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“Not at the moment.”
“This should be easy, then.”
Evan toed up the decrepit umbrella, caught it on the rise by its smooth wooden handle. The naked ribs clattered, a woebegone percussion instrument.
Folgore’s lips spread and then curled upright. “Easy there, Mary Poppins.”
“If you go for that nine,” Evan said, “I’m gonna break your shoulder.”
“With a broken umbrella?” Folgore grinned, reached lethargically for the holster. “How you gonna do that?”
Evan hooked the wooden handle around the fire-escape ladder and ripped it downward, Folgore looking up, his draw slowed with surprised curiosity. The ladder unstacked itself rustily, telescoping down past Folgore’s ear and slamming onto the meat of his trapezius.
The sound was muffled, like a round hitting a slab of beef.Folgore’s muzzle had just cleared leather, but the downward momentum of his arm slammed it back into the holster.
Folgore stumbled back, his dislocated shoulder floating down near the side of his chest. Certain injuries served as a reminder that skin was primarily a bag for bones.
Folgore didn’t look as fazed as he should have been. Marines thought of themselves as the toughest guys in the room, and they were generally right. His head lowered like a bull’s, he glowered up at Evan with wild, dangerous eyes.
Evan said, “Reach for it again and I’ll break your nose.”
This time Folgore moved swiftly, a cross-draw with his left hand. As the pistol swept past his chest, Evan jabbed the slide with the heel of his hand. The side of the frame smacked into Folgore’s face, his nose popping theatrically. The pistol tumbled into a puddle.
Twinning streaks of red painted Folgore’s upper lip. Trembling with rage, he balled up a fist.
“If you swing at me,” Evan said, “I’ll break your jaw.”
Folgore darted forward in a boxer shuffle and threw a wide left. Evan covered, wrapping his head, biceps to temple, the blow glancing off. Evan threw a left of his own, and he threw it from the ground up—base set, pivoting at the hips, torso snapping around. His knuckles struck a few inches from the point of the chin, solid contact with the mandible. The crunch was horrifying; he felt the vibration through his legs and feet.
Folgore went out, a dead-sack fall onto his back. His pant leg hiked up to reveal the handle of a boot knife, glass-reinforced nylon with three pronounced finger grooves.
Rain pattered across the detritus of the alley. A shift of the wind promoted the sewage reek to noxious, but it reversed just as quickly.
Evan waited patiently.
After a moment Folgore stirred. Rolled sluggishly into the fetal position. He looked almost comfortable. After a few breaths, he pulled himself up to sit without the benefit of one arm, hoisted onto his knees, and stood. He gingerly pressed on his jaw, winced, then drooled a bit into his cupped hand and regarded the blood.His right arm dangled uselessly at his side, the fingers reaching unhumanly low to his thigh.
“Next is your leg,” Evan said. “I’m thinking the left one.”
Folgore fanned his good hand wide, showing a bloody palm. “Uncle.”
“You want to answer my questions now?” Evan asked. “Because I could do this all day.”
“I have something to show you,” Folgore said, his words blurred from the injury. “That will answer your questions.” Cautiously, still showing his palm, he started to crouch.
“You sure you want to do that?” Evan said.
But already the knife was free of Folgore’s boot, held expertly in a reverse grip, blade angled down along the forearm. With the cutting edge out, there was nothing for Evan to grab or deflect. Folgore lunged forward, raking the blade sideways toward Evan’s chest. As Evan skipped back, Folgore’s heel slipped on a peel of soggy foam, his boot skidding. He overcorrected with his torso, the good shoulder spinning forward. He lost his footing, instinctively went to catch himself with his functional hand, forgetting that it still held the knife.
His chest slammed down, muffling the clank of the nylon handle striking asphalt beneath it. He gasped more in surprise than pain. Facedown humped up over the knife, his body twitched a few times. Then he exhaled once, long and smooth, and lay still.
Evan stared at him. One glassy eye stared up.
Folgore looked like he was slumbering.
Evan rolled him over, marveling at the blade’s placement in the solar plexus, buried deep enough to sever the abdominal aorta.
Like any decent operator, Folgore proved to be carrying nothing but cash and weapons. No wallet, no ID, not even a phone.
