by Ben Coes
She grinned.
“Okay, rewind,” said Dewey. “You’re … Rachel?”
“Erin.”
“Erin. Got it.”
Their drinks came.
“So, do you want to shoot some pool?” Erin asked, smiling. “I think it’s our turn. I promise I won’t ask you any more questions.”
Dewey looked into her brown eyes, eyes like warm maple syrup. He didn’t want to get to know her, yet, on some level, Dewey knew that she understood that he just wanted to be left alone, but that he could also use a little warmth, friendship, and kindness, and that she was kind enough to persist, over his obvious hints, because her instinct told her he could use a little companionship.
“Sure,” he said.
They joined Tacoma and the brown-haired girl at the table. The pool table was against the back wall. Dewey and Erin teamed up against Tacoma and Rachel, though they spent half the time kissing each other. Dewey was a terrible pool player when he was sober, and being drunk made it even worse, but Erin was lights out, and they kept winning. A few times, they made eye contact over the laughter and clacking of pool balls.
At some point, a group of four men joined them. Both Erin and Rachel went over and hugged them, politely.
They were younger, in their twenties, and wired; cocaine, Dewey guessed. They all wore jeans, two had on tank tops, the others T-shirts. All of them wore gold chains around their necks. Rachel introduced them to Dewey and Tacoma.
“Antonio is one of the photographers,” she said.
One of them, a good-looking man with a shit-eating grin, took Rachel’s pool cue out of her hands, without asking, then leaned over and took a shot, even though they were in the middle of the game.
As he watched the scene unfold, Dewey’s mind sharpened. There was an edge to the group.
Dewey moved around the table, over to the wall, near Erin.
“We don’t know them very well,” she said to him. “He’s the photographer tomorrow. We heard he’s a creep. Don’t leave. They’ll be gone soon.”
Dewey said nothing. He glanced over at Tacoma.
It’s about to get ugly.
11
CARLYLE HOTEL
NEW YORK CITY
It took longer than Igor expected.
The call to the vice president had been run through two separate anonyzing switches, one in Germany, the other in Kiev. He thus had to hack into both networks and then build an algorithm designed to isolate the call by sifting through massive amounts of metadata. When, finally, his screen started flashing, he picked up his phone and dialed.
“Hi, Igor,” came the voice of Katie.
“Katie,” said Igor. “I want you to know I was only able to muster the brilliance needed to find the individual who made this call because of the memory of your beauty and sexiness. What are you wearing, by the way?”
“Ewww,” said Katie. “Just tell me who he is and where he is.”
“It’s a she, and she is in Guadalajara. Texting you details.”
“Thanks, Igor.”
“The pleasure, my beautiful flower, was all mine.”
“Does anyone ever fall for that stuff?”
“Sometimes,” said Igor. “You will someday, trust me.”
“If I ever go out on a date with you again,” said Katie, “it will be out of pity, Igor.”
“Pity is the first rung on the ladder to true passion,” said Igor.
“Hanging up now.”
12
ACAPULCO
Dewey scanned the four men. They were all young, good-looking, but in a sleazy way; with jewelry and pinky rings. Other than the photographer, they looked rough-weight lifters with tans. One looked ex-military. The other three looked vaguely criminal, peripherally or directly involved in the Acapulco drug trade. The Sports Illustrated photographer, who’d taken the pool cue from Rachel, wore an aqua tank top and had large muscles; penitentiary muscles.
As much as Dewey suddenly perceived danger, he couldn’t get his mind to quite focus. He felt dizzy, weaving slightly. The room was spinning. He wasn’t prepared for a confrontation, and even if he was, this four on two didn’t look like it would be very much fun. These were the kind of people who carried weapons and who knew how to use them.
“Rob and I are going to go,” said Dewey. “You guys can come with us, or hang out. But we’re going.”
Dewey looked at Tacoma, who’d heard what Dewey said. He nodded in agreement as he took a sip of beer and scanned the four goons.
Erin took Dewey’s hand. She held it tightly.
“Don’t go,” she said. “It’s early. I’m having fun.”
“Me too,” said Dewey. “But I think I had a little too much to drink.”
