“Those look nice,” Santana allowed, as he eyed the giant orbs. “But I’ll take the beer.”
The waitress looked relieved as she wound her way between the tables and headed for the bar. She had a nice and presumably natural rear end, which Santana was in the process of ogling, when a commotion at the center of the room diverted his attention. “Ladies and gentlemen!”
the short man in the loud shirt said importantly. “The battle began with six brave sailors, and fi?ve legionnaires, who gave a good account of themselves until the last round, when all but one was eliminated. So, with a total of three sailors left to contend with, our remaining legionnaire is badly outnumbered. Of course you know the rules. . . . New recruits can join the combatants up to a maximum of six people per team, one Hudathan being equivalent to two humans.”
The short man raised a hand to shade his eyes from the glare. “So who is going to join this brave legionnaire? Or would three additional sailors like to come up and help their comrades beat the crap out of her? She could surrender, of course. . . . Which might be a very good idea!”
The sailors, all male, had climbed up onto the platform by that time and were in the process of slipping between the ropes. The legionnaire, who was quite obviously female, was already there. She wore her hair short fl?attop style, and a black eye marred an otherwise attractive face. The woman stood about fi?ve-eight, and judging from the look of her arms and legs, was a part-time bodybuilder. Her olive drab singlet was dark with sweat, and a pair of black trunks completed the outfi?t. Her hands and feet were wrapped with tape, but the only other protective gear the legionnaire had was a mouthpiece that made her cheeks bulge. If the soldier was worried, there was certainly no sign of it as she threw punches at an imaginary opponent.
There were loud catcalls from the naval contingent, plus laughter from a sizable group of marines, but no one appeared ready to join the woman in the ring. That struck Santana as surprising, because in keeping with their motto Legio Patria Nostra (The Legion Is Our Country), legionnaires were notoriously loyal to each other. But by some stroke of bad luck it appeared the young woman and he were the only members of their branch present. And the last thing the offi?cer wanted to do was be part of a stupid brawl.
“Uh-oh,” the short man said, as his voice boomed over the bar’s PA system. “It looks like the odds are about to change!”
Santana saw that two additional sailors were climbing into the ring, both confi?dent of an easy victory. Suddenly the odds against the lone legionnaire had changed from three to one to fi?ve to one. But rather than leave the ring as she logically should have—the woman continued to jab the air in front of her.
Santana sensed movement and turned to fi?nd that the waitress with the large breasts had arrived with his steak. The huge slab of meat was still sizzling, and the smell made his stomach growl. “That looks good,” the offi?cer said as he got up from the table. “Keep it hot for me.”
The waitress glanced toward the ring and back again.
“Okay, hon, but you’ll have to pay now. Because if those sailors send you to the hospital, then the boss will take your dinner out of my pay.”
Santana sighed, paid for the steak, and threw in a substantial tip. “Like I said, keep my food warm.”
The waitress wondered why such a good-looking man would want to get his face messed up and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Good luck, honey,” she said kindly. “Your steak will be waiting in the kitchen.”
“Wait a minute!” the short man proclaimed, as Santana began to make his way down the aisle. “What have we here? A legionnaire perhaps? A knight in shining armor?
Let’s hear it for our latest contestant!”
Everyone, the sailors included, wanted a real contest, so a cheer went up as the offi?cer removed his shirt and 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.