Cajun Justice(2)

The guard was sympathetic to the se?orita’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.

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 se?orita, 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.