Tim Dorsey - Pineapple grenade

Meanwhile…

Spies never sleep.

Lights burned bright inside a converted 1960s safe house in Coral Gables. Cracked plaster, termite damage, boarded windows, new locks.

An emergency briefing.

The door flew open. Station Chief Duke “Nuke” Lugar. The nickname wasn’t a compliment. His temper. “What the hell was this business near the airport tonight?” Fiery eyes swung toward a junior agent in the first row. “Belcher!”

The agent’s hands shook as he opened his report. “Acquired subjects outside Miami International, 2108…” He passed forward eight-by-tens.

“A black SUV?”

Belcher nodded. “That’s Station Chief Oxnart’s surveillance team. We took those from our own black SUV.” He produced more photos.

“The president of Costa Gorda?” asked Lugar.

The agent nodded again. “We think they’re working an arms deal with Oxnart. Probably using a front corporation.”

“But I thought we were working the arms deal with them?”

The agent shrugged.

Lugar kicked over a chair. “That weasel’s moving in on my turf-and my promotion!” The station chief looked back at Belcher. “And what was this silliness you blathered on the phone about a carjacking?”

The agent fumbled more photos. “Here’s Oxnart’s black SUV on an access road near the Dolphin Expressway.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Looks like there was an attempt on Guzman’s life, but it was foiled.”

Lugar threw up his arms. “Great! Now he also gets commendations!”

Belcher timidly raised a hand.

Lugar clenched his teeth. “This better be good.”

“Sir,” said Belcher. “I don’t think Oxnart foiled the attempt.”

“Then who did?”

Trembling hands produced more photos. Night-vision close-ups of two faces.

“Who the hell are these guys?” asked Lugar.

“Nobody knows,” said Belcher. “But we ran facial recognition and got a hit. The tall one was photographed taking photographs outside the Costa Gordan consulate yesterday.”

“So Oxnart is working the arms deal! And he’s now got his own man inside the consulate!”

“Doubt it,” said Belcher. “These other photos show guards ejecting him from the building. They threw him to the ground really hard.”

“You idiot! That means they hired him.” The chief began pacing in thought. “This is a nightmare.”

The door opened at the back of the room. A man in a hat took a seat.

“You’re late,” snapped Lugar.

“Sorry,” said Mandrake. “Just got back from the bay. Picked up Oxnart’s surveillance team near the waterfront and spotted two unknowns, but they had a boat and slipped our tail.”

Lugar punched a wall. “Can’t anyone do anything right?”

“I think this is important.” Mandrake handed forward his own photographs.

“More mystery players?” said Lugar. “Dreadlocks and a shaved head?”

“The ones that attacked Guzman’s limo. Here’s another photo of them being marched onto the boat at gunpoint by our unknowns.”

“Hey,” said Belcher. “Those are the same guys from the consulate.”

“You’re a genius.” Lugar resumed pacing. “Okay, we need to get out in front of this. What have we got so far? Oxnart’s new agents are in bed with Costa Gorda, and they intercepted a hit team on Guzman. Then took them out on the bay at night. Standard procedure for interrogation and disposal…”

A new hand went up in the back of the room.

“Yes, Blankenship?”

“Sir, I think we may have this all wrong. Sometimes the simplest explanation is the correct one.”

“What are you talking about?”

Another file opened. “After the facial recognition hit, I searched some databases and came up with a name. Serge A. Storms, wanted by state authorities for questioning in at least two dozen murders.”

Lugar nodded. “Professional assassin.”

“Don’t think so.” Blankenship flipped pages in a computer printout. “These look like garden-variety homicides. None of the victims appears to have any link to the intelligence community.”

“That means he’s good,” said Lugar. “Maintained cover to protect the Company. If he ever goes down, it’s just the work of one of this state’s countless psychotic serial killers.”

“I don’t know…”

“You said two dozen murders?”

“Yes?”

“And he’s never been caught? How’s that possible unless he’s sanctioned? With a sanitation team working behind him. I’m thinking Oxnart.”

“So what do we do?”

“Cancel all vacations.” Lugar uprighted the kicked-over chair. “Maybe we can turn this Serge character.”

“Turn him?” asked Belcher. “But if you’re right, he’s already working on our side.”

“Not turn him from the enemy. From Oxnart. Somebody with his talents needs to be working for my station.”

Biscayne Bay

Serge walked across the Stiltsville shack and strapped something around the first captive’s waist.

The man squirmed violently. “Dear God! Not in the water!”

“Relax.” Serge snapped a latch. “Most people don’t drown because they’re bad swimmers. They drown because they panic. Humans are naturally buoyant. So as long as you keep your heads…”

“You just put a scuba weight belt around me!”

“That’s right.” Serge strapped a belt on the second hostage. “Now you’re not naturally buoyant. Otherwise there’d be no point in the game.”

Uncontrolled screaming and weeping.

“Jesus!” said Serge. “I’m never kidnapping you guys again. They’re just five-pound belts, so you’re only slightly non-buoyant… And that’s what these are for…”

He smiled and held up mesh diving gear bags.

One of the captives stopped crying and sniffled. “What are those?”

“Your life preservers,” said Serge. “Maybe.” He opened the cooler. “All depends on what you put in them. Who wants to pick first?”

“What are our choices?” asked the second hostage.

“Tonight’s ‘Will It Float?’ theme is Florida cuisine, starting with yummy tropical drinks like the mojita. And you can’t have them without ice.” Serge pointed down in the cooler. “There’s a half-dozen ten-pound blocks in there. Who wants it?”

In rapid succession: “Me!” “Me!”

“I made that one too easy,” said Serge. “Anyone who’s had a tropical drink sees the cubes floating at the top of the glass, except weight belts aren’t involved. So is their buoyancy enough? You make the call!”

“Can I change my answer?” asked the hostage.

“No,” said Serge. “You buzzed in first. I don’t make the rules.” His head turned toward the remaining contestant. “That leaves you with this…” He opened another duffel and pulled out several shopping bags with loaves poking out the tops. “Miami is famous for her deeeeeee-licious Cuban sandwiches.”

Coleman burped. “I had one of those once.”

“I remember,” said Serge. “You embarrassed the hell out of me.”

“How’d I do that?”

Serge turned to his captives. “Dig this: We’re on Calle Ocho in Little Havana, and Coleman points up at a menu board and says, ‘What’s a Cuban?’ ”

“I want to know what’s going in me,” said Coleman.

Serge rolled his eyes at the ceiling. “Anyway, there’s twenty loaves of Cuban bread here. I let them get extra stale and hard to resist sogginess… Okay, everyone back out on the deck.”

They had to be dragged.

Fifteen minutes later, Serge attached a final clamp and stood up. “Let the game begin!”

The captives sat with legs hanging over the side of the dock, hands still bound behind their backs. Each had a pair of mesh bags tied to their weight belts, respectively filled with ice blocks and loaves.