Thomas's ploy was not going to work, and Jess felt himself go a little cold inside.
"Indira," Beck said. "Shoot the Brightwell boy in both knees. We'll cripple all of them to make sure they have no plans to cheat us."
She drew her gun. Jess threw himself backward and to the side, diving behind a pile of scrap metal. She cursed and moved forward to try for a better shot.
Thomas roared and moved. Fast. As Jess fumbled in the pile of broken metal for something of use, Thomas crossed the space to where Beck stood, put one enormous hand around his throat, and jerked the man off the ground and held him there to choke.
"Thomas, no!" Jess shouted. Indira turned her gun on his friend, and at this range, she couldn't miss. Jess rose, grabbing the first thing he could reach-the broken, twisted remains of a gear-and flung it at her head. Poor throw, but he hit her shoulder and knocked her back a step. The gun went flying. Jess flung himself over the pile of metal and grabbed one of Thomas's massive hammers; adrenaline gave him strength to heft it easily. He rushed at Indira, and she dodged away, trying for her gun. He cut her off.
Her other guards were starting to react now, shaking off shock and going for their weapons. This will be a massacre.
"Thomas! Don't!" This was not the plan.
Thomas wasn't bloody well listening.
Beck's toes thrashed the air, and he dropped the paper and the spring to slap at Thomas's arms, which did absolutely nothing. Thomas's face was bone white, his blue eyes wide and merciless in the dim light. He said something in German, and then switched to English. "Drop your weapons, all of you, or I'll crush his throat."
Jess shot him a disbelieving glance-Who are you? What have you done with my friend?-then quickly returned his attention to the soldiers, who seemed torn between saving Beck and avenging him. Jess kept the hammer ready to deliver a blow if he had to, but there was something in the silky, even inflection of Thomas's voice that made even the most militant of the guards believe him. One by one, they dropped guns and knives.
All except Indira, who retrieved her gun and aimed it at Jess's head. "Kill him, and I kill your friend, Schreiber."
Thomas lowered Beck back to the ground but didn't let him go. He did loosen the grip enough that Beck drew in a raw, whooping breath and coughed it out again.
"Tell her to put down her gun," Thomas said, "or I'll follow your example. I'll cripple you for life. You know I can, as easily as closing my hand."
Definitely not the Thomas Jess knew. This Thomas had been born from pain and despair down in the depths of Rome's prison. This version of his friend was feral and angry and dangerous, and most of all, he was very, very strong.
"Indira! Put it down! For God's sake, put it down!" Beck wheezed. She didn't seem inclined to obey, but his angry hysteria got to her at last. She crouched and put her weapon on the ground. She rose with both hands in the air. Thomas still didn't let go. He looked as if he was considering, very strongly considering, separating the man's head from his neck with a pull and a twist.
"Thomas," Jess said, in as calm a voice as he could manage while threatening men with a hammer. "He's agreed. Let him go now or they're going to kill us. Including our friends."
Thomas still held his position, but he must have comprehended sense, because he released Beck with a sudden, dismissive push. Beck sprawled on the dirt floor, gagging and coughing as his soldiers quickly grabbed him and dragged him behind them to safety.
Now was the moment of real danger, Jess thought, and adjusted his sweaty grip on the hammer. If Beck ordered their deaths . . . and Thomas, alarmingly, didn't seem to care. He stooped down and began picking up broken machine parts as if the men and women threatening the two of them didn't even exist. Jess felt faintly stupid, and very alone, brandishing a household tool.
"You've seen what we can do for you. You know you can use us. Leave us alone now," Thomas said, and wrenched half a broken cog from a bent iron rod. "You're in our way. Go and get us decent wood, metal, and materials."
"You're mad!" Beck said. He could only manage it as a croak. "He's mad!"
"He's a genius," Jess said. "Master Beck, give us better materials and you'll get what you want. Threaten us, or any of our friends, and I don't think Thomas will stop next time at bruising you. You'll never reconstruct this machine without us. Do we have an understanding?"
"You cocky little bastard," Beck grated. He sounded like he'd been gargling the leftover broken glass. "You think you hold any kind of power?"
"I just saw you weeping for joy, didn't I? You want this. We have it. That's the definition of negotiating, and if you contact my father, you know he'll give you a very fine deal on the things you need to make your dream a reality. Now, go."