Honor Bound (Honor Bound 1)

“Oh, Christ,” Clete said.

“Our armistice is over, I am afraid,” Peter said.

“Looks that way.”

“I would suggest, Clete, that our armistice be a secret between us; that we both say we were unaware the other was in the house. There are those, I am afraid, who would not understand how it was between us.”

“Oh, shit!” Clete said.

“You agree?”

“Oh, hell. Yeah, sure. You’re right.”

“I thank you for your hospitality, Clete,” Peter said, and put out his hand. Clete shook it.

Peter took his hand back, came to attention with a click of his heels, and saluted.

With a vague movement of his arm, Clete touched his hand to his right eyebrow, returning the salute.

Von Wachtstein did an about-face and marched out of the room.

I shouldn’t have been so fucking casual with that salute. He meant his. I’ll be damned if that bullshit they gave us at Quantico isn’t true—that a salute is a gesture of greeting that is the privilege of warriors. The least I could have done was return it, not wave at him. Nice guy. Damned nice guy.

“Señora, I very much appreciate the breakfast, but could you come back in a couple of hours?”

“Señor Clete,” Señora Pellano said, setting the tray on the bed and fluffing his pillows, “it would be better if you had the coffee. Señor Nestor will be here in twenty minutes.”

“Señor Nestor?”

“I told him you were not feeling well, and he said it was very important.”

“Thank you, Señora,” Clete said, and reached for the orange juice. “I will receive him.”

“Sí,” she said, and then, “And you may have your car at any hour between twelve and three.”

“What car?”

“There was a call from Señor Mallín’s secretary yesterday. Your car has arrived. The necessary papers have been accomplished, and you may go to the customs at any hour between twelve and three to take it from them.”

“On Sunday?”

“It is a courtesy to Señor Mallín,” Señora Pellano said. “Or perhaps to your father.”

“Won’t it wait until tomorrow?”

“The officials will be there waiting for you, Señor,” she said.

In other words, you ungrateful bastard, go pick up the goddamn car.

“Thank you,” Clete said. “Señora, would a little present for the man who has my car be in order?”

“A small gift of money would be nice. Or perhaps a few bottles of wine.”

“Is there any here?”

“But of course. I will pack something appropriate for a small gift.”

Sixty seconds after he stepped under the shower, there was a telephone call for him, surprising him not at all.