Honor Bound (Honor Bound 1)

And she looked at me out of those beautiful eyes and pursed her lips in a kiss….

Jesus Christ, I’d give my left nut to put my arms around her and kiss her!

He heard the sound of feet on the stone stairs.

What the hell is that?

A cat or something? Rats?

What the hell is it?

He carefully lowered his booted feet to the floor and stood up. He had left the door to the rear balcony slightly ajar. He approached it, put his hand on the knob, and started to open it. Then he changed his mind, dropped to his knees, and felt around the floor until his fingers touched the Argentine .45.

He went back to the door. He heard feet on the stone stairs again, then his heart jumped as he realized someone was coming up the stairs.

No. Someone is already on the top floor; and somebody else is coming up the stairs. And it goddamned sure isn’t Señora Pellano. Then who the hell is it?

He smelled a man.

A man who hasn’t had a bath in a long time. Smells like an infantry Marine from the ’Canal.

The second man walked toward Uncle Guillermo’s playroom.

What the hell do I do now?

Clete eased the door open. Walking on his tiptoes, he left the balcony and walked toward the playroom.

It was absolutely dark inside.

He found the light switch, closed his eyes, and turned the lights on.

He opened his eyes. In the time it took them to adjust to the sudden glare, he saw two men.

What the hell is he doing next to my bed?

The second man was closer, shielding his eyes. He held a long, curved knife. When he saw Clete, he brought the arm holding the knife up across his chest, so he could slash at Clete when he moved in.

The man next to Clete’s bed turned—he had an even larger knife—and assumed a crouching position.

Clete glanced at the closer man, in time to see him start to rush at him.

Did I chamber a round in this thing?

The .45 kicked in his hand, and then again and again. The noise was deafening.

The man rushing him staggered, with a look of surprise on his face. He fell to the ground. The back of his head was a horrible, bloody mess, shattered like a watermelon.

Where the hell did I hit him? In the mouth? I had to; there’s no other mark on his face.

The other man was now rushing at him with his knife held high over his shoulders.

The .45 bucked again and again and again and again. The man rushing him started to fall.

Clete pulled the trigger again. The pistol didn’t fire. He checked it. The slide was locked in the rear position. He had emptied the magazine.

The man he had just hit was now screaming in agony, holding his right leg with both hands.

Jesus Christ, when Señora Pellano hears all this noise, she’ll be terrified!