Word of Honor by Nelson DeMille Page B
Authors: Nelson DeMille
Tags: Fiction, General, LEGAL, Suspense, Mystery Fiction, War stories, Vietnam War; 1961-1975, Vietnamese Conflict; 1961-1975
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served them take-out Chinese food from the containers."
Marcy said innocently, "Did I fuck up?"
Tyson smiled.
"You never said a word about it. " She grinned. "I served the shit with chopsticks, for Christ's sake." She added in an injured tone, "And I made up that neat drink out of sake and bourbon. The Hiroshima Bomber. Everybody liked it."
Tyson laughed.
"Don't laugh at me, you pompous, uptight twit."
Tyson stopped laughing and took a step toward her. "Who's uptight?"
84 0 NELSON DEMILLE
"You, you stuffy, anal-compulsive-"
He seized her by the shoulders, lifted her in the air, and laid her out on the breakfast bar, amid the coffee cups, sugar cubes, and newspaper.
"What the hell are you doing, Tyson?"
"I'm going to fuck you, lady."
"Here?"
"Here." He unzipped her skirt and pulled it with her panties down around her ankles, over her sandals, and threw the bunched clothing on the floor.
"Spread your legs."
She spread her legs, knocking cups and ashtrays off the counter. Tyson slipped his shorts off and lifted himself onto the counter between her thighs. Without any preliminaries, he mounted her, finding her wet and receptive.
Marcy extended her arms and clutched the edges of the counter.
Tyson's thrusts were short and rapid, but he found his knees had no traction on the smooth countertop. He rocked back on his haunches. "Turn over."
Marcy flipped herself onto her stomach, then rose to her hands and knees.
Tyson clutched her shoulders and entered her from behind, ramming hard a dozen times in quick succession. Marcy slid forward, and her head rested against the splashboard. The counter shook, and the sugar bowl vibrated over the edge and crashed to the floor, followed by the milk pitcher.
Marcy spread her knees farther apart and lowered her head, looking back between her hanging breasts at Tyson's sliding penis and dangling testicles.
Tyson came suddenly, withdrew, and hopped back off the counter. He slapped her buttocks and strode out of the kitchen, calling back, "Clean up that mess."
Marcy remained motionless for a full minute, feeling the wetness running over her thighs, dripping onto the breakfast counter. Slowly, she lowered herself to the floor and surveyed the debris. Still naked from the waist down, she swept the milk and sugar together with the smashed ceramic, then knelt and pushed the mess into a dustpan with a sponge. She stood and began wiping the breakfast bar, wet with milk and splattered sperm.
Marcy stopped suddenly and stared down at the glistening WORD OF HONOR * 85
streaks along the brown plastic counter. She felt humiliated and used. But tonight that was how she was supposed to feel. That was part of their sexual repertoire; Marcy taunts Ben, Ben treats Marcy like chattel. The acting out of a common sexual fantasy. And she enjoyed that submissive role about once a month. But this time there was something different . . . something was wrong. . . . Tears came to her eyes, and her hands shook as she continued wiping the counter.
Thomas Berg said, "Change of venue, gentlemen. I trust this
CHAPTER suits you." Berg mo-
tioned around the
small, tastefully dec
orated room in the
Victorian-styleOld
Executive Office
Building. Berg added,
"We are getting closer
to the White House,
physically as well as
metaphysically." He nodded toward the window at the Ex ecutive Mansion a few hundred yards to the east.
Berg lowered himself into a wingback chair. General Van Arken sat in a suede upholstered chair near the window. Peter Truscott, from the Attorney General's office, sat by himself on a leather couch. Absent were the representatives of the departments of Defense and of the Army. Berg explained, "We're limiting our options, so we're limiting our membership in this group to us three."
The air-conditioning in the hundred-year-old building was 86
WORD OF HONOR e 87
balky, and the east-facing room was warmed by the late morning sun. Truscott and Berg had slipped off their jackets
Marcy said innocently, "Did I fuck up?"
Tyson smiled.
"You never said a word about it. " She grinned. "I served the shit with chopsticks, for Christ's sake." She added in an injured tone, "And I made up that neat drink out of sake and bourbon. The Hiroshima Bomber. Everybody liked it."
Tyson laughed.
"Don't laugh at me, you pompous, uptight twit."
Tyson stopped laughing and took a step toward her. "Who's uptight?"
84 0 NELSON DEMILLE
"You, you stuffy, anal-compulsive-"
He seized her by the shoulders, lifted her in the air, and laid her out on the breakfast bar, amid the coffee cups, sugar cubes, and newspaper.
"What the hell are you doing, Tyson?"
"I'm going to fuck you, lady."
"Here?"
"Here." He unzipped her skirt and pulled it with her panties down around her ankles, over her sandals, and threw the bunched clothing on the floor.
"Spread your legs."
She spread her legs, knocking cups and ashtrays off the counter. Tyson slipped his shorts off and lifted himself onto the counter between her thighs. Without any preliminaries, he mounted her, finding her wet and receptive.
Marcy extended her arms and clutched the edges of the counter.
Tyson's thrusts were short and rapid, but he found his knees had no traction on the smooth countertop. He rocked back on his haunches. "Turn over."
Marcy flipped herself onto her stomach, then rose to her hands and knees.
Tyson clutched her shoulders and entered her from behind, ramming hard a dozen times in quick succession. Marcy slid forward, and her head rested against the splashboard. The counter shook, and the sugar bowl vibrated over the edge and crashed to the floor, followed by the milk pitcher.
Marcy spread her knees farther apart and lowered her head, looking back between her hanging breasts at Tyson's sliding penis and dangling testicles.
Tyson came suddenly, withdrew, and hopped back off the counter. He slapped her buttocks and strode out of the kitchen, calling back, "Clean up that mess."
Marcy remained motionless for a full minute, feeling the wetness running over her thighs, dripping onto the breakfast counter. Slowly, she lowered herself to the floor and surveyed the debris. Still naked from the waist down, she swept the milk and sugar together with the smashed ceramic, then knelt and pushed the mess into a dustpan with a sponge. She stood and began wiping the breakfast bar, wet with milk and splattered sperm.
Marcy stopped suddenly and stared down at the glistening WORD OF HONOR * 85
streaks along the brown plastic counter. She felt humiliated and used. But tonight that was how she was supposed to feel. That was part of their sexual repertoire; Marcy taunts Ben, Ben treats Marcy like chattel. The acting out of a common sexual fantasy. And she enjoyed that submissive role about once a month. But this time there was something different . . . something was wrong. . . . Tears came to her eyes, and her hands shook as she continued wiping the counter.
Thomas Berg said, "Change of venue, gentlemen. I trust this
CHAPTER suits you." Berg mo-
tioned around the
small, tastefully dec
orated room in the
Victorian-styleOld
Executive Office
Building. Berg added,
"We are getting closer
to the White House,
physically as well as
metaphysically." He nodded toward the window at the Ex ecutive Mansion a few hundred yards to the east.
Berg lowered himself into a wingback chair. General Van Arken sat in a suede upholstered chair near the window. Peter Truscott, from the Attorney General's office, sat by himself on a leather couch. Absent were the representatives of the departments of Defense and of the Army. Berg explained, "We're limiting our options, so we're limiting our membership in this group to us three."
The air-conditioning in the hundred-year-old building was 86
WORD OF HONOR e 87
balky, and the east-facing room was warmed by the late morning sun. Truscott and Berg had slipped off their jackets
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