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Overview
A new short story by New York Times bestselling thriller writer Ben Coes — with time running out, Dewey Andreas is the last hope for a prominent kidnapping victim.
The newly sworn in Vice President of the United States has a problem. Her son, off in college, doesn't care for his security detail. So when Spring Break comes around, he slips away from his bodyguard, picks up his best friend, and heads to Mexico for an intended week of sun, sand, women, and hoped-for debauchery. But when he arrives at the airport, a team of well-armed kidnappers grab both him and his friend and escape. Now they're demanding that an exorbitant ransom be paid in only a few hours — and if it's not, both boys will be killed.
Dewey Andreas, CIA operative and former Delta, happens to be in Mexico, taking some time away and helping friends Katie Fox and Rob Tacoma with a private job. Hoping to relax, Andreas is now the only hope these two young men have of surviving their misadventure. But Mexico is a big country and, before anything else, Dewey has to find the missing boys. Even then, it's a race against the clock, with a highly-trained group of vicious men waiting at the other end.
Shooting Gallery, an original Dewey Andreas short story by bestseller Ben Coes.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781250203335 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | St. Martin's Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 06/05/2018 |
| Series: | Dewey Andreas Series |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 40 |
| Sales rank: | 72,969 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
BEN COES is the author of the critically acclaimed Power Down and Coup d’Etat. He is a former speechwriter for the George H .W. Bush White House, worked for Boone Pickens, was a fellow at the JFK School of Government at Harvard, a campaign manager for Mitt Romney’s run for governor in 2002, and is currently a partner in a private equity company out of Boston. He lives in Wellesley, Mass.
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
OVAL OFFICE THE WHITE HOUSE WASHINGTON, D.C.
Late morning sunshine crossed from the large windows of the Oval Office, creating geometric patterns on the paintings that hung upon the walls; paintings by Andrew Wyeth, Edward Hopper, Milton Avery, Benjamin Foster, and Winslow Homer, the president's favorite American artists. It was a gallery of the country's finest painters, a gallery of past greatness and, in the present, of American tradition, for today on display was an act in one part, the passing of power, the continuation of the great American experiment that was democracy.
The ceremony lasted only ten minutes. It was intimate, solemn, and in its own way, historic. There were seven people in the Oval Office, including President J.P Dellenbaugh; Antonio Ribalsi, the White House photographer; Chief of Staff Adrian King; and Mark Hastings, Chief Justice of the U.S. Supreme Court. Hastings held a Bible as he began to speak.
"Please repeat after me," said Hastings, a smile on his face. He looked into the eyes of an attractive forty-eight-year-old woman with brown hair, who placed her hand on the Bible. "I, Judith Xavier Brown, do solemnly swear ..."
"I, Judith Xavier Brown, do solemnly swear ..."
"... that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic ..."
"... that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic ..."
An hour ago, Judith Brown was the governor of the State of New York. Now, she was being sworn in as Vice President of the United States. Standing next to her were the two remaining individuals in the room, Brown's twenty-five-year-old daughter, Caroline, and her nineteen-year-old son, Toby.
"... that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same ..."
"... that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same," repeated Brown in a confident voice.
"... that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion ..."
" ... that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion ..."
"And that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me God."
"That I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me God."
Hastings extended his hand to Brown and shook it.
"Congratulations," said Dellenbaugh as he came over and shook Brown's hand, then gave her an enthusiastic but polite hug. "The first female vice president of the United States. It's about time."
"Thank you, President Dellenbaugh," Brown said, smiling widely. She went to her children, who stepped to her and hugged her. "Thank you for your belief in me, sir."
CHAPTER 2CONDESA 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.
CHAPTER 3SAYULITA, NAYARIT MEXICO
Samantha Ponce sat on the deck of the beach villa, a cup of espresso in her hand, her legs crossed, staring out at the ocean. There was no furniture on the deck, so she sat on the wood, leaning back up against the wall, the sun hitting her pretty face. Her eyes were closed. She opened them and glanced at her watch. It was two o'clock.
