Cajun Justice

by James Patterson

  “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.

  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.

  “Please pardon me for one second, señor. 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.”

  “I’m the one who’s getting my tail pulled,” Tom lamented. While still standing in the lobby, he phoned their supervisor and put the call on speaker. “You busy, boss?”

  “Yes, I am,” LeRoy Hayes replied.

  “Okay,” Tom said, oblivious to LeRoy’s answer, “I’ll keep it short.”

  “You got thirty seconds, because I’ve got an emergency meeting with the special agent in charge.”

  “An emergency meeting with the special agent in charge?” Tom asked.

  “Am I talking to a parrot?” LeRoy asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “The SAC wants some answers. Imagine that,” LeRoy said.

  “I wanted to talk about your email telling us to end mission and report back to DC.”

  “Tom Jackson, I can’t believe you are calling me to discuss this over an unsecured line in a foreign country. Actually, I can believe it. Nothing you do surprises me anymore.”

  “Sir, is there any flexibility on that order?”

  “Negative. Bottom line: make sure your ass is on that flight in the morning.”

  “The others, too, right? Not just me?”

  “Until I can get the facts ironed out, all twelve of you who were on my email,” he said before hanging up.

  Tom looked at the phone to make sure it wasn’t connected any longer. He turned to Cain and began to vent. “I’m so sick and tired of this agency. Everyone walks around like—”

  Cain interrupted. “Pipe down, man. People can see and hear us. We’re in the lobby of a five-star hotel, for Christ’s sake.”

  “I don’t care where we are! I’m not going down over some bullshit like this.”

  “Neither am I,” Cain replied. “I promise you that.”

  “What do you suggest, then?”

  “Start planning damage control. Triage. Stop the bleeding.”

  Three men in breathable short-sleeve button-down shirts and khaki cargo pants entered through the lobby doors. They made eye contact with Cain. Plainclothes police officers. Although he had never met them before, Cain had worked with lots of cops throughout the world. He knew how to detect them in a crowd. Cops carried themselves differently.

  “I’m going back to the pool,” Tom said. “After all, according to Hayes, it’s my last night here.” />
  “Jackson, it’s just one more night. Maintain a low profile for the rest of this trip. Got it?”

  Tom smirked and started to walk off but turned around to make one last comment. “Don’t work too hard today. You’re on the same flight as me in the a.m.”

  Cain felt his anger surfacing. Put it aside—for now. You’ve got a job to do.

  Chapter 7

  The three plainclothes policemen approached Cain.

  “Are you Cain Lemaire?”

  “Who’s asking?” He was always on guard, but even more so when working in a foreign country.

  The oldest officer reached into his back pocket. “I’m Detective Rojas,” he said as he opened his wallet and showed his badge. “My office was told the Secret Service wanted to do another security assessment before the president arrived.”

  “Yes,” Cain answered with relief. He thought they might have been there because of the prostitute. “That’s right. I knew we were meeting today, but I guess the time got away from me. I’ve been handling a bunch of other stuff this morning.”

  “That’s all right,” Detective Rojas said. “We are here to help you.” He extended his hand.

  “Mucho gusto.” Cain shook the detective’s sweaty hand. “You gentlemen walked here?”

  “Yes. Parking is prohibited because of the international conference.”

  “But you’re a cop. Like Kojak and Columbo. You can park anywhere.”

  Cain smiled, but he got the impression that the officers didn’t get the American references. He understood his job was not all operational; it was also diplomatic in nature. He represented the American president, and he needed the assistance of the local police for such momentous visits. “Well, I certainly appreciate all your help to make this mission go well. Your support is why these presidential trips are successful.”

  “We are happy to help you. We enjoy the overtime.”

  Cain propped his tactical backpack on the floor and unzipped it. “Compañeros, I brought some gifts for you.” He reached into the black canvas to retrieve various pieces of Secret Service swag. He had baseball caps, patches, shot glasses, coffee mugs, and challenge coins.