Page 101 of Storm over the Caribbean
The ground almost seemed to tremble as Cyclops stepped into the circle. Cracking his knuckles, he took up a fighting stance.
“So…” Mr Ambrose’s eyes narrowed infinitesimally. “That’s how it is, is it?”
“Aye.” The fat man smiled. “You win, you’re in. You lose…well, you won’t have to worry about what happens then. Or about anything anymore, really.”
“I see.” My husband tensed almost imperceptibly.
No! No, don’t you dare—
He stepped into the ring.
“Well…then let’s get to it, shall we?”
Bloody hell!
“On the count of ten!” the pirate leader barked, silencing the mutters all over the camp. People gathered around, eyes full of eagerness and bloodthirst. “One…two…three…four…” It was then I saw him give another of those nasty smirks. “…ten!”
Cyclops leapt towards my husband, his fist slamming down.
Do or Die!
I watched, frozen in fear, as the giant’s fist flew towards Mr Ambrose’s face like a sledgehammer. Time seemed to stretch into eternity—emphasis onseemed. Because, in reality, the fist was moving fast and deadly. Barely a tenth of a second had passed before it appeared in front of Mr Ambrose’s face and—
…and flew right past it.
“You missed.”
He had moved so fast I almost couldn’t see it. In a blink, Mr Rikkard Ambrose was out of the way, and he was staring up at Gaptooth with an icy stare that should freeze any man in place.
“Why bother pretending to count down at all?” He cocked his head. “Just start with ten. It’s much more efficient.”
“Rrrrraaah!”
With a bellow, Cyclops aimed another punch at his opponent, and promptly Mr Ambrose ducked out of the way again.
“My turn.”
Two words. Cold. Calculating. A promise of pain to come.
And before the massive pirate could regain his equilibrium, my husband went on the counterattack. In one swift move, he hooked his foot behind Cyclops’ leg and, with a hard tug, sent the man flyi—
No.
He didnotsend the man flying. Oh, he certainly tried to. But Cyclops didn’t budge. Not even an inch.
“Bah!” The massive monster of muscle snorted, once more turning to face my husband. “Is that all you got, you little son of a bitch?”
Oh crap.
I had a momentary mental image of Lady Samantha, Mr Ambrose’s sweet, lovable mother. Then I looked at the man who had dared to call her a Bee I Tea Sea H.
Mr Rikkard Ambrose’s eyes frosted over.
“No. It is not.”
Then he moved. Before the barrel-chested behemoth could so much as blink, Mr Ambrose had him by the ears and pulled.
“Aaagh!”
