There was the faint click of metal against metal and the stranger sighted down the weapon at Forsythe, pale and sweating in the chair.
Manning stood up from behind the crate.
"I wouldn't, if I were you."
The stranger whirled. "Who are you?"
"Just an interested spectator." Manning started to walk forward. "I think you ought to put that gun down."
The weapon lined up with Manning's chest. "No further, please."
It was quiet in the room. Forsythe was pale, his eyes darting from one to the other. The stranger's thin face was grim and a little frightened. Manning's was impassive. Of the three of them, he was the only one who didn't give a damn what happened.
"Put it down, son."
There was a slight muscular tensing in the stranger's hand and Manning dropped to the floor, rolling so he hit the stranger's legs. Then the man was down, grunting heavily as he hit the floor. Manning caught the gun hand and tried to bend it back, to force the stranger to release the weapon. Then the man kneed him in the stomach and Manning suddenly loosened his grip, gasping. The stranger ducked around Forsythe and dove for the door; then he was gone, his footsteps echoing down the hallway.