Popeye extended his sword so the point was at my nose, and opened his mouth to taunt me some more. At that exact moment, my roamer cut the last strand binding one arm. I reached out at android speed, grabbed the sword around the hilt in a palm-and-fingertip grip, and jammed it backward to strike under his chin. As he fell over with a howl, I threw the sword, hilt-first, into the face of the second henchman (whose name I’d never bothered to learn). I’ll give Frieda her due—she had guts. Without hesitation, she pulled her sword and came at me. I still wasn’t free enough to run, and I was out of handy weapons—I’d never get my knife or the gun out of my backpack in time. So I did the next best thing: I picked up Popeye and shoved him straight at her. Both went down in a heap with twin oofs . That gave me just enough time to remove the net and dive back into the water.