The kick connects and already Rust's biting at the hand clapped to his face, nipping at whatever soft flesh he can get his teeth into. Bite out a chunk if he can. He kicks again—repeats the motion, ready to do it another five times, kick the fucker's knee out. The gun hasn't gone off, that's good, and Rust's arms are still free.

His right hand's closed on the knife at his belt when de Guzman's good leg comes up under him, catches his ankle. He'd hurl himself backwards—let de Guzman take the full weight of him all a sudden—but there's the matter of the gun between them. The full-on fucking chaos that would result.

Instead he drags his left heel as he half-falls, half-slumps into de Guzman's one-armed embrace. While de Guzman's occupied with his left side, Rust flicks open the knife, swings his arm down and behind in an extension of the same motion, trying to jam the blade into the other man's right side. Hoping for the abdominal area, but he'll take whatever blood he can draw.