Pineapple grenade

Chapter Thirty-Seven

15:03

Binoculars made another sweep from the roof of a building full of chicken, beer, and breasts.

“This isn’t good,” said Serge.

“We still have at least an hour,” said the spotter. “Three more speakers before Guzman.”

Serge took a full breath and lowered his binoculars. Thinking. Eyes wandered the teeming summit grounds. Families, faces, food carts. The stage and the next marching band assembling below the side steps.

Serge’s eyes stopped. “Uh, what’s that tent?”

“Where?” asked the spotter.

“Down behind the stage.”

“Oh, that’s the secure greeting area.”

“Shit!”

“What’s the matter?”

Serge quickly raised the binoculars and shortened focus. “It’s open-air. I can see everybody. Including Guzman. And if I can see him

…” His binoculars swung back across the street.

The spotter followed suit. “The shooter’s not going to wait for the speech?”

“The podium shot is Hollywood stuff,” said Serge. “Would you wait?”

They started again with the nearest line of buildings, entire hotel windows filled their fields of vision. A curtain opened.

“Think I got something,” said the spotter

“What is it?”

“That one, fifteenth floor, third from the south.”

Serge locked in with his own binoculars and watched a couple rip off each other’s clothes and put on costumes from the Napoleonic Wars.

“Sorry,” said the spotter.

More panning. More open curtains. More personal choices. Binoculars reached the end of the floor and paused again. In a circular, high-magnification view, another pair of curtains, but these were barely parted. The window behind them opened six inches.

“This looks interesting,” said the spotter.

“Where?” asked Serge.

“Third room from the end.”

“That’s him,” said Serge. “Looks like an Israeli Galil seven-point-six-two. When did the window open?”

“Just a few seconds ago.”

“He’s going for the shot now! Take him out!”

Serge kept his binoculars trained on the window. “What are you waiting for? Take him out!”

The spotter and Serge simultaneously looked over at their own sniper, slumped with an entry wound between the eyes.

“What the-!”

A tiny explosion with a fine mist of blood. Then the spotter toppled over from a bullet through his forehead.

Serge glanced quickly at the hotel, then grabbed Felicia by the arm and pulled her down flat below the lip of the roof. Another tactical round flew through the space where they had just been and pierced the coils of a rooftop air-conditioning unit.

“Downstairs!” Serge led her scrambling on hands and knees across roof pebbles to the access door. He reached up for the knob just as another slug punctured the metal a few inches from his hand. They tumbled into the stairwell and ran down to the street.

“What now?” said Felicia.

“To the hotel!”

“That’ll take too long.”

“Anything else will take longer. And Guzman’s still exposed in the tent.”

They sprinted through the marketplace, hurdling police barricades and darting between limos on Biscayne Boulevard. Into the hotel lobby and onto the elevator.

Serge’s hands shook impatiently as he stared up at slowly ascending numbers. Ten, eleven, twelve. “Come on!”… finally… fifteen. They jumped out and dashed down the hall.

A maid stuffed soiled towels in her cart.

“Federal agent!” Serge flashed his badge. “Open this room! Now!”

“No ingles.”

Serge saw her universal magnetic door key hanging from a string on the side of the cart. He snatched it and pulled his pistol.

The maid screamed and ran off in a manic duck waddle.

Serge held the card over the slot. His other hand gripped the gun. Hearts pounding. He turned to Felicia, already poised with her own weapon. “Ready?”

She nodded fast, eyes boring through the door.

Serge slipped the card down. Green light. They burst in.

“Don’t move!” yelled Serge.

Silence.

Empty, like it had never been slept in.

Felicia swung her gun in the bathroom. Nothing. “Sure we got the right room?”

“Positive. Window and curtains open a half foot.” Serge knelt on the carpet. “And look: rug indentations from the feet of the rifle stand. He was here all right.”

“Now he’s gone.” She ran to the window. “And Guzman’s still out there.”

She bolted from the room, and Serge chased her onto the elevator.

Doors opened in the lobby. She started running for the entrance, but Serge grabbed her from behind. “He would have gone out the back.”

They ran around the pool and through a gate to the parking lot.

“What are you stopping for?” asked Felicia.

“Look.”

