Page 66 of Thawed Gladiator: Varro

Merrivale’s hand twitches toward the gun at his hip. “Listen, sweetheart. I’ve been waiting months to get the seed money so I could start salvage operations now that I know the gold is here. I’m not leaving without it.”

Tension crackles as we face off against Merrivale and his men. Varro shifts slightly, readying himself for a fight. I may not have gladiator reflexes, but every muscle in my body is on high alert.

Now that I’m face to face with Merrivale, I can see that he looks just as unpleasant as his voice suggested. He’s almost as tall as Varro, but in terrible shape. His protruding belly hangs over his jeans like a sack. Everything he and his men wear is camouflage, even the guns strapped to their sides are painted sandy brown and khaki green.

He slides his sunglasses down his nose and peers at me with piggy little eyes before smirking at his men.

“Last chance,” Merrivale growls. “Tell me where the gold is, or things are gonna get real unpleasant.” How is it that by this one glance, I know for certain this man would kill both of us to get what he wants? And how do I know he wouldn’t hesitate to have some “fun” with me before he dispatches me?

Time seems to slow as I weigh our options. We’re outnumbered, outgunned, and cornered. But as I look at Varro, seeing the fire in his eyes and the set of his jaw, I know we won’t go down without a fight.

“There is no gold,” I repeat, raising Invictus. “Leave us the fuck alone.”

Merrivale laughs at my threat as he draws his gun. “Look, boys. The little lady brought a knife to a gunfight. Drop the sword. And you…” he waves the pistol at Varro, “drop that pitiful spear.”

We’ve been together for six months. I’ve talked about guns when we tell stories at night and I relate the plots of some of my favorite movies. Varro must understand that the unassuming camouflage-color item in Merrivale’s hand is one of the amazing killing weapons I told him about because he moves like lightning. His spear is a blur as he uses it to knock the weapon from Merrivale’s hand. The gun skitters across the ground as all hell breaks loose.

Merrivale’s men charge forward, wielding machetes they must have brought, expecting to hack through thick grasses. I dodge a wild swing from one attacker, Invictus singing through the air as muscle memory from our training sessions kicks in.

The clash of metal and grunts of exertion fill the air as we dance a deadly waltz. Varro is poetry in motion, his years of gladiatorial combat evident in every fluid movement as he fights both a man with a machete and Merrivale who has pulled a short, sharp knife from his belt. But we’re outnumbered, and fatigue is already weighing down my arms and shoulders as I thrust and block the heavy machete and the burly man wielding it.

A sharp cry escapes my lips as the man I’m fighting lands a glancing blow to my arm. Warm blood trickles down my skin, but there’s no time to assess the damage. Gritting my teeth, I press on, desperately trying to keep my attackers at bay.

“Laura, duck!” Varro shouts.

I crouch just as his spear whistles over my head, catching the man in front of me straight through the heart. He must have diedinstantly, because he goes down without even a howl of pain. Now, at least our numbers are even.

I turn to see what’s happening behind me.

The second goon is scrambling to retrieve his machete, which is on the ground about ten feet away from him. His right arm is cut badly and bleeding, and there’s another one on his thigh I can see through his ripped pants. It’s soaked in blood and dripping on the ground as he drags that leg.

Merrivale’s knife is also on the ground. But the man is relentless, pressing his advantage with savage fury. While Varro was distracted helping me, Merrivale managed to retrieve his gun and point it at Varro’s chest. The metallic click of the safety being released sends ice through my veins.

Varro leaps to avoid the shot, but he’s not quite fast enough. The crack of the gunshot is deafening in the late evening air.

I gasp as Varro stumbles, his face contorted in pain. The bullet has found its mark, tearing into his side. He falls to one knee with an anguished grunt.

“No!” The scream tears from my throat as I watch Merrivale raise his gun for the killing shot.

In that moment, everything crystallizes. The speared man is at my feet. On pure instinct, I put my foot on his chest, grip the shaft, and wrench the spear from his chest. With every ounce of strength I possess, I hurl the spear toward Merrivale. It flies true, a prayer on the wind, carrying with it all my hopes and fears.

I hold my breath as the spear finds its mark, burying itself deep in Merrivale’s back. He makes gurgling sounds as he topples forward.

For a heartbeat, silence reigns. Then, with a guttural roar, Varro surges to his feet. In one fluid motion, he retrieves the spear from Merrivale’s back and points it threateningly at the last man standing.

“Drop your weapon,” Varro growls, his voice laced with pain, yet unwavering.

“Fuck you.” The man advances, menacing his machete. When he takes a step toward Varro, the man I love summons his last reserves of strength and hurls the weapon, felling the last of our attackers with deadly precision.

As quickly as it began, the fight is over. Panting heavily, I rush to Varro’s side, my hands shaking as I assess his wound.

“Are you okay?” I ask, voice trembling.

He nods, grimacing as he presses a hand to his side. “It doesn’t feel like a mortal wound. I’m still standing and my guts aren’t falling out.”

Relief washes over me and I almost laugh. “I’m so, so glad your guts aren’t falling out, gladiator.”

I gently pry his hand away from the wound. “Let me take a look at that.” The bullet has grazed his side, leaving a deep, angry gash which is bleeding steadily. Thankfully, it doesn’t look life-threatening. “We need to clean and bandage this.”

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