“So let me walk you home,” she said, smiling.
Dewey nodded to Tacoma.
“Okay.”
Dewey smiled, then turned to walk to the door, putting his hand to Erin’s hip and gently pushing her.
“Erin, don’t leave,” said the photographer. He pointed at Dewey. “Stay, man, it’s four on four. We can play some games, have some fun.”
Dewey kept walking.
The ex-military–looking one had gone to buy a round of tequila shots. He was returning from the bar as Dewey and Erin—trailed by Tacoma and Rachel—walked by the end of the table. He stood in front of Dewey, a shit-eating grin on his face. When Dewey went to move around him, he shifted, continuing to block his exit.
“Are we cock blocking you, man?” he said, laughing.
“Fuck off,” said Dewey. He stepped forward, between the man and the wall, trying to slip out. The goon shifted left, blocking him.
He was almost as tall as Dewey. His neck fell straight away from his head; a football neck, like Dewey’s.
That was when everything went to hell.
Dewey swung his right fist in a grade uppercut, targeting the goon’s neck. Despite the fact that he’d challenged Dewey, he hadn’t expected Dewey to come at him so soon—and so hard. Dewey’s strike was dead accurate. His fist slammed the man’s neck at the larynx. He grunted as Dewey’s fist struck, then tumbled backwards to the ground, the tray of drinks falling with him, a dozen glasses filled with tequila hitting the floor, all of them shattering.
Erin screamed.
Dewey squared off as Tacoma stepped to his right, facing the trio.
The pool tables nearby cleared out as people ran for the front of the bar and the exit.
If Dewey’s punch was meant to take the man down, to break his larynx and sideline him from the coming fight, Dewey underestimated the strength of the thug’s neck. The goon clutched his neck and rolled over, slowly and angrily climbing to his feet.
Tacoma turned just in time to see the thick end of a pool cue swinging like a bat through the air, hitting him across the ribs. It knocked the wind out of him. But he knew the drill; he knew how to fight. Even as the wood crushed into him he reached out his hand and grabbed the cue in the split second after it hit, preventing the attacker from pulling it back to take another swing. Every instinct, every part of him, wanted to double over and fall to the ground in pain, but his training kicked in, and he swallowed the pain now roiling his stomach. Tacoma could taste blood in his mouth.
One of the four—a bearded man—ran at Dewey as, behind him, the tank-topped goon with prison muscles charged, a pool cue in his hand.
Rachel screamed, then tried to stop the fourth man, the photographer, from moving in, but he threw her aside with his arm, blood lust in his eyes.
Dewey swung at the bearded man with everything he had, slamming his fist into his nose, snapping it. Blood shot from his nostrils and he stepped back, holding his face, moaning.
Tacoma—holding a pool cue—saw one of the men to his right, charging, waist-high. Tacoma swung the pool cue at him, hitting him in the head. The cue broke in half and he kept charging, throwing himself at Tacoma—tackling him mid-torso just as another pool cue—swung by one of the other two thugs—hit Dewey hard in
the head, below his ear, snapping the cue. The pool cue tore a gash across Dewey’s cheek and he heard a loud ringing in his head. Whatever dizziness he’d felt from the alcohol was replaced by a sudden torpor, vertigo-like, as his brain tried to process the blow, but he didn’t have time. He hit the ground and one of the goons started punching at him, hitting him furiously in the stomach.
He glanced at Tacoma, who was still standing—fighting off two men.
There were more screams, and Dewey could only think that he wished, at that point in time, for the police to arrive.
Dewey knew that he and Tacoma were in trouble. He was on the ground, dizzy, possibly a concussion. Tacoma was fighting off the scrum but then he saw the glint flash of a weapon—handgun—come from the photographer.
Dewey fought to get to his feet as the ex-soldier came toward him, kicking his foot toward Dewey’s head. From the floor, Dewey caught the front of the man’s boot and wrapped it beneath his elbow, then twisted. The man fell to the floor in pain, and Dewey crabbed across the mêlée—putting two knuckles out—hatchet style—slamming, hard-punching the ex-soldier’s right eye, crushing it.