A stream of thick red blood dripped from the corner of a Dumpster. Serge pushed the lid open. “This shortens our search considerably.”

“You sure that’s him?”

“Recognize his face from the binoculars across the street. And those are shooting gloves.”

Felicia looked inside. “Hey, that’s the same guy who killed the reporter by the river-and tried to kill me. What the hell’s going on? Why’s he dead?”

“The penalty for failure. He followed standard procedure by clearing out once the sniper nest was compromised. And his bosses followed procedure by cutting ties.”

“But what about Guzman?”

“Safe,” said Serge. “Standard procedure also calls for canceling the mission after the first miss. Until next time, when they try again somewhere else.”

“We better get over there anyway,” said Felicia. “Still haven’t reported the two men we lost on the roof. Since we still don’t know the full picture, it’s probably best I pass it through my own country’s security detail.”

“Hold up,” said Serge. “I haven’t had a chance to ask. Since there’s a break in the action.”

“What?”

Serge dropped to a knee. “Will you marry me?”

“Serge! This is a crazy time!”

“Doesn’t that mean no?”

“No, it means it’s a crazy time.” She pointed. “There’s blood streaming from a Dumpster behind you. Whatever happened to a quiet dinner?”

Serge stood and shrugged at the growing red puddle. “It’s our culture. This whole go-go lifestyle.”

15:17

A SWAT team swarmed a rooftop at Bayside Market. A walkie-talkie: “Team three is down! Repeat, team three is down!”

The bulletin came over the radio in a black SUV as it screeched up to a barricade on Flagler. “We’ve already lost men,” said Agent Lugar. “He could be anywhere, so fan out. And don’t trust Oxnart. We don’t know what side of the play he’s on.”

Four doors opened. Agents took off running in six directions.

Three blocks the other way, another black SUV. Doors opened. “Move out!” yelled Oxnart. “And keep an eye for Lugar’s team…”

A Volkswagen Beetle pulled up behind the SUV. Twelve men got out wearing red berets.

15:22

Serge and Felicia walked back across Biscayne Boulevard at a more leisurely pace, waving credentials at checkpoints. This time they avoided the impassable crowd by walking up the VIP drive next to slow-rolling limos and entering the rear of the tent.

A smiling caterer. “Champagne?”

Felicia shook her head and looked around. “I don’t see the president.”

“Relax.” Serge aimed an index finger. “He’s up there. Back of the stage. Must be on next.”

The current speaker gave a commendation medal to his minister of coffee.

“I see our head of security,” said Felicia. “Wait here…”

Another caterer with a bow tie. “Hors d’oeuvre?”

“Oooooo!” said Serge. “Do I see water chestnuts in there? That’s always a fearless statement!”

The caterer glanced back dubiously and walked away empty-handed.

Serge munched snacks from a full silver tray resting on his left arm. He strained for a peek at some kind of loud commotion back at the security checkpoint.

“Whoops. Losing a little balance again…” Someone fell over, taking down one of the potted palms flanking the entrance. Then a tent pole. The corner of the vinyl roof collapsed on minor cabinet members from Paraguay.

Serge finished chewing. “Coleman?”

Someone else at the checkpoint. “It’s okay, fellas. He’s with me.”

“He’s stinking drunk,” said one of the guards, replanting the tent pole. He sniffed the air. “And your breath doesn’t smell so good either.”

Ted Savage flashed a smile and his freshly laminated badge.

A second guard checked it. “Go on in.”

“Ted!”

“Serge!” He ran over. “What are you doing here?”

“Was about to ask you the same question.”

Ted held up the badge again. “Just got reinstated. Someone canceled my burn notice.”

Coleman grabbed two glasses of champagne from a passing tray.

Another water-chestnut delight went in Serge’s mouth. “But why are you at the summit?” Munch, munch, munch.

Ted leaned to whisper. “My first comeback mission.” Wink. “It’s a secret. I’m on backup security.”

“It’s safe with me… I need to find Felicia. Will she be surprised to see you.”

He walked off.

“Don’t be long,” Ted called after him. “Coleman’s about to become a two-man job.”

“I usually just roll him under a table,” said Serge. “These have the long tablecloths that reach the ground, so he won’t be bothered.”

A tap on Ted’s shoulder. He turned. “Can I help you?”

