Pineapple grenade

Chapter Thirty-Six

Mass confusion.

Ten times worse than when the arena lets out after a Heat play-off game.

Flashing lights, police cars everywhere in the middle of streets, sealing the entire grid. Motorcycle cops zipped down the middle of the evacuated roads ahead of limos with bulletproof glass and flapping flags on fenders.

The Road Runner got stacked up twenty deep under the I-95 interchange. Police with batons waved drivers back in the direction they’d come.

“We won’t be able to get anywhere near the place,” said Serge.

Felicia stuck her head out the window. “We’re not even moving.”

“You look like the running type,” said Serge.

“But we still have to park.”

“I hate to do this.” Serge cut the wheel. “Hold on to something.”

The Road Runner broke out of traffic, jumped the curb, and crashed through a chain-link fence. Serge downshifted and drove sideways along a forty-five-degree embankment beneath the overpass.

The police saw him, but with the traffic chaos, only the motorcycle unit could get to him, and they were tied up on escort duty. Bums and bottles scattered ahead of Serge’s front grille. He cascaded down a grass berm and skidded to a stop in the mushy edge of a retention pond. Driver’s door against a tree. Tires spun, spraying mud.

Serge removed the keys. “That’s as far as this train goes.”

1433 military time.

Bayfront Park.

Amphitheater.

Festive. Standing room only. A crushing sea of people in light clothing filled every inch and spilled down the esplanade. Disposable cameras raised in the air above heads. TV trucks. Balloons. Schoolchildren in native costumes, waving flags on little sticks.

On the opposite side of the street, in small, constitutionally roped-off squares, tiny groups of protesters quarreled with one another and thrust homemade signs at passersby: “I MMIGRATION N OW! ” “ S TOP I MMIGRATION! ” “ F REE C UBA!” “ N EED C ONCERT T ICKETS!”

A band played a national anthem that included flamenco guitars and bongos. A president approached the podium. He led a vibrant little country with no armed forces that Americans couldn’t find on a map. The president raised his hands to acknowledge the applause, then introduced the national soccer team that had just defeated Zimbabwe. Louder cheers…

Two people urgently pushed their way through the crowd without great success.

“How are we going to find the shooter with this mob?” Felicia checked the official schedule. “Guzman’s the sixth speaker.”

“I need to get someplace high and scope angles.” Serge looked around. “Over there. The roof at Bayside Market.”

“Hooters?”

“See that rifle barrel?”

“A sniper!”

“Yes, but one of ours,” said Serge. “Stay close and grab the back of my shirt. This’ll be rough going.”

The pair began plowing ahead. “Excuse me, excuse me…”

“Hey, watch it, fella!”

“What’s your deal?”

“Coming through. Excuse me…”

14:38.

On the fifteenth floor of a downtown high-rise hotel, a room-service tray sat in the hall.

The guest hadn’t left the room since Tuesday. Lying on the bed, staring with patience at a textured pattern on the ceiling, and wondering about the tool that had been used to create it.

No complaints from his neighbors. No TV or sound of any kind. One of the few people who could go a week without speaking a word-not on the phone, not to the hotel guy delivering his food, not even to himself. He liked it.

The room remained dim with curtains pulled.

A cell phone vibrated on the nightstand.

He checked the text message.

“#.”

Thin leather gloves slipped over hands. The hands checked the tightness of the mounting bolts on a five-leg titanium stand that held a Galil 7.62mm Israeli sniper rifle. The cap came off the scope.

14:41.

Serge and Felicia finally broke free from the suffocating mob and ran up an escalator.

A woman in tight orange shorts smiled. “Table for two?”

Serge flashed the credentials Glide had given him. “Which way to the roof?”

“That employee door to the kitchen and up the stairs.”

They took off again, jumping two and three steps at a time, reaching the roof with clothes that smelled like buffalo wings.

A two-man tactical team heard the access door crash open. The one not manning the rifle swung and aimed a pistol. “Freeze! Both of you!”

Serge held his badge high and ran toward them. “Government agent.”

“Stop right there. Let me see that.”

The one with the rifle glanced over. “Who are they with?”

The spotter studied the laminated photo ID with a bar code. “OCI.”

“OCI?” said the marksman. “I’ve never met one of them before. What the hell are they doing here?”

The other handed back the badge. “What are you doing here?”

“Got an intel intercept. Thirteen hundred hours. Assassination plot on President Guzman.”

“We haven’t heard anything.”

“Just came in,” said Serge. “Looks like freelance flew into town. I’m guessing one of those windows across Biscayne.”

“You mean one of those thousand?”

“Got an extra pair of binoculars?” asked Serge.

They began scanning facades of bright, reflecting glass.

The spotter finished one bank tower and went to another. “When’s Guzman speak?”

Serge worked his way down an office building. “Sixth.”

“I think it’s too early to find him,” said the spotter. “If this guy’s any good, he’s not going to open the window until Guzman’s at the podium.”

“What can it hurt?”

Down on the street, motorcycles revved, lights flashed. Police on foot opened the gates for more limos, including one with the national seal of Costa Gorda.

The dignitaries were met backstage at the amphitheater in a large, open-air tent. Handshakes, champagne, caterers circulating with shiny trays. Stereo speakers piped in the live program from the stage, a joke about sugarcane export policy.

Across the street, in a fifteenth-floor hotel room, a cell phone vibrated.

A hand in a leather glove flipped it open to a text message:

“!”

The cell flipped closed. The room’s guest walked over to the window.