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 wore 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.
Dewey stepped over her. The music continued. Most people hadn’t even noticed. Someone screamed but it blended into everything. The woman looked up at him, blood gurgling from her mouth in dark red puddles. Dewey stepped over her, his legs on either side of her.
“Where are they?” Dewey yelled, a vicious look on his sweat-covered face. He put his boot against her neck, pressing the bullet hole as she weakly tried to push his leg away. “Where are they? Tell me and I walk away. You might survive.”
“Sayulita,” she coughed. “But it doesn’t matter. I work for someone. If the money isn’t there in the next hour, they both die.”