One of the guards from the checkpoint. “Did your badge say ‘OCI’?”

Ted smiled again and held it up.

The guard handed him a half-dozen pages. “These just printed out in the mobile command post. Flash bulletin. Color cartridge was low, but I think the threat level’s a new red.”

Two blocks away, a powder-blue ’54 Skylark pulled up in the alley. Mahoney looked over his shoulder at his office mates. “Do your thing.”

15:38

Serge returned with Felicia. He looked at Ted’s hands. “What’s that?”

A rare sober expression from Savage. “You need to see these.”

Serge gave him a look, then grabbed the pages and began reading. 17 DEC-1518-MIAMI SECTOR URGENT Echo: Team Bravo neutralized Assets: Two, location Zulu Echo: Unknown Mark. Unknown Flag. Delivery: Israeli Galil 7.62. Neutralized. Assets: Same Protocol: Whiskey Tango Germination: Immediate ALL SECTIONS: TOP PRIORITY

Serge rapidly flipped through the rest of the bulletin. He raised his head with a blank stare. “This is the two-man team we lost on the roof of Hooters.”

“Yeah,” said Felicia, pointing behind her. “I reported it in.”

“Look at the time stamp on the bulletin,” said Serge. “It’s before we even got back across the street.”

“So someone else found them before I could report. So what?”

Serge turned to the third page. “Here’s a suspect photo-grab from the surveillance cameras in the restaurant. My head’s turned, but it’s a pretty good likeness of you.”

“It would make sense that they got that out,” said Felicia. “Of course we’d be suspects before they knew who we really were. But I’m sure it’ll all get cleared now that I filled in my people.”

“How do we clear this up?” Serge turned to another page. Details on the body of a would-be assassin found in a fifteenth-floor hotel room with his rifle still in its stand.

“That must be a mistake.” Felicia looked at Serge in confusion. “His body was in the Dumpster. And the rifle was gone. You were there. Am I losing my mind?”

Serge didn’t answer-simply turned to the final page and another photo.

“Hey, it’s me. And you’re in the background,” said Felicia. “Remember? When I was standing in the assassin’s hotel room window and looked down to see if Guzman was still safe in the tent? But that’s a really long-range shot. Who could have taken it?…” She took a step back. “What the fuck’s happening?”

“Someone has gone to a lot of trouble.”

“We’re being set up?” said Felicia.

“And not by amateurs.”

“Son of a bitch! I knew you should never have trusted that Malcolm Glide!”

“It’s not him.”

“Of course it’s him!”

Serge shook his head. “Look at the back of the stage. Guzman’s still breathing. It would only be a double cross from Glide if your president had already been hit and they needed patsies.”

“So who then?”

Serge looked out the tent at the hotel across Biscayne Boulevard. “Whoever booked that room on the fifteenth floor.”

“Why would they come after us?”

“Maybe your arms investigation… Maybe anything… But whoever it is knows we’re protecting Guzman. That’s why they had to scapegoat us ahead of time. We were spotted at Dinner Key and tailed to Liberty City-”

“Back up. You said ‘ahead of time’?”

“Before the hit on Guzman. It’s still on.”

“I thought you said they cancel after a miss.”

“I’ve been wrong before.”

“I have to warn them!”

From the other side of the tent, security officers with suspect photos from the flash report. “I think I just saw them over there.”

“Uh-oh,” said Serge.

“What do we do?” said Felicia.

“Quick.” Serge raised a skirt of white linen. “Under the table!”

They both dove beneath.

“Serge,” said Coleman. “What are you doing down here?”

“Shhhhhhh!” Serge pointed underneath the tablecloth at shiny cop shoes.

“Excuse me?” said a police officer.

“Yes?” said Savage.

The bulletin photos again. “Have you seen these people? A witness thought they saw you talking to them.”

Ted gave the pics a closer look. “Seem familiar, but I’m not sure.”

The officer looked around. “Are they still here?”

“No.” Ted gestured out a tent flap. “Left a while ago. Said something about a flight to South America.”

“Thanks.” The officer walked away, talking in a radio mike.

The linen table skirt lifted. Ted’s face upside down: “Coast is clear.”

Felicia crawled out and dusted herself off. “We have to stop the speech.”

