Tim Dorsey - Pineapple grenade

Serge slapped the bed, launching a small cloud. “I have just the fix.” He reached in his suitcase and unrolled a Star-Elite Club red doormat inside the entrance.

Coleman reached in his own suitcase and removed a prosthetic leg with a Willie Nelson bumper sticker. He pointed at a splatter of spots on the ceiling. “Is that blood?”

“Yes.” Serge unpacked the rest of his luggage.

“What kind of people stay here?”

“Two camps: the shoppers, and out-of-state tourists who book sight unseen, then huddle all night in mortal fear of crime and flesh-eating bacteria and flee at dawn.”

The rotary phone rang.

Serge stared.

“Aren’t you going to answer it?” asked Coleman.

“This could be the call I’ve been waiting for my entire life.” Serge placed a hand gently on the receiver. “I hope it’s the Wish Man. And I’m ready in case he only grants one wish. I’ll say, ‘More wishes.’ Then I’ve got him. He’ll have to answer to his people.”

“You say that almost every time a motel phone rings, but usually it’s just a complaint from another room. Or a hooker.”

“Or both.” He picked up the receiver on the ninth ring. “Serge here. Is this the Wish Man?”

“Sanchez from the front desk.”

“Grant my wish.”

“Got you plugged in for a shipment. Pick up the shopping list in the lobby.”

“Be right down.” He hung up. “We’re on.”

Costa Gorda

Midnight.

Moonless. The mountain highlands rose ruggedly in the center of the small Caribbean nation.

Silence under the stars except for croaking tree frogs and nocturnal, cawing birds.

Then: the distant drone of a C-130 Hercules air transport plane. No tail markings. Registered to a nonexistent consortium in El Salvador. The back-bay door wide open.

A crew member in a harness yelled over the engines and wind. “Thirty seconds!”

Next to him, a crouching row of camouflaged men with parachute static lines hooked overhead.

“Five seconds!” yelled the harness man. “Go! Go! Go!..” — slapping each man on the leg as they jumped out the back of the plane.

The aircraft quickly emptied, banked hard, and climbed steeply until it couldn’t be heard.

Across the sky below, a sea of parachutes sprouted and drifted peacefully like airborne mushrooms. The drop zone was tricky in size and terrain, but the pilot was good. Only two guys had to be cut down from trees.

They gathered silk chutes and began a downhill trek behind their squad leader, who charted the way with a GPS. As they neared the coordinates of the reported rebel encampment, the leader called their translator to the front of the platoon.

He began shouting in Spanish: friendlies, allies, brothers, and most importantly, don’t shoot.

Ahead, in an unseen configuration of pup tents, men stirred from sleep. “Everyone up! Someone’s coming!”

When the paratroopers finally broke into the camp, they were met by a ragged, elements-beaten gang of insurgents pointing cocked Russian AK-47s.

The head of the paratrooper team whispered to the translator again. “Tell them we’re on their side. We’re here to help their struggle.”

The translator translated.

The rebels looked confused.

“What’s the matter?” whispered the squad leader.

“I’m not sure,” said the translator.

“Tell them again.”

He did.

More puzzled looks. The head rebel: “I’m sorry, we don’t speak Spanish.”

The squad leader took a step forward. “Ralph?”

“Henry?”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

“We’re on a secret mission to train the rebels.” Henry glanced around. “Where are they?”

“You’re looking at them.”

“ You’re the rebels?”

“Station in Fort Myers sent us down last month.”

“Where are the real rebels?”

“Got bored and left two weeks back.”

“Where’d they go?”

“I heard them mention a bachelor party.”

“This can’t be the whole rebellion.”

“Afraid so.”

“What about the cocaine traffickers?”

“They also split.”

“But intelligence says coke’s still coming through.”

Ralph grabbed a canteen off his belt. “We’ve had to start making their deliveries ourselves. I’m telling you, it’s getting exhausting.”

One of the other rebels raised a hand. “I want to go home.”

Henry tossed his parachute aside in disgust. “Typical government operation.”

A droning sound from above. They looked up.

Ralph raised night-vision goggles and peered through a break in the trees. “I don’t see any tail markings.”

“It’s okay,” said Henry. “That’s our plane. It’s circling around again for the supply-and-ammo drop.”

“Covertly beefing up the revolution so the generals can seek military aid?”

Henry nodded.

Minutes later, large pallets of food and weapons floated down on giant parachutes and crashed through the trees.

“At least there’s a silver lining,” said Ralph. “We’re sick of eating Spam.”

He started toward the boxes. Henry grabbed him from behind.

“What’s the matter?” asked Ralph.

Henry pointed skyward. Another drone from above. “Our plane again.”

“Thanks,” said Ralph. “Don’t want me to get hit by more pallets.”

“That’s not it,” said Henry.

“Why are you crouching down?” asked Ralph.

Boom.

A flaming explosion in the trees.

Everyone hit the ground.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

More trees ablaze.

Ralph turned his face sideways in the dirt toward Henry. “That’s naplam!” He looked up at all the just-dropped pallets, engulfed in flames. “What the fuck’s going on?”

“Blowing up the rebels’ supplies,” said Henry. “We have to disrupt their supply lines.”

“They’re hitting a little too close for comfort.”

“Don’t worry. They have our coordinates,” said Henry. “Just a symbolic strike so the generals can show the people they’re taking a strong hand to the revolution. They’re supposed to miss the camp.”

Boom.

A cluster of pup tents exploded in fire.

“They just hit the camp,” said Ralph.

“They missed.”

Ralph jumped up, yelling at his brigade. “Get that fire out before it reaches the ammunition.”

The drone of airplane engines grew louder again.

“He’s circling back!” yelled Ralph, hitting the ground again. “He’s making another strike!”

Henry remained standing. Another wave of pallets floated down and crashed through the trees.

“More supplies?” said Ralph.

“For the rebel counter-offensive.”

Downtown Miami

Rusty trawlers and cargo boats sailed along the Miami River. Some going fishing, others destined for Hispaniola with crates of merchandise from Sam’s Club to restock the bodegas.

On the southern shore of the river sat a mixed collection of warehouses, mechanics shops, and low-rent office buildings.

One of the buildings backed up to a marine repair yard surrounded by barbed wire. Stark concrete, tattered awnings, gravel parking lot, no outward hints of what might be happening inside. It had opened on Pearl Harbor Day. Occupancy hadn’t topped 20 percent since 1967. It was about location.

Two stories, but the elevator was broken. A hallway ran down the middle of each floor, rows of offices on both sides. Windows facing the hall, shades drawn. In the middle of each door, another window with gold lettering. Most of the letters had chipped away, but some of the outlines remained. Bail bond, travel agency, title insurance, attorney-at-law.