"What's your name?" Sterling asked.
"What? Why do you care?" The gunman's hand twitched and the weapon shifted, slightly. Not enough. But this was something they could work with.
"Your name. I'd rather call you something than 'hey, man.'" Sterling and Doyle had disarmed a few idiots over the years. It wasn't always through a talk down, but every once in a while, they got an easy one. The key was to keep them talking and keep them confused.
"Anthony," he said.
"I'm Sterling."
The gunman narrowed his stare. His weapon hand relaxed and lowered an inch.
"Now," Doyle said as he jumped behind the gunman.
The burglar twisted, the muzzle of the handgun now pointed at Sterling and not Lucia. Not great, but better him than her.
Sterling lunged, shoving her aside.
Pop!
Fire raked across his biceps. He groaned, clenching his teeth. Twisting his body toward the right, he caught the gun arm at the wrist and the elbow. He shoved it toward the ceiling. The second shot went up into the rafters. White dust rained down over both of them.
Anthony snarled. He yanked, and his arm barely moved in Sterling's grip.
Anthony threw his shoulder into Sterling's chest and rammed him backward.
Sterling's spine hit the host stand. The edge of it bit into his kidney, and the breath went out of him in a grunt. His left hand slipped off Anthony's elbow. Now Sterling had the wrist and nothing else. The muzzle dropped level and Anthony swung it toward the room.
"Fuck." Sterling wrenched it back toward the wall. "Get his arm."
Doyle clamped both hands around Anthony's free arm and drove it down between them.
"You fucking asshole." Anthony jerked and kicked, tearing his arm loose. He smashed his fist back into Doyle's cheek. His head snapped sideways, and he came right back and hooked the arm again, this time twisting it up behind the man's spine.
Anthony bellowed louder than an alligator during mating season. His finger was still inside the trigger guard.
That wasn't good. Sterling stepped forward, pinned the wrist with both hands, and pressed his thumb hard into the tendons, causing Anthony's fingers to spread, but they wouldn't open.
Anthony drove his heel down onto Sterling's foot.
"Fuck you," Sterling mumbled as the two of them stumbled into a table. A chair tipped and clattered against the boards. A water pitcher rolled off the edge and broke. Sterling's boot came down in the puddle and slid, and he dropped to one knee, dragging the gun arm down with him.
The muzzle now pointed at his shin. He twisted it outward, away from his leg, away from Doyle, away from the benches where a woman had her arms over a child's head.
"Let go, or I'll break your hand," Sterling said.
"No you won't." Anthony continued to fight against Sterling's weight.
"Have it your way." Sterling shifted both fists to the wrist and rolled it, hard, the way the joint didn't bend. Bone ground under his palms.
Anthony screamed, and his knees folded. "You mother fucker."
Doyle let go of the twisted arm and drove a short punch into the man's kidney. Anthony arched. Doyle hit him again, same spot, and the man's whole left side went loose.
But the gun hand stayed closed. Anthony didn't seem to want to give up this damn weapon. He surged up off his buckled knees, swinging Sterling around by the trapped arm.
Caught off balance, Sterling stumbled backward, twisting his body, as Anthony swept the gun, chest height.
Sterling stopped fighting the man's strength and went with the turn. He stepped through it, ducked under the gun arm, and came up on the other side with the wrist cranked behind Anthony's back and the muzzle pointing at the floor. He pitched Anthony face-first into the host stand, and the corner caught him across the brow.
