Page 29 of New Storm Rising
Sidling up to the crowd of men avidly watching the scene, I nudged one of them.
“Hey! Twenty dollars on the stiff Brit.”
The man stared at me as if I were off my rocker.
“Done!” he held out two bills.
“I’m in!” another man yelled, holding out thirty dollars.
“Fifty on the big lump!”
“Twenty-five for me!”
I grinned as the pile of gleaming coins in my hands grew and grew. Above the heads of the crowd, my eyes fixed on Mr Rikkard Ambrose, as he stood perfectly still, waiting as the fist of the other man sailed towards him.
Then I saw it. Just the slightest shift. A tiny twitch of muscles under the black tailcoat that betrayed what was coming.
I grinned, my hands folding around the heaps of dollars.
Time to make a killing!
An Explosive Entrance
“¡Hijo de la chingada!” The seething Spaniard raised a massive fist. “Say your last words, youpendejo!”
The man’s fist came down.
“Any last takers?” I enquired, hopefully.
Unfortunately, the bet-hungry crowd didn’t get a chance to answer before Mr Rikkard Ambrose’s hand came up, slapping the man’s punch away to the side and sending it crashing into the wooden bar.
“Aaarh! Ow!”
“If that was your attempt to make him say his last words, don’t bother,” I advised the big fellow kindly. “I’ve been trying to get him to say more for years. If he doesn’t want to speak, he won’t.”
“¡Cállate, gilipollas!” He whirled around to glare at me. “Don’t stick your nose in where it doesn’t belong if you don’t want me to break it!”
Uh-oh…
Behind him, I could see Mr Ambrose stiffen.
“That,” I told the big man, “might not have been the smartest thing to say.”
“What are you talking about, you bi—”
Wham!
I had often marvelled at how ravishingly rock-hard Mr Rikkard Ambrose’s muscles were. Yet I had never considered one thing: if that was how his biceps felt, how hard exactly would his fists be?
Mr. Spanish Minion 01 seemed to have found the answer. Flying off his feet, he sailed backwards, over three chairs and a table, his teeth, liberated from his mouth, scattering in all directions. With a thunderous crash, the thug came down onto another table that broke beneath him, sending splinters everywhere.
A table that just so happened to have three men sitting around it. The desperado lookalikes didnotlook pleased.
“You…!” Bending down, a man as hairy as a grizzly bear grabbed the brute on the ground. Lifting him up in the air, he grabbed a nearby whiskey bottle. “Damn, you son of a…! I’m gonna go and shred ya!”
“Hola! Wait a moment! I—”
The bottle smashed over his head, sending shards of glass flying in all directions and the big Spaniard staggering back.
