A sudden bright flash lit up the dim and smoky establishment. Cain turned toward the cause: a woman clutching a professional-looking camera with an expensive zoom lens.
“Get that bitch!” one of the agents shouted.
Tom bolted from the dartboard and rushed toward the woman as she tried to exit the bar, grabbing her sleeve and preventing her escape.
“Soy reportera para El Tiempo,” the startled camerawoman shouted. “Dejame ir.”
“Give me that camera!” Tom demanded.
Mac intervened, placing himself between Tom and the frightened woman. “It’s okay. She’s just a local reporter.”
“No, it’s not okay,” Cain said, having rushed toward the altercation. “Jackson’s right. She’s got a picture of us drinking in a bar. We want that film.”
“Or she’ll have trouble sitting down when I shove that camera up her ass!” Tom said.
“Knock that shit off!” Mac said, siding with the reporter. “She’s welcome in here just like you fellas. And if you blokes don’t calm down, I’m going to ring the police. This is my bar!”
Tom gripped the camera and yanked it out of the reporter’s hands.
“Dame la cámara!” the reporter yelled.
“Fuck you!” Tom shouted back.
With one quick movement, Mac struck Tom’s throat with an open palm. Tom fell backward and dropped the camera. It crashed onto the floor and smashed into several pieces.
The other agents rushed to Tom’s aid as he gasped for air. They were about to fight Mac when Cain shielded the bar owner and pulled him aside. “Naval intelligence my ass! That strike looked more like a technique taught to the British SAS.”
The camerawoman quickly recovered her broken camera and fled. The inebriated agents attempted to chase her, but gave up after a few seconds because she was too quick.
“I understand this is your business,” Cain said, “but please understand our concern. We’re United States Secret Service agents. We don’t need this reporter posting our photos all over the place. You know what I mean—OPSEC. We try to fly under the radar. The word secret is in our name.”
“Really?” Mac belly-laughed. “If you boys are trying to stay secret, you’ve done a bang-up job since you arrived in this country. Besides, it’s just one photo. What can it hurt?”
Chapter 10
The agents returned to the hotel that morning with just enough time to pack their bags, check out, and catch their ride to the airport. They used their diplomatic passports and a courier bag to bring their weapons on board.
“I’m in seat 14A. What seat are you in?” Tom asked Cain.
“Thankfully, not one near you.”
“Ah, man, don’t be like that.”
“Enjoy the flight, Jackson,” Cain answered with a sarcastic tone. “We’re on it because of you.”
“At least it’s a free flight back home,” Tom said. “You’ll be sleeping in your own bed tonight.”
“On that note, I’m gonna catch some z’s. So, don’t bother me on this flight.”
Cain settled into his seat and peered out the window. They departed northbound and he could see farmland off to the right. When the pilot banked left, Cain marveled at the sea and the sailboats until they vanished in the distance. The sea was no stranger to him, yet it always seemed mysterious—a duality of giving life and taking it.
He took a sip of his black coffee. He always thought the beverage tasted better at higher altitudes. Plus, it forever reminded him of his navy days, when he had depended on coffee to stay awake for the thousands of hours he spent flying his P-3 over the oceans, searching for Russian submarines or South American drug runners.
Next to him sat an elegantly dressed woman who appeared to be in her early forties. She seemed interested in what Cain was busy scribbling in his black Moleskine journal.
“Are you writing a book?” she asked.
He looked up. “Maybe someday, but not today. This is just a collection of my notes—work things, restaurants, names of people and hotels.”
“I get motion sickness easily,” she said. “So I try to disconnect from the world when I’m on a flight.”
“Normally, I’d try to watch one of the new releases, but I’m collecting some thoughts for an important interview tomorrow.”
“Job interview?”
“Something like that. I have a boss who’s gonna ask me a lot of questions about my trip down here.”
“How did you like your visit?”
“Wish I could’ve stayed longer.”
“Oh, I know what you mean,” she said.
You have no idea what I mean, he thought. He had a dull headache forming, a combination of lack of sleep, alcohol, cabin pressure, and the stress of being recalled from a mission, which had never happened to him before. He retrieved a bottle of Tylenol PM from the bag resting at his feet and swallowed two pills.
“You can always come back,” the woman said.
He nodded in agreement.
She continued. “I was there to meet with the CEO of a large jewelry company. My business is in diamonds.”
“And where are you from?”
“I’m from Thailand. Have you ever been? We call it the Land of a Thousand Smiles.”
Cain lowered his head. Before he could respond, the flight attendant approached. “Sir, the gentleman in seat 14A ordered this for you.” She presented him with a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks.
“You’re too kind,” Cain said.
“It’s my job,” she said, and smiled.
Cain winked playfully. “I meant calling him a gentleman.”
She grinned even wider.
“Thank you, but please take it back to him. Tell him I’m already asleep.”
Cain looked at the passenger next to him. “It’s been nice talking with you. I’ve got a long travel day ahead of me, so I’m gonna close my eyes for a bit. I hope you find a good movie to watch.”
“Do you have any recommendations?”
“You’ve Got Mail.”
She tilted her head and raised her eyebrows. “You like You’ve Got Mail?”
“What can I say?” He smiled. “I’m a sucker for romantic comedies. And Tom Hanks is a great actor.”
“I agree with you. It’s one of my favorites. That and When Harry Met Sally…”
“You’ll find ’em under the Classics category. Enjoy the movie.” He jotted a few last-minute notes in his journal before nodding off.
After landing in DC, Cain collected his luggage and walked out of the airport. The sun’s rays aggravated his migraine. He rummaged through his backpack for a pair of aviators to shield him from the brightness. He found his government car, parked at long-term parking. Had I known this mission was going to be cut short, I would have splurged for short-term parking. He cranked the sedan, rolled the window down, and hit I-66 eastbound.
Most people complained about DC’s traffic, but not him. He recognized the trade-off: being able to experience the history and museums. He saw a road sign advertising the Smithsonian’s National Air and Space Museum at the Steven F. Udvar-Hazy Center, one of his favorite places to visit when he wasn’t working. It always brought back good childhood memories of his dad, Claude, teaching him and Bonnie how to fly. Claude still owned and operated a small crop-dusting business near Lafayette, Louisiana.