Pineapple Grenade (47 page)

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.

Epilogue

CNN

“Good evening. Officials are reviewing security procedures tonight after a failed assassination attempt on the life of Costa Gordan president Fernando Guzman at the prestigious Summit of the Americas in Miami. The plot was foiled this afternoon by a quick-thinking federal agent who was tragically killed in an exchange of gunfire with the assailant . . .”

Serge looked up from his portable TV. Someone approaching on the sidewalk.

He hopped to his feet, ran around the table, and pulled out a chair.

“Serge . . .” said Felicia.

“Have you thought any more about my question?”

“Serge . . .”

“You said dinner, so here we are!” Serge swept an arm from the street to the sea. “Sidewalk café on Ocean Drive in beautiful South Beach. Coconut Palms. Sand. Male models rollerblading in scrotum-huggers.”

“Serge . . .”

“You already know Coleman, and this is Mahoney. They’re going to be my best men. I know you haven’t answered yet, but I’m an eternal optimist at love. What do you think about a night beach wedding with tiki torches and Creedence Clearwater music? I already ordered coffee—”

“Serge!”

“What’s the matter, baby?”

“Everything’s gone south. I just found out—”

“Hold that thought,” said Serge, turning up the TV.

“. . . Meanwhile, congressional leaders are calling for increased national security spending in light of today’s developments, and the threat level has been raised to an unprecedented pixelated red, which can only be seen in high-def . . . Joining us tonight is conservative campaign strategist Malcolm Glide.”

“Thanks for having me, Jane. As the unfortunate events in Miami clearly demonstrate, the nation is far from safe, even in our own hemisphere. That’s why my elected colleagues are introducing an emergency bill for immediate and massive arms shipments to our staunch military allies in Costa Gorda.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Glide. But weren’t you the lobbyist for the scandal-ridden contractor in Iraq that misappropriated over a billion dollars and whose missile guidance systems chronically malfunctioned, directing rockets back to our own troops?”

“Jane, when the nation is at war, it’s no time to undermine the morale of our corporate officers.”

Serge smiled at the set. “Have to admit he’s good.”

“Serge!” Felicia grabbed his wrists. “Glide
did
set you up.”

“No, he didn’t. I saw the files.”

“And I saw ours . . .”

TV:
“. . . Meanwhile, funeral arrangements are being finalized for prominent Latin businessman Victor Evangelista, an innocent bystander who was accidentally killed by stray fire during the assassination attempt . . .”

“Huh?” said Serge. “Didn’t they find his gun? . . . Oh well, first casualty is the truth. Guess someone high up decided it would be too embarrassing if his ties to Washington came out.”

“Evangelista was on our side,” said Felicia.

“What are you talking about?”

“Federal agent,” said Felicia. “He was the one working undercover for our governments, not Glide.
He
was amassing evidence against Malcolm and his companies. And he was just days away from taking down everyone, including half our generals. They couldn’t let that happen.”

“But . . . that . . . what? . . .”

“Serge. There was an assassination plot all right, but not against Guzman. The real target all along was Evangelista. Everything Glide did was designed to take Victor out of the picture. He played all of us: you, me, Ted, a whole daisy chain of dupes.”

“But then why did Evangelista have that gun?”

“Like I said, federal agent. He was there protecting against the plot. My guess is that Glide fed him your name and photo, and when he saw you on the other side of the stage, his gun came out.”

“And then ours came out,” said Serge. “Beautiful.”

“They must have figured that even if he fired first, one of us would be left to get him.”

“Except poor Ted was the one who got the shot off,” said Serge. “And took a bullet from Victor in return.”

“That’s where it gets worse.”

“How can it possibly get any worse?”

“Where did the bullet come from that hit Savage?”

“Evangelista, of course.”

Felicia shook her head. “Our security got Evangelista’s gun. Never fired. And no GSR on his hands.”

“Then who shot Ted?”

“My money is on an undercover plant in our own bodyguard detail.”

Serge shook his head fast to clear the fog. “I’m getting dizzy.”

“Serge,” said Felicia. “During a plot, there’s always a backup gunman.”

“Why?”

“To kill the first shooter and cut ties for deniability,” said Felicia. “You’re big on history. Ruby shoots Oswald. And back when Aquino landed in the Philippines and that soldier shot him on the runway, and then that other soldier shot
him
.”

“So Glide set me up as the scapegoat, except Ted took my place?”

Coleman raised his hand. “Can I get a drink?”

Serge and Felicia in unison: “Shut up!”

TV:
“. . . Meanwhile a massive manhunt continues tonight in South Florida for the would-be assassin who remains at large this hour and is believed to be in the Miami Beach area.”

Serge grabbed his head. “I can’t believe this was all about stupid gun shipments.”

“It wasn’t,” said Felicia. “Remember when I thought the guns were just a means to something bigger? They were. The business with the dead reporter that kept nagging me. The geology report he was supposed to slip me before they killed him.”

“That’s right,” said Serge. “You mentioned it.”

“I finally got a copy from one of my sources in our interior ministry.”

“So spill.”

“Oil,” said Felicia. “They discovered a new field off our coast. I guess the petroleum companies are getting too much grief from your country over what’s happened in the Gulf. So they went looking for an easier government to ply.”

“And Glide?”

“All his candidates are backed by huge oil lobbyists. He simply expanded his dealings offshore to Costa Gorda. The guns never had to leave Miami. That was just designed to raise money and pay off the generals, because no matter how big that oil field is, Guzman wasn’t about to let those drilling rigs anywhere near our coral reefs.”

Serge looked oddly at the tiny TV screen. “But . . . if Glide actually was trying to set me up . . .”

Then a flash of recognition. His eyelashes fluttered as recent images strobed through his brain: the security film at Hooters, the photo of Felicia in the hotel room window, more probable images yet to come from stage cameras.

His eyes shot toward Felicia. “Oh my God, you’re right! Evangelista really was the target!”

“So you finally believe me?”

“Except you’re wrong. They weren’t setting me up. They were setting you up.
You’re
the patsy.”

“Me?”

“Works better. You’re a foreign national. Probably dummy bogus evidence linking you to the rebels. Think: Who sent you to Miami in the first place?”

“Scooter’s uncle, the general, to watch out for him . . . Oh my God.”