Authors: Tim Dorsey
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.”
1538
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.”
1521
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.”