, something gave. The knife went flying and the kid fell down screaming, holding an arm that didn't look quite right. Davis launched himself toward the gun.

He hit the pavement just a little too late, didn't get the gun. So he did the next best thing. He rolled onto the guy, put him on his back. Davis let his weight do the work. He grabbed the gun hand and didn't let go, forcing it outward. The gun went off, a wild round flying across the street. Davis twisted, moved until he was lying full on top of the guy, face-to-face. With his free hand, he grabbed the earring to hold his head still. Then Davis raised up and smashed his forehead into the gargoyle's nose.

The scream came first. Then he gave up the gun. Blood poured from the guy s shattered nasal cavity and he began rolling on the ground, his hands covering his face.

Davis stood up. A gun in one hand, a bloody earring in the other.

He dropped the earring.

Lurch was standing behind Sorensen now, pressed against her back. A big arm was draped firmly over her shoulder and across her chest.

His other hand held a knife that was pointed at Sorensen s throat. Even so, the big lug looked more scared than she did.

Davis sized things up. He had a gun. He had a huge target — there was no way the oaf could hide behind the petit Sorensen. Davis had taken the gun face-to-face, so it was in his left hand. Not his preferred shooting hand, but at this range it didn't much matter. One shot was all he needed. The problem was the knife. It was up against Sorensen s throat, and he wasn't sure he could pull and shoot fast enough. Davis decided to ratchet down. He kept the gun where it was, hanging loosely at his side and pointed at the sidewalk.

"Keel!" the big guy grunted. He twisted the knife near Sorensen's neck for emphasis. "Keel!"

Great, Davis thought, this imbecile doesn't speak a lick of English.

He considered how to proceed with calm hand signals. From the corner of his eye, he saw the kid with the crooked arm hobbling away in a weaving stride. The ugly guy was still out cold by the wall, and the gargoyle was writhing on the sidewalk, clutching a bloody face and torn ear — not fully incapacitated, but not an immediate threat. Odds were, he didn't have a weapon of his own. Otherwise, Davis reasoned, why would he have moved for the gun? Sometimes you just had to trust in logic.

Davis slowly put out his empty hand, palm out, and gestured to the results of the melee. Then he held up one finger — what he hoped was the universal signal for just a minute. Very, very slowly, he bent down and put the gun on the ground.

The big guy eased up. As if he'd won a little victory of sorts.

Maybe he had.

Davis would be perfectly happy to let him run away down the street. To that end, he took a few steps sideways, away from the gun — though not too far. Then he made a shooing motion with his hands, like one might do to a kid who was driving you nuts.

It nearly worked. The big guy's eyes darted down the empty street. His fear drained away and the knife came down just a little. He almost seemed to smile.

Sorensen moved so fast Davis could barely see what happened. She twisted, seized the guy's weapon arm and bent him at the waist. Then a knee smashed into his temple, followed by a palm heel strike to the throat. The big lug stumbled, clutching his head. But he didn't drop the knife. Two more blows, quick and hard to the head, and the knife clattered to the ground. Lurch hovered for just a moment. Stunned, frozen. Then, with a blurring half spin, Sorensen whipped around and buried her sensible shoe into his crotch.

There was a grunt, loud and long. A slow bend at the waist. He didn't so much fall as capsize, his head going down slow, the rest following like a torpedoed battleship. He ended up curled on the ground with his hands on his privates, leaning against four feet of Alpine granite.

"Jesus!" Davis remarked.

Standing over Lurch, Sorensen was breathing heavily and looked a little disheveled. But she was still in a ready stance.

Davis walked over, waited for her to relax. When she did, he said, "You know, Honeywell, I'm amending my opinion of you."

He thought she might smile. Maybe give a high five. Instead, she said, "Let's get the hell out of here!"