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.”