The couple was supposed to meet her at the house at noon. She shook her head and laughed. She wasn't mad anymore. It was so absurd, how could she be? Still, two hours late. She hated when prospective buyers were even fifteen minutes late, but this was so ridiculous that eventually she simply sat down and relaxed out on the deck, letting the sun warm her face and body. Samantha had removed her blouse, leaving only her brassiere. What was the difference between that and a bikini top? she told herself. Besides, she would know if anyone approached. The villa was isolated that way. Protected and isolated.
She was twenty-seven years old but looked like a teenager. Still, somehow she'd gotten the commission to sell the stunning beachfront property. She was not the most well-known of the area's real estate agents, but the old man who owned the house, Juan Sturgis, liked Samantha more than the other established agents who served the exclusive coastal area.
Samantha took being stood up in stride. She could've driven back to the office and tried to call, but the prospective buyer, a man named Winterthur, from Los Angeles, hadn't given her any cell phone number, only an email address. In fact, the entire communication with him had been done by email. She'd sent half-a-dozen notes to him, with no response. She took out her iPhone and started typing for the umpteenth time.
Senor Winterthur-please give me an update?
She probably should have just taken off. They obviously weren't going to show. But then, she knew, Juan Sturgis, the sixty-seven-year-old absentee owner of the stunning, indescribably beautiful, ocean villa, nestled atop a stony cliff along the Mexican coast, would berate her for not waiting. Houses along this part of the beach didn't come on the market very often, and the commission, if she could sell it, would be by far the biggest of her career: $350,000, assuming they sold it for its ten-million-dollar asking price. It was worth the wait, even of she had to sit there until dinner time.
The beach at Sayulita was empty. Not a soul in sight. One straight mile of sand and ocean. She could've stared at it all day. It was the most beautiful view in the world, the most beautiful beach in the world. What was most amazing was the simple fact that even now, it could still be empty. There were thirty houses in this remote, exclusive stretch of sand and cliff. If you didn't own one of the houses, you weren't allowed to step foot on the beach. There were never crowds.
Samantha stood up. In the distance, she saw two people walking along the sand.
CHAPTER 4PRINCETON UNIVERSITY TIGER CLUB PRINCETON, NEW JERSEY
Toby Brown pulled up in front of the big brick building that housed Tiger Club, one of many exclusive eating clubs at Princeton. Brown wasn't a member, though he'd been asked. He found most of the members to be assholes. Not all, though — his best friend, Dave Willoughby, was a member.
Brown honked the horn of his BMW twice. A moment later, Willoughby emerged, carrying a tennis racket and a leather duffel bag.
Brown had the passenger window rolled down and yelled:
"Hurry up! I lost him!"
Willoughby didn't change his pace. He reached the BMW and threw his belongings in the back seat, then climbed into the front. Brown sped off.
"Are you sure this is a good idea?"
"Mexico?" said Brown. "It's spring fucking break, Dave. Where else do you want to go?"
"You know I'm not talking about Mexico," said Willoughby. "You can't just 'lose' your Secret Service detail. Your mom is the vice president. All you're going to do is create problems for her."
Brown grinned.
"A week ago, she wasn't," said Brown. "Now, she is. What's the difference? If that wet blanket is following us around Mexico we'll have a miserable time."
"He seems nice enough to me," said Willoughby. "Stevens, Stephenson, whatever his name is."
"Jed Stevens. He's fine, I guess, but come on, can we drop this? You think we'll be able to buy blow down there in front of a Secret Service agent? Negative, and I want to have fun. That involves girls, beer, tequila, and blow."
Willoughby shook his head, saying nothing as Brown ripped the M3 through Princeton, eventually steering the sedan onto the highway.
"Next stop, Newark Airport," said Brown.
"Your mom is going to be pissed, Toby," said Willoughby. "I like your mom. She's going to blame me."
"No, she won't," Brown scoffed. "By the time she finds out she'll just laugh it off."
"You bought the fucking tickets! They'll trace it and you know it."
"Can you lay off?" said Brown. "Come on, this was supposed to be fun. Old times before we graduate. Remember that time at Middlesex? That time we brought all that vodka back to the dorm and had a fucking rager?"
"You got suspended, Toby. The cops came."
Brown grinned.
"But I didn't get kicked out," he said conspiratorially, "or arrested."
"That makes me feel good," said Willoughby. "I'm flying to Mexico with the son of the Vice President of the United States whose main goal in life is to not get arrested."
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Shooting Gallery"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Ben Coes.
Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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