Abe Baker knew that in the long go, in spite of his somewhat greater heft, he wouldn't be able to take his former chief in the other man's own field. Now he threw himself on the other, on the floor. Legs and arms tangled in half realized, quickly defeated holds and maneuvers.
Abe called, "Quick, Isobel, the gun. Get the gun and cover him."
She shook her head, desperately. "Oh no. No!"
Abe bit out, his teeth grinding under the punishment he was taking, "That's an order, Comrade Cunningham! Get the gun!"
"No. No, I can't!" She turned and fled the room.
Abe muttered an obscenity, bridged and crabbed out of the desperate position he was in. And now his fingers were but a few inches from the weapon. He stretched.
Homer Crawford, heavy veins in his own forehead from his exertions, panted, "Abe, I can't let you get that gun. Call it quits."
"Can't, Homer," Abe gritted. His fingers were a few fractions of an inch from the weapon.
Crawford panted, "Abe, there's just one thing I can do. A karate blow. I can chop your windpipe with the side of my hand. Abe, if I do, only immediate surgery could save your—"
Abe's fingers closed about the gun and Crawford, calling on his last resources, lashed out. He could feel the cartilage collapse, a sound of air, for a moment, almost like a shriek filled the room.