shucked his shoes. The MC gave Santana a mouthpiece and pointed to the lengths of tape that hung from one of the side-ropes. “Help yourself, bud, and good luck to ya. . . .”
As Santana began to wrap his hands, his brain kicked into high gear. The latest sailors to enter the ring were clearly inebriated. Would it make more sense to take them out fi?rst? Assuming that such a thing was possible. Or leave the drunks in, hoping they would get in the way?
And what plans if any did his new ally have in mind?
As Santana climbed into the ring the naval contingent handed a bottle of booze up to their team, who continued to trash-talk the Legion, while passing the bottle around. That gave the legionnaire a chance to get acquainted with his teammate. “My name’s Santana. . . . And you are?”
Before the young woman could answer, it was fi?rst necessary to remove the protective device from her mouth. Her left eye was swollen shut by that time—and Santana could see that her upper lip was puffy as well. “Gomez,”
the woman said thickly. “Corporal Maria Gomez.”
“Glad to meet you, Corporal,” the offi?cer said. “Although I wish the circumstances were different.”
The eye that Santana could see was brown and fi?lled with hostile intelligence. “You’re an offi?cer,” she said accusingly. The statement was tinged with disappointment. Santana raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I am. Is that a problem?”
“It could be,” the noncom said fl?atly. “No offense, sir, but when was the last time you were in a barroom brawl?”
Santana had been fi?ghting for his life only two months before, but he knew what the soldier meant, and he answered in kind. “Ten, maybe twelve years ago.”
“Then I’d say you’re a bit rusty,” Gomez replied. “Sir.”
The honorifi?c had been added as an obvious afterthought, and Santana couldn’t help but grin. “You don’t like offi?cers much, do you?”
“I wouldn’t go to a meeting without one,” Gomez replied disrespectfully. “But when it comes to a fi?stfi?ght, then no sir, I don’t have much use for ’em.”
“Fair enough,” Santana replied gravely. “So, given your obvious expertise, how should we proceed?”
“We’ll take a corner and defend it,” the noncom replied confi?dently. “And, since at least two of the swabbies are drunk, they’ll get in the way as their buddies try to rush us.”
“I like it,” Santana said agreeably. “What sort of intel can you provide?”
“None of them use their feet well,” Gomez answered clinically. “But the big bastard has plenty of power—
which is why I was standing here all by myself until you showed up.”
“No,” Santana objected. “That’s why you were alone, not why you were standing here. Maybe you would be kind enough to explain that to me.”
Something fl?ickered deep within the noncom’s good eye. “I’m here because I like a good fi?ght, no fucking asshole has been able to put me down so far, and the Legion don’t run.”
Santana might have answered, but the gong sounded, a cheer went up, and the battle was on. There wasn’t any ceremony. Just a loud bong, followed by a reedy cheer, as Gomez and Santana bit their mouthpieces. They stood side by side, with their backs to a corner, a strategy that made it diffi?cult if not impossible to attack them from behind.
Like Gomez, Santana had been taught the fi?ne art of kickboxing by the Legion, which considered the sport to be the martial art of choice for everyone other than special ops. They were expected to master other disciplines as well. But, as both of them assumed the correct stance, Santana could see that his teammate’s form was superior to his. So the legionnaire brought his eyes up, tucked his elbows in against his ribs, and reduced the distance between his legs. The offi?cer knew the key was to put about 50percent of his weight on each leg, with his right foot slightly forward and fi?sts held shoulder high. Gomez saw the adjustments, nodded approvingly, and made a minute adjustment where her attitude toward offi?cers was concerned.
In the meantime, the sailors were closing in. Given their recent successes against the legionnaires, plus the advantage that went with numerical superiority, the navy team expected an easy victory. Because of that, plus the scrutiny of those in the audience, the entire group wanted in on the kill. So the sailors charged in, but given the way the space narrowed, only three were able to make direct contact. That improved the odds as the fi?rst blows were struck.
The main reason that Gomez was still on her feet was the legionnaire’s ability to kick. Because most men had more upper-body strength than she did, the noncom knew the battle would be over if they got their hands on her. So now, as a drunk shuffl?ed forward, Gomez brought her right leg up in the bent position and struck with the ball of her foot. The sailor saw the kick coming, made a clumsy attempt to block it, but was way too slow. The blow struck his sternum, forced the air out of his lungs, and sent him reeling backwards.
That was when the rating collided with one of the two men who had been forced to wait and knocked the unfortunate sailor off his feet. Both went down in a fl?urry of uncoordinated arms and legs. The marines in the audience thought that was funny and laughed uproariously. Meanwhile, Santana was fi?ghting to hold his own against the man Gomez had warned him about. The sailor wasn’t a kickboxer, and didn’t need to be, given powerful shoulders and a quick pair of hands. Worse yet was the fact that the big noncom was taller and heavier than the legionnaire was.
The offi?cer managed to defl?ect another blow with raised hands, fl?icked his head to one side, and felt a searing pain as a bony fi?st grazed the left side of his head. His ear was on fi?re, and Santana resisted the temptation to reach back and touch it. The gunner’s mate grinned happily and shuffl?ed his size-fourteen feet.
The legionnaire could smell the other man’s foul breath as he took a step backwards and readied a front-leg roundkick. With his leg cocked, the offi?cer turned sideways and put everything he had into the kick. Santana heard a satisfying grunt as his shin made contact with the other man’s groin. But the noncom was wearing a protective cup, so other than being forced to take a couple of involuntary steps backwards, the sailor was largely unaffected. The momentary respite gave Santana the opportunity to pummel the second drunk with a series of quick jabs, the last of which brought a torrent of blood gushing out of his nose. Then, as the unfortunate rating sought to stem the fl?ow with his fi?ngers, a blow from Gomez put the drunk down for good. But four opponents were still on their