“We have to get him out of here,” said Serge. “I doubt they’ll use a sniper twice. The backup plan will probably be up close and personal.”

“Someone near the stage?” said Felicia.

“Or on it.”

They turned to move quickly toward the rear of the tent.

Nope. Cops gathered with printouts and arm motions.

They turned left.

Other officers huddling with pages.

To the right.

Someone else handing out more pages. In fact, in every direction, everyone seemed to be studying photos of Serge and Felicia.

Serge reached down for a hem of linen. “Everyone, back under the table!”

Coleman turned his face in the dirt. “Weren’t you just here?”

“Shhhhh!” said Serge. “I have to think.”

“So what’s the plan?” asked Ted Savage.

“Now pinch-hitting in the bottom of the ninth.” Serge placed a hand on his shoulder. “We need your help.”

“Me?”

“Bases are loaded and Casey’s at bat.”

Serge adjusted a bow tie. “How do I look?”

“Perfect,” said Ted.

Felicia balanced a silver tray. “They just gave you these uniforms?”

“Said I needed them for undercover agents.” Ted grabbed a flute of champagne off the tray. “I love my new badge!”

The pair worked the tent in a sinuous route, circulating with trays that allowed them to make abrupt detours without suspicion when officers approached… gradually working toward the back of the stage.

More agents appeared; the couple made about-faces on opposite sides of the tent, crisscrossing again in the middle.

“This is like Pac-Man,” said Serge.

“Shut up,” said Felicia.

Finally, the goal line. They stood halfway up the side steps, where it wasn’t unusual for the help to stop and listen to a few words, maybe snap a picture.

“I don’t see how anyone can get through the net,” said Felicia. “The place is crawling with security.”

“But looking for us.”

“True.”

The crowd burst into applause. The bald president of a former French colony smiled and raised his arms in appreciation. The left side of his military jacket was weighed down by countless, impressive medals representing the accomplishment of buying a lot of medals.

Felicia watched the president being spirited off to waiting blondes. “That means Guzman’s next.”

The president of Costa Gorda walked toward the podium to a stout ovation.

Serge took a heavy breath. “Why the hell does he have to give this stupid speech with all that’s happened?”

“Because he’s a real leader.” Felicia began clapping. “This is why the people love him.”

The crowd became one massive, undulating organism. Tiny flags waved. Cell phones held up to capture the moment. A giant beach ball bounced in back. After repeated acknowledgments from the president, they finally settled down.

“Look at that mob,” said Serge. “It’s like a rock concert without the mosh pit… Wait, I was wrong. Those kids flying around over there.”

“The Young Independents,” said Felicia. “They really love Guzman.”

The president addressed the microphone. “Good afternoon…”

A louder roar went up.

Serge examined faces onstage, back and forth. Relatives, traveling assistants, cops, paramedics. Felicia checked the front rows of the crowd, cheering citizens, children on parents’ shoulders, news photographers.

“Nothing out of place,” said Serge.

Felicia’s eyes swept back the other way. “We need to stay alert. Anything could happen.”

And things happened, as they are known to do, in fast order.

Clouds rolled in across what had just been a clear sky. Wind began to whip. The park dimmed.

“I think they’re wearing caterers’ uniforms. We saw them heading toward the stage.”

Felicia watched security closing in. “What do we do now?”

“Pray for pandemonium.”

“What’s that noise?” asked Felicia.

Ripples of thunder from across the bay.

The crowd held programs and anything else over their heads.

“Starting to rain,” said Felicia.

“Regular afternoon shower,” said Serge. “Never seen snow.”

Outside the perimeter on Biscayne Boulevard, drivers lost traction and slammed through police barricades, scattering screaming pedestrians.

More yelling from the street as protesters used the opportunity to break free from their cordoned-off squares, attack one another, and hurdle the smashed barriers toward the amphitheater.

The security net that had been tightening on Serge and Felicia turned and ran from the stage.

Other agents rushed back to the main entrance of the VIP tent, where Guardian Mimes clogged the checkpoint, frowning and pulling their pants pockets inside out to show no credentials.

The aggressive windshield washers arrived, squeegeeing limo glass.

“Give us money!”

Another fracas. Young women chased someone running south on the sidewalk.

