He walked back into the hallway, where they were eagerly waiting. He stripped the money from his clip and showed her his limited funds.
She pointed to his wrist. “El reloj,” she requested.
“Absolutely not,” he replied.
“Give me your watch,” she demanded. “Or all six hundred dollars.”
“This watch was a gift from my wife. De mi esposa!” he said in forceful Spanish, now losing his patience with the prostitute. There’s no way in hell she’s getting the Omega Seamaster Claire gave me!
“Este o nada.” He raised the cash again in a nonverbal take-it-or-leave-it. “A little bit of something is better than a whole lot of nothing. Algo es mejor que nada.”
She snatched the money out of his hand.
The manager had witnessed him pay the woman, and then instructed the guards to escort her from the hotel in a discreet manner. He turned to Cain. “Mr. Lemaire, this is a five-star hotel—”
“Yes, it is,” Cain interjected before the manager could finish his sentence. “You run a beautiful hotel.”
The manager smiled at the compliment. “And we have many VIPs staying here. Everyone’s safety and comfort are my primary concerns.”
“Mine as well. Second to the president, of course.”
“No more problems, please.” The manager’s words were more like a demand than a request.
“You have my word,” Cain replied. “But tell your security guards to keep her far away from us this week. She’s a bomb ready to explode, and we don’t wanna be anywhere near her when she does.”
Cain went back into his room, closed the door, and glanced at his watch. It was almost six. Early sunrays poured into the room. He was still tired from staying up late to finish all his paperwork for this presidential visit. The security assessment had to be sent to the intelligence unit in DC for final approval. Had it not been for Tom Jackson, I might’ve gotten another hour or two of much-needed sleep.
He stood at the window and looked out at the ocean. Palm trees were lightly blowing in the wind, and in the greater distance, fishermen were casting traditional rope nets. With the exception of that señorita, this port city seems like a peaceful place, he thought. He closed the curtains and grabbed his encrypted Dell laptop. He fired up the computer and reviewed the president’s classified schedule. The Summit of the Americas was a high-profile international conference, and protecting the president took its toll on the agents. A medical researcher commissioned by Congress had concluded that for every year an agent was on presidential protection duty, he aged two years. Cain’s sandy hair had no signs of gray, but he was still always struck by how much older he looked than others in their late thirties. It was genetics, he reasoned—the crow’s feet surrounding his light-green eyes—coupled with a career as a naval officer and a Secret Service lifestyle that required endless travel, too little rest, and the stress associated with the dread that you could miss the one attack that would throw the free world into chaos. An assassin had to be lucky only once, but agents had to be prepared all the time. They were willing to trade their lives for the president’s.
Cain had thought the navy was bureaucratic, but the Secret Service was even worse. It was a draconian agency with strict rules and unwritten guidelines. Cain didn’t like the administrative BS or the office politics, but he didn’t mind the rigorous schedule. He enjoyed seeing new places and found comfort in belonging to a warrior family, even if it was at times described as “dysfunctional.”
As Cain read the notes emailed back to him from the intelligence unit, he heard a knock at his door. He suspected it was the señorita again. He slammed the laptop shut and tossed it under a sheet on his bed. He opened the door, but it wasn’t the señorita. It was a face he recognized all too well.
Chapter 3
“Thanks, Cain. I owe you one.” The brawny agent invited himself in. Tomcat was wearing swim trunks and a T-shirt that advertised the Ohio State Buckeyes. Ohio State was his alma mater.
“You coward!” Cain exclaimed. “You were hiding in your room.”
“Nah, man. I swear. I was taking a shower.”
“Bullshit! I didn’t hear the shower. Besides, if you weren’t in there, you wouldn’t know that you owe me one. And it’s not just one, Jackson. It’s three hundred.”
“Tell me you didn’t pay that whore three hundred!”
“Do me a favor. As long as I’m footing the bill, don’t call her a whore.”
Tom rolled his eyes. “Always the gentleman.”
“Quite frankly,” Cain continued, “I’m surprised she’d sleep with you for so little.”
Tom laughed defensively while lifting his shirt. “Have you seen my abs? Women pay me.”
“Pull your shirt down. The entire service has seen your six-pack. Plus, your pasty skin’s blinding me without my sunglasses.” Cain wasn’t ready to let him off the hook so easily. “Why the hell weren’t you answering your phone? What if I had needed you for real?”
“I told you, man. I was in the shower. I couldn’t go to breakfast smelling like sex, especially in this nice hotel.”
“The manager came up here with two security guards. They escorted your date out of here. I swear, I’m done covering for you. This was worse than Itaewon—”
Tom smiled. “Korea was a blast.”
“How would you even know? You were so wasted I had to carry you all the way back to the hotel.”
Tom laughed. “You remember too much shit!”
“It’s a blessing and a curse. With you, it seems to be more of the latter.”
“Come join me,” his partner suggested. “They serve great Bloody Marys at the poolside bar, and I’ve got two complimentary vouchers.”
“POTUS is wheels down in less than twenty-four hours. You can’t drink.”
“Twenty-four hours? That’s plenty of time to sober up. Get dressed. Come on. They might even have some grits and those French doughnuts you like.”
“I’m skipping breakfast, and certainly the pool. The local police are coming, and I’ve gotta address some security concerns before POTUS arrives. You’re free to join me and do your job.”
“Nah, I’m good. You’ve got this covered,” Tom said. He turned around and left Cain’s room.
Chapter 4
Cain reopened the curtains and lifted the window. The hot, humid air poured into the room, reminding him of home in Louisiana—except for the saltwater smell. Seagulls squawked as they floated over the beach. It was still early—no beachgoers, just a few dedicated joggers. He wished he were out there running, but his normal schedule had been altered unexpectedly. Just the thought of Tom having a Bloody Mary at the pool angered him. Thousands of people apply each month for the Secret Service, and this ungrateful asshole is taking up a spot—making over a hundred thousand dollars per year and traveling the world on the government’s dime!
Cain placed his pistol on the vanity table and sat down. He focused on his government-issue weapon. He was proficient with all firearms, but he preferred the Italian-made Beretta 92FS. That’s what the navy had issued him as an aviator. That said, if he were ever shot down, he’d be better off with a comfortable pair of running shoes instead of a pistol. Better to flee from captors than battle them with a lone pistol. But now, as the president’s bodyguard, his duty required running toward the sound of gunfire—the opposite of the body’s natural instincts. It had required months of intense training at the Secret Service academy in Beltsville, Maryland.