Returning home; raven-haried killer wife; a meeting

Silently now, she must not hear me coming in so late.
His clothes seem tattered, the open collar revealing scratches, what could be a fractured collarbone. Looking in the hallway mirror, his eye sockets sheathed in pools of darkness. Through the large bay window off to the left, a sportscar, with one headlight out, choking on fumes in the driveway dark. With a sigh, it dies, the headlight dimming automatically.
Those German bastards really did get it right, with the new 500s.
Staring into the gloominess, he feels the Look from his wife. Call it spidey sense, maybe with a little radar thrown in, but with full send and receive. Scanning, he locates it off to the right, and meets her eyes by the stairs. She is armed when he reaches her, and he bear the scars to remind him of her abilities with even the smallest blades.. He knows if anyone else entered the house with malintent, they would be dead before their second breath of home sweet home.
From the tire tracks on the front lawn, and her loose stance, someone must have beat me here. But did they leave, or were they still here?
“Where is he?”
All was running according to plan. They knew they would have to face mercenaries at some point, he had just acquired the means to assure their financial security. She merely glares, a look of playful but deadly contempt briefly fill her face, to vanish back into the otherwise stoic depths of her face. She turns, and bolts silently up the stairs.
Reaching the top landing, he knows his son is safe, and looks at his wife.
Running her hands over his bruised body, she looks for signs of broken bones. They speak in hushed tones.
“How many?” A hint of mania rides his rational mind. He would never surrender the boy to that beast of a man. Sooner the boy would be dead.
“Maybe ten. If they burn the house, he will die. We must ...”
“He comes with us, then.”

The buyer sits, his legs crossed, wearing a loose Acapulco shirt, morning sun pouring into the misty beach air. He is drinking a mimosa, and is visibly drunk.
“Jack How the hell are ya ” He yells across the bar, waving Jack, the man who just sold out his company, to boot stealing hundreds of millions of dollars worth of product research and other sensitive data over, already ordering his new companion something to drink. The thumb drive burned a hole in his thigh as he slid in next to the American.
“What did you order for me?
“Jack and Coke.” He hesitates, looking toward the bartender, who causally moves on to the other end of the bar.
“Don’t worry. If you have what you say you do, you won’t need for money. Maybe find a safe place to hole up though. I got a cousin, in LA, could hook you up.”
Jack nods slightly, the base of his neck tight.

Winston J. Hall sees the movement, and realizes just how tense he himself is. This is big time, now, W. The only thing now is to get the data, and the passwords. His superiors had been pleased with the tidbits Jack had fed them, wanted the whole thing, even had the twenty million lined up for transfer.