Part One
No Good Deed Goes Unpunished
Chapter 1
“Abra la puerta!” she screamed.
Secret Service agent Cain Lemaire shot up in bed. He left behind the recurring nightmare loop he had already experienced too many times, awakening to the high-pitched shouts of a woman.
“Open the damn door!” she repeated in a thick accent. These were not cries for help but the sounds of an angry woman demanding attention, pounding on a door down the corridor from his room.
Cain blinked his eyes several times, struggling to read his watch in the darkness. The curtains were half open, but the sun was not yet out. He flipped on the bedside lamp and saw it was barely five thirty.
Who is she? he wondered. And why is she banging on a door at this hour?
She continued making a commotion in the hallway. He rolled out of bed and threw on a hotel robe he took from the closet. He grabbed his cell phone and government-issue SIG Sauer .357 off the nightstand, concealing the pistol in the outside pocket. The fully loaded gun was heavy, like a brick. It pulled noticeably on the robe.
He cracked open the door but didn’t see anyone. He opened the door wider, making sure to scan the hallway. He peeked to his left and right. A strong perfume permeated the air. The source was surely the scantily dressed brunette a few doors down. She had a large purse slung over her shoulder. When she turned to look his way, her gaudy oversize hoop earrings swung wildly. Cain recognized her. She was striking enough to have caught his attention the previous night. She had been sipping a cocktail by herself in the hotel bar when he’d passed by on his way to his room.
“Your friend kicked me out without paying me!” she cried out. She marched toward Cain in her shiny leather high heels.
“Tranquila,” he said as he raised his palms to her, in an effort to slow her momentum. “Tranquila. No es un problema.” He knew her theatrics would draw unwanted attention. “Relax. I will fix this. Trust me.”
“I don’t trust you! I don’t trust any of you! That maricón agreed to pay me. He owes me six hundred dollars!” She pointed down the hall without taking her eyes off Cain. She had deep brown eyes that matched her hair, which cascaded all the way to her lower back.
Cain assumed she was pointing to Special Agent Tom “Tomcat” Jackson’s room. Tomcat was married with two daughters but known within the Secret Service as a playboy. His ego was as large and developed as his physique, and this was just the kind of woman he’d pick to experience a different side of the country.
“Six hundred dollars?” Cain asked incredulously.
“Yes!” She nodded. “Six hundred. This was not a date; it was a business deal.”
Drawn to the disturbance, a uniformed security guard approached carefully. His wrinkled face projected alarm. Cain got the feeling the sleepy security guard rarely encountered problems at the five-star resort.
“Señor,” the guard said. “Is there a problem?” He spoke in English, but it seemed limited.
“No hay problema. Todo está bien. Voy a arreglar esta situación,” Cain rattled off, perfectly trilling the r’s, the way his Spanish teacher had taught him. Señora Lana would be proud, he thought. She always told me my Spanish would come in handy someday, but she probably never imagined it would be to calm an angry prostitute.
Cain’s conversational Spanish had also come in handy as a naval officer flying P-3 airplanes for counter-drug operations after 9/11. That was a time when the American government was waging war on narco-terrorism throughout Central and South America. He’d grown up speaking Cajun French with his parents, but Spanish was a lot more useful these days.
The woman continued arguing with Cain, switching back to Spanish for the security guard’s benefit. “No! No está bien. Ese cabrón me debe dinero.”
Watching them interact, Cain sensed that the security guard knew the señorita. Cain overheard her mentioning the president, and that’s when he interjected. He had to.
“I already told you: I will take care of this.” He walked toward Tom’s room and knocked on the door. There was no answer. He knocked louder.
“He’s a liar! Mentiroso! I know he’s in there,” she yelled.
Cain reached into his pocket. Wrong pocket, he thought as he felt the steel of the SIG Sauer pistol. He fished for his BlackBerry in the other pocket. When he found it, he thumbed his password and telephoned his partner. He even placed his ear to the door, and could hear the faint tune of Tom’s “Smooth Latin” ringtone. Tom had changed it during their flight down. Tom didn’t pick up, and eventually the call went to voicemail. Cain tried to turn the door handle, but it was locked.
He looked at the upset woman and the security guard. He shrugged his shoulders. “I’m sorry, but nobody answered.”
The prostitute became more enraged. “Voy a llamar la policía. La policía! Police!” she threatened. “I want to file a police report. Now!”
The guard was sympathetic to the señorita’s threats to involve the police—he was muttering something about how the American officials invaded the hotel like locusts and acted as if they owned the place. They were speaking Spanish faster than Cain could follow, but he picked up key words and understood their body language. The guard unclipped his radio from his belt and keyed the mic. “Necesito el gerente. Ahora por favor.” The security guard had urgently requested the hotel manager.
It wasn’t the first time this manager had been called because of an agent’s actions. How’s he gonna respond this time? Cain wondered.
Chapter 2
The hotel manager, with every strand of his jet-black hair perfectly in place, rounded the corner and approached in his charcoal suit. Two additional security guards flanked him. Tomcat ain’t skating out of this one. Cain returned to Tom’s door. He knocked much louder this time. No response from inside the room. He redialed his colleague, but still no answer. I’ve gotta do something before this blows up and the police are called. This situation is escalating quickly and is about to get way out of hand.
Cain knew he would have to deal with Tom later. It wasn’t the first time he had covered for his partner during an overseas trip. Tomcat’s antics were an annoyance and distraction from the real reason they were here: to provide maximum protection for the American president.
The manager extended his hand, which Cain shook. “This lady is very distraught. She claims your friend owes her six hundred dollars.”
“Sir, I have no idea what happened between her and my colleague.”
“She would like to file a police report,” he added.
Cain grimaced. Prostitution was legal and regulated here, but this was still poor PR. “I know this much: it won’t look good for the hotel or the Secret Service if we involve the police.”
The manager signaled his agreement with a slow nod.
“I don’t have six hundred dollars,” Cain said, “but I will pay the lady what I have.” He looked past the manager and directly at her. “No es un problema. Yo te pago.”
He walked into his room and toward a pair of slacks strewn over the chair in the corner. He picked them up and caught the sweet scent of a Rocky Patel cigar—a reminder of his time the previous night at a chill jazz club near the hotel. Rummaging through the front pocket, he retrieved his leather money clip—a wedding gift from his father. It was engraved with the initials CML, and below that was the inscription Micah 6:8. In his money clip were a Virginia driver’s license, a government-issue travel card, a personal Visa card, and roughly three hundred bucks in a mixture of American dollars and pesos.