Shit. Even with his ease with a gun the big ginger wasn't supposed to have been that fast. Or that on the ball. Josh had made the same mistake most people make with him--counting on him to be as slow as his size would lead you to expect--and he doubles over the fist that feels almost like it just appears in his diaphragm with a choking noise. He's pretty sure he's dead if he lets that stop him, though, and the girl might as well be with the hell she's being sold into. He struggles to suck in a breath past the burn of the blow, fingers locking tight on his knife against the impulse to let it slip from an almost nerveless grip, and almost flails as he reaches to wrap an arm around the seller's waist.

At least he's got the bulk of Big Red's body between him and the buyer's flunkies, still, even as he can hear them moving--not see them, because christ the guy caught him right in the phrenic nerve and he's pretty sure there's no way he can straighten up yet. What he can do, though, is shove his free hand into his attacker's jacket, still weak grip going unerringly for the gun the big man had shown off. If he can get hold of that, then maybe there's still a chance of at least getting the girl out of here. Maybe.