His opponents sensed that feral confidence themselves. Their initial lunge toward the center of the room, fueled by the bravado brought by greater numbers, stumbled to a sudden halt. The rapier and main gauche had been almost like lightning bolts, flashing in the rays of late-afternoon sun pouring through the windows.
To their misfortune, they’d paused too late. The cobra struck. How a man as stocky and relatively short as Sanchez—he was perhaps an inch shorter than Sharon herself—could manage that sort of lunge was beyond her. Manage it he did, though—and it was a perfect fencer’s lunge. Poised, balanced, no awkwardness at all.
The intended target screeched and tried to deflect the blade with his own sword. But Sanchez had not aimed for the easily protected chest and belly. The rapier flashed beneath the parry and sank into the man’s upper thigh, just below the hip joint. A quick vicious twist of the wrist and the blade was back out again.
The man groaned and stumbled back, collapsing. He dropped his sword, both hands clutching at his leg. The blood was already spurting out as if through a hose.
Sharon felt numb. She was a nurse and, at that, better versed than most in human anatomy. The man’s femoral artery had been sliced right through. He’d bleed to death in a few minutes; lose consciousness much sooner than that. She was pretty sure Ruy had hit the femoral triangle straight on—Scarpa’s triangle, as it was sometimes called. He’d probably severed the great femoral nerve at the same time.
The blow was deadly; as deadly, to an expert, as more obvious cuts to the throat or heart. And, seeing the grim look of satisfaction on Ruy’s face, she had no doubt at all that the Catalan had known exactly what he was doing.
Sanchez smiled mirthlessly. “My name is Ruy Sanchez de Casador y Ortiz,” he growled at the five still-standing French agents. “Prepare to die.”
This time, Sharon couldn’t stop the laugh from bursting out. A semi-hysterical laugh, to be sure. But still—
Where in the hell had Ruy Sanchez gotten his hands on a copy of The Princess Bride?
“Jesus,” she heard Billy mutter. “He’s not kidding.”
* * *
The eruption of violence had paralyzed Billy Trumble for a moment. Soldier or not, Marine officer or not, he was actually a complete stranger to this kind of sudden mayhem. But while Billy had caught the same reference—he’d seen the movie—he understood something immediately which Sharon didn’t.
Sanchez hadn’t read the book. He’d probably never even heard of it. The character of Inigo Montoya was just an author’s comic twist on an ancient and very real model.
Meet Ruy Sanchez. The original.
And he ain’t being funny at all.
“Oh, Jesus,” he repeated, clawing at the flap of his holster. One of the French thugs screamed something, threw his knife at Sanchez and then stooped to retrieve the fallen sword. The Catalan took a quick step to the left and swept the main gauche across, batting the thrown knife harmlessly into a far corner. Billy knew that he’d taken that little step, despite the risk, to make sure he didn’t deflect the knife toward Sharon.
Goddam knight of the round table, too! Sixty years he’s spent stewing in that crazy macho stuff.
He had the flap open finally. Thank God. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a sudden burst of swordplay. Just a quick clash of blades before Sanchez and his opponents backed away. This was no idiot Gene Kelly or Errol Flynn movie where swordsmen pranced and danced all over the place smiling gaily and matching sword strokes for minutes on end. This was a deadly serious business where one good stroke or cut left a man dead or dying in a split-second. It was like watching angry rattlesnakes in a cage.
The pistol was coming out. Billy reached over with his left hand to work the slide and jack a round into the chamber. It was an old .45-caliber automatic, the Colt army model, with a heavy slide. He fumbled at it. He felt light-headed, the way he never did in a baseball game no matter how tight the situation. I’m not used to this! some part of him wailed silently.