Dewey looked up just as a skinny Mexican in an Adidas T-shirt lifted a pool cue above his head and chopped it viciously down, through the air, aiming at Dewey’s head. Dewey lurched away just in time to avoid having his head struck yet again, but the ferocious axe chop struck his shoulder and he groaned.
Dewey looked up just as the man with the gun brought the muzzle to Tacoma’s chest. Dewey could not catch his breath. He registered the pool cue about to be swung down upon him—but couldn’t take his eyes off the skinny Mexican as he brought Tacoma into the crosshairs of his gun.
The Mexican lifted the pool cue again, raising it high.
But before he could swing, someone came at the Mexican from behind. Whoever it was had two cues, held tight together. Just as the Mexican was about to swing again at Dewey, the person swung the pair of cues at his neck, from behind, the speed of the strike making a whistling sound, like a whip. The cues struck the man’s cortex. He tumbled sideways, unconscious, maybe dead; if he lived, he would be paralyzed.
From the ground, all Dewey could make out was a blur now. He saw a slight figure, with blond hair. It was a woman. Blood trickled from his mouth, from the first hit to his ribs. He threw up again as he tried to understand what was happening. In a brief moment of focus, he saw the woman’s feet. She wore high heels.
Oh shit, Dewey thought. I’m being saved by someone wearing high heels.
The woman stepped forward, toward Dewey, who lay beneath the ex-soldier, who continued to punch at his torso. Now he could see her. It was Katie. She swung both pool cues like golf clubs, down then up, hitting the soldier in the neck, this time doing the job Dewey’s first punch had failed to do. The cartilage in the man’s larynx cracked, and he grabbed at his neck, desperate for air.
Dewey pointed behind Katie, suddenly noticing the bearded one, who’d gotten back up and was charging.
She turned, wheeled the cues, but the bearded one was on her, swinging for her head. Katie stepped nimbly aside, grabbing the thug’s right arm, swinging it down and behind the man’s back. The thug’s own momentum caused the arm to bend in an impossible position, then snap at the elbow. He screamed as he fell.
The Mexican with the tank top was the last one standing. He was cornered. His eyes darted around nervously. He didn’t know where to aim the gun. He looked confused and desperate, a combination that they all knew could lead to gunfire.
A waitress in the bar area screamed at the sight of the weapon. What was pandemonium turned into outright hysteria at the sight of the firearm and the Mexican swinging it back and forth between Dewey and Tacoma.
Then there was the loud, unmuted crack of gunshot. The explosion echoed loudly across the pool hall. The Mexican thug abruptly jerked as a bullet struck his right shoulder. He was kicked backwards and down, falling to the floor, screaming in pain as the gun tumbled from his hand.
Dewey looked up at Katie, who clutched a P226 out in front of her. She stepped to the gunman’s weapon and grabbed it.
“Get up,” said Katie, looking at Tacoma. “You too,” she added, glancing at Dewey as she held the Mexican—now on the ground—in the crosshairs.
Dewey climbed slowly to his feet. He and Tacoma walked past Katie as she continued to aim her pistol at the Mexican while her eyes scanned the other goons, who were all on the ground.
“I knew I shouldn’t have let you two go out by yourselves,” said Katie. She had a slightly amused, slightly pissed off look on her face.
“We had it under control, didn’t we Rob?” said Dewey.
Tacoma looked dazed.
“Yeah, we had it, Katie.”
Outside the bar, a dark sedan was idling. Katie stepped quickly to the back door.
“Good call,” said Tacoma as he climbed in. “The last thing I feel like doing is walking all the way back to that hotel right now.”
“We’re not going back to the hotel,” said Katie.
“Why not?” said Dewey.
“The vice president’s son was kidnapped a few hours ago,” she said, “along with one of his friends. Whoever did it murdered an FBI agent.”
“Forgive me,” said Tacoma, rubbing his jaw, “but what does that have to do with us?”
“It happened in Guadalajara. We don’t know where they’re holding them, but it’s somewhere close.”
“I didn’t sign up for this,” said Dewey. “I’ve also had a few drinks. By the way, isn’t the vice president the one who’s trying to fire Hector?”
