Cajun Justice(5)

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.

“Please pardon me for one second, se?or. This is my boss trying to reach me from Washington. He’s usually hands-off, so it’s unusual.”

“Claro.” Carlos waved his hand in the air as if swatting a fly.

Cain read the short email. “Reports of excessive drinking and good-time girls. Embassy is aware. Return to DC tomorrow, 0855 hours United flight. Your relief is already en route. EOD.”

Cain was stunned. He knew that EOD meant “end of discussion,” but it was a forceful way to state it. He suddenly felt sick to his stomach.

“Are you okay?” Carlos asked. “You look ill.”

Cain scrolled to the top of the email to see who else was on the distribution. Tom Jackson and ten other agents. All twelve had been out the night before, just blowing off steam in their typical fashion while globe-trotting on behalf of Uncle Sam, forging camaraderie among men who daily put their lives in one another’s hands. Few people understood the stresses placed on them or their families’ sacrifices. One agent had retired abruptly upon returning from an overseas trip. He noticed a drawing on the refrigerator that his son had made at school. The Secret Service agent noticed Mom, the daughter, the son, and their dog. Confused, he asked where he was in the picture. “At the White House, where you always are, Daddy,” the boy answered.

Cain’s phone buzzed. It was Tomcat calling. “Are you already doing the security assessment?”

“I should be, but I’m not. I’m still trying to tie up your loose ends!”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in the lobby.”

“Stay put. I’ll meet you there. Coming now.”

Cain looked at Carlos. “You weren’t joking about Latin women.”

“I never joke when it comes to women or money.”

“Judging by your jewelry, you’ve done much better with money than you have with women.”

Carlos smiled, and Cain continued. “But what I need help with right now is figuring out how to manage this rogue-woman situation.”

“She reminds me of my second wife. You cannot manage this. Nobody can. This is going to be painful and expensive.”





Chapter 6



Tom Jackson was now wearing flip-flops, swim shorts, and a muscle shirt. A thick pool towel was dangling over his right shoulder as he rushed up to Cain, who was finishing his conversation with Carlos.

“You’re leaving a trail of water drops in this nice lobby,” Cain pointed out, annoyed.

“That’s the least of my concerns right now! What do you think this is about?”

“You know exactly what this is about! It’s about you being reckless. Cheap. Irresponsible. And selfish!”

“Selfish?”

“Yeah, you heard me right. You were only thinking about yourself. I don’t care about what you and that woman did last night. But your selfish actions this morning are interfering with a lot of other people.”

“Well, I’m going to call Hayes. Flying back to DC before the president gets here is stupid. They’ve already spent the money on us being here. I can make an economic argument on the matter.”

“An economic argument?” Cain was in disbelief. “Like the one you made a few hours ago with the woman who stormed out of this hotel with all my money?”

Tom said nothing. He used his towel to continue drying off.

Cain went on. “Since when does Uncle Sam give a damn about how much money is spent on these trips? If you’re going to call Hayes, make sure to get your story straight first. You’re not going to get one over the King.” That was Cain’s nickname for their boss, LeRoy Hayes. In Cajun French, LeRoy meant “the king.”

“There’s nothing to get straight. This is all bullshit. You know it, and he knows it.”

“It’s not bullshit,” Cain insisted. “If you’re gonna buy flesh, then you gotta pay—in more ways than one.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Some things you just gotta learn on your own, Jackson. But I’m pretty sure I’m not alone on this one. The King is gonna think this is bullshit, too, but not in the way you think.”

“You’re always putting LeRoy on a pedestal. He’s a has-been. Been with the agency over ten years and he’ll never rise any higher than SSA.”

“Perhaps. But the King was a beat cop and a street agent before he became a pencil pusher. If you go after him, he’s going to counterattack like a bobcat that just got his tail pulled.”