CONDESA BEACH
ACAPULCO, MEXICO
The Acapulco evening was warm, but a soft wind came in from the west, off the water, and helped clear much of the day’s humidity, the stale, sweaty, baked-on Acapulco heat, away until another day.
Dewey, Katie, and Tacoma walked south, down the beach. The sky was almost sherbet-colored over the horizon as night approached. The beach was empty except for a few old men walking, stooped over, with metal detectors, and a few others walking dogs.
They’d been in Acapulco for three days now, on a job. Katie and Rob’s private security firm, RISCON, had been hired by one of the largest software companies in the United States to manage a transaction. A computer hacker, nationality unknown, had penetrated the company’s network and stolen more than ten terabytes of customer data, design specifications, and advanced, proprietary algorithms. RISCON had been hired to deliver a check for $75 million to the mysterious hacker in Mexico. The company had employed RISCON at the suggestion of the National Security Advisor, Josh Brubaker.
At age thirty-four, Katie Foxx ran RISCON. Katie had started the firm after working at the CIA as head of Special Operations Group, running operations all over the world. Katie was five feet, five inches tall and had shoulder-length blond hair. She brought with her from the CIA her most talented and trusted operator, Rob Tacoma, an ex-Navy SEAL who had proven himself to be a uniquely talented assassin. Tacoma was twenty-nine years old, six feet one, with medium-length brown hair. He had the looks of a movie star. Dewey Andreas had gotten to know Katie and Tacoma after working with them to stop Iran from detonating a nuclear device in Israel. Dewey, at six-four, 225-lbs., loomed larger than the two of them and had a distinctly rougher aspect about him. His brown hair was unruly, uncombed, and down to his shoulders. A beard and mustache covered his face. Perhaps his most distinctive feature was his eyes, which were a piercing blue. Until recently, Dewey had never worked at Langley—but he’d been an operator in Combat Applications Group, known more commonly as Delta.
The company who’d hired RISCON didn’t want the hacker harmed—the money was a rounding error for them. But they wanted a message sent.
An old man carrying a metal detector approached.
“Excuse me,” he said with a Spanish accent. “Have you seen my dog, Alberto?”
Dewey and Tacoma stopped in their tracks, pulling guns from concealed holsters beneath their armpits. Katie walked to the disguised individual.
“Where’s the information?” she said as Dewey and Tacoma flanked her, keeping the guns tucked against their chests but scanning the beach for others.
“There’s no one else here,” said the man. His voice was harsher now, his accent British. “Where’s the money?”
“Where’s the information?” said Katie.
“Show me the bearer’s note,” said the hacker. “Then I will tell you.”
Katie pulled a letter-sized envelope from her satchel and handed it to him. As he removed it, she took her phone and took several photos of the man.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he snarled. “I told them—”
“Shut the fuck up,” snapped Tacoma, taking a step closer and training the gun on the man’s foot. “You’re about to make seventy-five million dollars, you goddam thief. Don’t fuck it up.”
The hacker read the document for a few moments, then handed it back to her.
“The information?” Katie said.
He took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to her.
“It’s on Google Drive,” he said. “Ironic, isn’t it?”
Katie pulled the document from the envelope and handed it to him.
“In addition to your photo, we now have your prints,” she said. “If the information isn’t there, or if you made copies of it, we will hunt you down and kill you. You’ve been warned. The money is yours. You’re lucky our employer doesn’t want a problem.”
“How do I know you won’t kill me anyway?”
“You don’t, fuckhead,” said Tacoma. “Now go back to your mom’s basement and fuck off. ¿Comprendez, señorita?”
The hacker folded the document and tucked it into his coat. He turned and walked away from Dewey, Tacoma, and Katie.
They watched him as he meandered down the long beach, waving the metal detector, blending into the distance, another old man out looking for treasure.
Finally, it was Tacoma who spoke.
“Look at that little fuck,” he said. “Probably took him an hour to steal that shit. We should’ve at least kneecapped him.”
Dewey holstered his gun.
“Hey, Dirty Harry, relax a little, will you?” said Dewey. “Let’s go get some dinner. By the way, how much did we make for this little trip?”
“Twelve million dollars,” said Katie.
* * *
The sidewalk along Bella Vista was becoming more crowded as Dewey, Tacoma, and Katie walked back toward the Ritz. People were heading out of the hotels for drinks and dinner. At a casual bar with views of Acapulco Bay, they found a table outside on the terrace.
Katie started to sit down, then stopped.
“I’m going to go work out,” she said.
“One drink?” said Dewey.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m going to work out, then order room service. We’re leaving tomorrow, early. I suggest you two not stay up too late.”
“We won’t, grandma,” said Tacoma.
When the waitress came, Tacoma ordered a beer. Dewey ordered two shots of bourbon and two beers. He swigged the first bourbon down and took a sip from the second as Tacoma watched with a consternated look, sipping his beer.
“What?” said Dewey as he took a sip from his second beer. “You worried about my caloric intake?”
“Not your caloric intake, though you are a fucking load. Your alcohol intake.”
“If man wasn’t meant to drink, God wouldn’t have invented alcohol,” said Dewey knowingly. “Last supper? Remember that?”
“And how did that end?” said Tacoma.
Dewey laughed.
They talked for the next half hour and watched as people walked by.
“What should we do for dinner?” said Tacoma.
“Steak,” said Dewey.
Dewey paid and stood up. He and Tacoma meandered through the crowded sidewalks in the busy neighborhood off the beach, finding a steakhouse. They sat at the bar and ordered steaks and a bottle of red wine. Behind the bar, a pair of flat-screen televisions were on. On one was a golf tournament somewhere. On the other, a soccer game. The atmosphere was boisterous. The bar was filled, mostly with couples eating steak and watching one of the TVs. At some point, the chair next to Tacoma opened up and an attractive brown-haired woman sat down. She had brown skin and looked Mexican. She wore a simple, very short, backless, red-and-yellow dress. Tacoma glanced at her as she sat down, and she returned the look, and smiled.
Tacoma swiveled and looked at Dewey.
“Feliz navidad,” he sang quietly to Dewey, imitating the Christmas song.
“Those are probably the only words you know,” said Dewey.
“They’re all I need to know.”
Tacoma struck up a conversation with the young woman. After a few minutes, she was joined by a tall, blond-haired woman, also with dark skin. Both were very attractive. Soon, the two women were conversing with Tacoma as Dewey ate his steak and pretended to be interested in the soccer game on TV. He ordered another bourbon as Tacoma chatted with the two women to his right. He tried not to listen, but couldn’t help it. Tacoma was regaling them with a story about playing golf. Whether out of politeness or because they actually thought it was funny, they were laughing uproariously every once in a while as Tacoma went on and on.
“By the way, Rachel, Erin, this is my friend, Dewey,” said Tacoma, elbowing Dewey in the ribs.
Dewey turned and grinned.
“Hi,” he said.
“These two are both models,” said Tacoma. “Sports Illustrated. They’re doing the swimsuit issue.”
Dewey nodded, saying nothing.
“He’s not very talkative,” said Tacoma, looking back at the two women. “It doesn’t mean he doesn’t like girls.”
They started laughing. The blonde came over and sat down next to Dewey.
“Do you mind?” she asked. Her accent was Russian.
“Not at all,” said Dewey. He motioned to the bartender. “Please, whatever she’d like.”
“Thank you,” she said.
Tacoma tapped Dewey on the shoulder.
“Are you up for a game of pool?” Tacoma said to Dewey.
“Sure,” said Dewey.