“Yeah,” said Tacoma.
Katie looked at them with an angry stare.
“Hector is the one she wants to fire and he’s the one who asked for our help,” she said. “You know what?” she continued, shaking her head. “I’ll do it myself.”
She opened the door and nodded at Dewey and Tacoma.
“Get out.”
Dewey and Tacoma exchanged a look.
“Fine,” said Dewey. “Since you asked so nicely.”
13
WESTIN HOTEL
GUADALAJARA, MEXICO
Dewey stood in the elevator, back left corner, staring straight ahead. There were four other people in the elevator, two women and two men. They all got off the elevator on the penthouse floor, which opened into a rooftop pool and lounge overlooking Guadalajara. The pool’s blue lights cast a decadent glow. The two women from the elevator not only didn’t stand out, but they looked pedestrian against some of the other women gathered around the pool.
Dewey wore a navy blue silk shirt with long sleeves, and jeans. He went to the poolside bar and ordered a bourbon, then sat down at the bar. He took a sip and scanned the crowd.
The intelligence was less than two hours old. Igor had tracked the phone.
In the corner of the rooftop lounge, a large group was seated in a big red leather booth. There was a small crowd at the table, partying. He counted three women and six men, all of whom were dressed in suits and not very subtly were packing weapons; security. A woman in the middle of the group was the center of conversation.
Dewey felt the underside of his left arm. Strapped to the forearm was a concealed mini-gun: a small, retractable device with a short barrel that could, with a specific whip-like motion, pop forward, then fire with the pull of a small trigger located at the wrist. The weapon was locked to Dewey’s forearm by two metal bands around his elbow and wrist. The magazine held two 9mm slugs. It was an ingenious, almost mythical device, designed by an Israeli inventor named Steinman in 1966, and still as effective today for the sort of discreet, very public killing Dewey intended to inflict on the Mexican.
As much as Dewey wanted to walk around the pool and kill the woman, he knew he would be turned into a piece of Swiss cheese within seconds of firing the first round.
He spent an hour alternating between bourbon and beer. Then she stood up. She was short, with pale skin and black hair, and wor
e glasses. The entire table moved toward the elevators, two gunmen in front, two alongside, two in back; in the middle, the woman. She walked with a brisk pace.
Dewey trailed the group and took the next elevator. Outside the Westin, he climbed into an idling silver Ferrari, Tacoma at the wheel. Two traffic lights later, he found the two Escalades.
The nightclub was called Bar Américas. From the street down the block, Dewey watched as the group walked to the front of a long line at the club’s bodyguarded rope-cordoned entrance. The woman was let in immediately, along with her group.
Dewey handed the doorman a stack of hundreds and entered just behind them.
The club was a cavern, an old warehouse retrofitted for a dance club. The place was packed with people. The music was deafening; loud dance music that made the floor vibrate. The floor, walls, and ceilings were lit up, and lights strobed the smoke-crossed air. It was hot, packed with people, and total chaos.
Dewey meandered along the fringes, looking at the leather booths along the dimly lit outer edge of the dance floor. Across the floor, the woman was dancing with one of the men from her party.
Dewey moved through the chaos of dancers, pushing through sweat-soaked bodies, like a hunter. People were everywhere, dancing. A woman suddenly grabbed Dewey’s arm, pulling him, and he turned. She had a faraway, drugged-out look, her eyes bloodshot, and she was dancing. She wanted Dewey with her, and she moved closer, rubbing against his chest. The music pounded—so loud it would’ve been hard to hear a bomb go off.
Dewey moved in rhythm with the woman for several minutes, letting the motion, the tide of people slowly push him to the woman.
Suddenly, Dewey swung his left arm out, whipping it in a downward motion. The muzzle of the mini-gun popped from his sleeve, into his hand. Dewey moved his right hand to his left wrist and snapped the trigger back, firing. The slug ripped the woman in the neck. Blood splattered on the man she’d been dancing with. She was pummeled backwards, to the ground, onto her back, clutching her neck where the bullet had entered. He fired the second bullet into the forehead of the one she’d been dancing with. He fell to the ground.