“Leave me alone!” yelled the Most Laid Guy in Miami.

Johnny Vegas sat on the curb and tossed a bouquet in the gutter.

A platoon of Guardian Clowns pushed through the crowd and squirted people with plastic lapel flowers. “Out of the way! This is serious!”

The High-End Repo Man jumped in a driver’s seat, speeding off in a stretch and running over a shark. A prime minister in back held on to the door. “Hey, you’re not my driver.”

Clouds continued gathering. Sky almost black. Wind howled.

Another set of screams from a large circle that quickly opened in the audience for the Guy Who Punches People.

More security responded from the stage.

A wild brawl broke out at the VIP tent, where police arrested the Guardian Mimes and charged them with nonviolent assault because they had pulled their punches.

“This isn’t good,” said Felicia.

“It’s perfect,” said Serge.

Remnants of the dispersed security force finally spotted Serge and Felicia and drew guns. “There they are!”

Lugar’s men spotted the security and drew guns. “Freeze! Drop the weapons!”

Oxnart’s team arrived and pointed guns at everyone else. “Nobody move! Who’s who?”

Guzman became distracted from the various commotions and lost his place, then refreshed himself with notes and continued about climate change.

Something caught Felicia’s eye. The curtains on the far edge of the stage slowly parted. “Serge! To your left! What’s he doing here?”

“Evangelista?” said Serge. “Shit, he must be the backup plan, coming to finish the job himself.”

“He’s advancing from the other side of the podium!”

“He’s reaching in his pocket!”

Ted Savage and Coleman came up the stairs, both a little unsteady. “Anything good going on?”

“Not now, Ted!” Serge reached under his shirt.

So did Felicia.

So did Evangelista.

They saw a glint of metal against the fat man’s stomach.

“He’s got a gun!” yelled Felicia.

She was right. A. 380 Ruger. Evangelista’s hand curled around the grip.

Serge and Felicia pulled their own pieces.

From the back of the stage and down in the audience, dozens pointing: “They’ve got guns!”

Instant panic.

Stampede. Screams.

Guzman stood frozen at the podium, bewildered by unseen events. Evangelista approaching from the right side of the stage; Serge and Felicia from the left. The president’s bodyguards tried to get to him, flailing through the crazed mob running helter-skelter across the stage.

“Evangelista’s still advancing!” said Felicia.

“He’s got the gun out! He’s aiming!” Serge swung his own pistol left and right. “Guzman’s in the way.”

Felicia braced her shooting arm, repeatedly shifting stance as innocent heads bobbed into her line of fire. “I can’t get a shot off.”

Serge’s free hand shoved someone aside. “Neither can I.”

Someone could.

Bang, bang, bang…

Hysteria became bedlam, then a circus, and finally a madhouse.

Half the people hit the ground shrieking; the rest ran blindly into things and dove off the front of the stage.

Serge stood on tiptoes for a better view.

An empty podium.

“Guzman!”

Serge and Felicia rammed through the mob like blitzing linebackers. They reached the pile of bodyguards behind the podium.

“Is he hit?” asked Felicia.

“No.”

“Felicia,” said Serge. “Look!”

Evangelista lay splayed out on his back. Silent eyes wide. Spreading pool of blood. Bullet through the heart. Gun still in hand.

“You shoot him?” asked Serge.

“No,” said Felicia. “Never fired.”

“Neither did I,” said Serge.

“Then who did?”

Somewhere below in the trampling of feet, a meek voice: “Serge?”

“Ted? Is that you?”

“Down here.”

Serge pushed through more people, then looked back. “Felicia! It’s Ted! He’s been hit!”

“Serge?” said Ted.

He bent down and cradled Savage in his arms. “How bad is it?”

Ted shook his head. “Did I get him? Is Guzman safe?”

Serge glanced back at Evangelista’s body, then the bodyguards whisking Guzman down the stairs to a waiting limo.

“Yes, Ted. You saved him.”

Ted smiled weakly. “Good. I think Evangelista got me back, but at least I nailed him first. I succeeded in my last mission.”

“Hey buddy.” Serge stroked his arm. “You got a million more jobs ahead. Just stay with me.”

Ted just smiled again. “Thanks, Serge.”

And he was gone.