Brewster kept shifting his glance from the sleeping guard to the minute hand on his watch. It seemed that the large hand would never reach the half-hour mark. But it did.
At exactly two-thirty, Brewster stood up. He jumped. He went to his knees and rolled when he hit the ground, fifteen feet beneath him. It was a fall he had learned in his army training, one designed to prevent a broken ankle.
He leaped quickly to his feet. The guard, awakened, stood up. He was still groggy from sleep and confused. He could hear sounds from behind him, and here right in front of him, a large man was charging him.
Brewster hit Madeira with a jolting right cross before the guard could think straight. He hit the ground with a thud. Brewster was on top of him like a hungry tiger making a kill. From the rear, Mahenili sprang into the arena, spotted the pistol still in the guard’s outstretched hand, and kicked it away.
The fight was over. It had been an easy victory.
In minutes, Dr. Weber was freed, and his bonds were used to truss up the guard. As an extra precaution, Brewster used his handkerchief to gag the guard. He didn’t want him calling for help. No telling how near Perez Soto might be.
“Dr. Weber, my friend.” Brewster leaned over to help the doctor to his feet. “How are you? Are you injured in any way?”
“Mostly my dignity,” the doctor grunted gruffly.
“Are you able to walk? We must get away from here before Perez Soto returns.”
“Hurrumph!” the good doctor hurrumphed indignantly. “You youngsters seem to think I’m an old dotard, dying on my feet.”