He unsheathed his duty pistol from its tan-colored Prince Gun Leather holster. He released the magazine and racked the slide, ejecting a bullet from the chamber. He caught the hollow-point bullet midair and neatly placed it on the table. He double-checked to ensure that his SIG was empty. He fieldstripped the weapon and laid out each part carefully, inspecting every piece as if his life depended on its reliability—because it did. And so did POTUS’s. Cain and his fellow team members trusted one another to shoot straight when the time called for it.
He cleaned and lubricated as necessary before reassembly. He function-checked the SIG Sauer .357, and pulled the trigger and dry-fired it several times. He hoped that squeezing the trigger repeatedly would slip into his subconscious and help with one of his recurring nightmares.
Other agents had described nightmares of being chased, or their teeth falling out, but not Cain. He had two recurring nightmares: one was personal, and the other always involved an assassin attacking the president. Cain would always draw his weapon and try to put two bullets into the attacker’s center mass, but his trigger would not budge. He hoped that dry-firing his service pistol several times a day would transfer into his dreams and end that hellish loop.
He slapped a loaded magazine into the SIG and racked the slide. He released the magazine and inserted one extra hollow-point, bringing the total number of bullets to fourteen. He was always prepared for battle, and he wanted to make sure he had every round possible.
He wiped off the excess oil and holstered his SIG. It fit snugly, a testament to the craftsmanship of the artist who had molded the sheath from a single piece of high-quality cowhide. He looked upon the tools of his trade—gold-plated five-star badge, pistol, two extra magazines, pair of stainless-steel handcuffs, handheld radio and custom-molded earpiece, expandable steel baton, colored lapel pin—and inhaled the strong odor of gun oil. If I can figure out how to turn this smell into men’s cologne, I would make my millions and retire, he thought. But where would I go? I’m dedicated to the Service. Working in the Presidential Protection Division is exactly where I want to be. He was an actor on the stage the Secret Service informally referred to as “the show,” and it consumed his life. The Service had taken him in. They were his adopted family, and they were a tight-knit group.
His room phone rang.
“Señor Lemaire?”
“Sí.” He recognized the slow, heavily accented voice. It was Carlos, a retired midlevel police supervisor, now the hotel’s chief of security. They had been working together for this presidential visit.
“I know you are busy, but it’s very important that—”
Noise in the hallway prevented Cain from hearing Carlos.
“I’m sorry,” Cain replied. “Please say that again.”
The chatter in the hallway grew louder.
“Un momento, por favor,” he said before placing the phone down and opening the door.
Several agents, wearing shorts and with beach towels draped around their necks, were discussing their exploits from the previous night, bits of profanity mixed into their conversations.
“Guys! Tone it down. I’m on the phone. It’s important.”
“It’s not even eight o’clock yet,” one of the agents said.
“Quit screwing off,” Cain replied. “We’ve got work to do.”
“Plenty of time for that. We’re all heading to the pool.”
Cain shook his head in annoyance and returned to the phone.
“I apologize for the interruption,” Cain offered, and inhaled deeply to calm himself.
“That’s why I’m calling, Señor Lemaire. We need to talk. I’ll be waiting for you in the lobby.”
“Can we discuss it over the phone?”
“No,” he said. “This is best discussed in person.”
“I need a minute to get dressed.”
“Of course, but please hurry.”
The dial tone echoed in Cain’s ear.
Chapter 5
The luxury hotel bustled with guests, but not tourists. Most were American government officials. Secret Service agents occupied an entire floor, including the rooms above and below the president’s suite. Other rooms were used by military advisors, a communications team, political aides, and other straphangers who always accompanied every VIP entourage. If the American taxpayer only knew how much money was spent for such presidential visits…Cain thought.
Angel was the Secret Service code word for Air Force One, and it was landing in less than twenty-four hours. Because there was still a great deal of advance security preparation to be done, Cain anxiously stood in the lobby, waiting to meet with Carlos. The hotel’s head of security seemed to always be running late. Cain had learned from his travels, which had taken him to more than one hundred countries on six continents, that only a few cultures had an obsession with punctuality. Americans and Germans certainly fit the stereotype, and from what he had heard from his twin sister, Bonnie, the Japanese were also mindful of being on time. By comparison, South America as a whole seemed much more laissez-faire.
While impatiently waiting in the lobby, Cain marveled at the building’s architecture. It was nothing like the cookie-cutter hotels back home. This hotel had a colonial feel to it, with magnificent wooden columns and high ceilings that supported elaborate glass chandeliers.
His focus was interrupted by the immaculately dressed Carlos, whose tailored suit fit snugly on his large frame and was accented by a Rolex watch and gold rings. Cain wondered if the man had amassed his fortune as a captain with the police force or as head of the hotel’s security department.
“Señor Lemaire. Let us sit down over here”—Carlos gestured with an open palm—“where it’s more private.” He looked around the lobby as one might at an ATM in a sketchy neighborhood. “I heard about what happened this morning. We’re used to these things here. And quite frankly, we think it’s only human nature. Man has been chasing woman since the beginning of time. But we may have a problem. I received a phone call from our national newspaper. They were asking questions. I think the woman has talked to the press.”
“What?”
“It appears so, señor.”
“Well, there’s no story here. I’m sure the press will realize that, and it’ll be old news by the time Air Force One arrives. That beautiful Boeing 747 has a way of stealing the limelight when it lands.”
“Señor. You don’t know Latin women like I do. I’ve been married to four of them, divorced from three. This puta is not going away.”
Cain’s BlackBerry vibrated on his hip, opposite side from where he carried his concealed pistol. He never wanted to accidentally grab his phone when he intended to draw his gun. While on duty, he also always made sure his ringer was switched to Vibrate, especially after a colleague forgot to do so during a speech by former president Carter. Deacon (the Secret Service code name for the thirty-ninth president) had been in the middle of delivering a speech when the agent’s phone rang, and President Carter fixed the agent with a look. The agent was so mortified he’d offered to resign the following day.
Cain grabbed his phone from its holster on his belt and rested it on his thigh while Carlos continued talking. He flipped it over and glanced at the screen. There was a high-priority notification. Next to the message was a red exclamation mark. The email was from Supervisory Special Agent LeRoy Hayes.