Tim Dorsey - Pineapple grenade

Guzman quickly gathered his own security detail from the loose pocket surrounding him. He pointed through the arch and snapped orders.

“But, Mr. President, you’ll be unguarded.”

“Rodriguez and Acevedo, stay with me,” said Guzman. “The rest of you, move!”

On the far side of the expo room, next to the Juan Valdez impersonator, Serge stroked a horse’s mane. “Hey there, fella. You like canapes? Try these…”

The horse lapped Serge’s hand.

Glances shot back and forth across the room, slight nods exchanged in a five-point spread formation. The tallest agent in the capture unit uncapped a tranquilizer needle concealed in a fountain pen.

The pattern tightened toward Serge.

Behind them, a second pattern flowed in the same direction at a faster pace. It filtered between the men in the first formation like a basketball team getting back in transition for defense. It was man-to-man coverage. The one with the needle was first to hit the ground from a stun gun in his ribs.

And so went the element of surprise. Malcolm Glide’s intercept team knew they had company, and they weren’t hard to identify. Guzman’s security chief hit the floor from a wicked right cross. A wholesale brawl broke out; the startled crowd began shrieking and running. Another of Guzman’s agents took a hard blow to the temple. Just before going down: “Serge! Catch!”

Serge looked over from the horse. A small stun gun flew through the air. Serge snatched it, about to make a break.

But two of Glide’s boys had gotten through. Serge dropped the first with a loud zap. Then he made his move. He grabbed Felicia’s hand. “Up we go.” The second capture agent raced forward with his own stun gun. He lunged and zapped, but Serge saw it and dodged.

The sizzling electrical arc missed him. And hit something else…

Back in the main room, President Guzman watched a screaming, panicked crowd stampede through the doorway. Followed by Serge, atop a wildly galloping horse with a fresh stun-gun burn on its hind quarter.

Felicia held on tight from behind. “Chandelier!”

“Got it,” yelled Serge. They ducked.

The trusty steed took the corner, continued galloping down the lobby carpet and out the front doors of the Olympia Theater.

Two tourists stood on a street corner.

“There’s a guy in a white tuxedo racing up Flagler on horseback.”

“It’s Miami.”

South of Miami.

Felicia checked her watch.

Serge checked his camera. “This is going to be so cool! I haven’t taken pictures here since they filmed the TV show.”

“We’re not doing this for your entertainment.” Felicia watched traffic signs. “Take a left.”

“I know the way.” Serge slipped the camera in his pocket. “You sure have a hard-on for this Evangelista character.”

“He’s the biggest arms dealer in Miami, and he’s threatening to destabilize my country!”

“Maybe that’s a tad dramatic,” said Serge. “Ow, you popped me in the ribs.”

“Your own government is in bed with him!”

“Now wait a minute. That would be illegal.”

“The Iran-Contra Affair was illegal and look where that led.”

“Ollie North got a cable-TV show. Haunting.”

“I’m not amused.” Felicia pulled out a scrap of paper with coded times and locations. “We need to finish tracking these shipments before the big summit finale.”

The Road Runner turned into a wooded entrance and pulled up to a booth. “Four tickets, please.”

Felicia looked up the road. “There’s another black SUV. Give me your camera.”

“Now you’re talking.”

Felicia snapped photos as they drove by.

Serge parked with the rest of the tourists. Actually only two others because it was an educational Florida attraction with no water slides or tiki bars.

Coleman hopped from the backseat. “I’ve seen this place before.”

“Television.” Serge began walking. “It’s the historically designated Charles Deering Estate, over four hundred majestic acres on the shore of Biscayne Bay. Now a museum. The ceiling of the south porch is inlaid with seashells.”

“Check the size of that freakin’ lawn!” said Savage.

“And to the left are the landmark rows of palm trees made famous every Friday night in the opening credits of Miami Vice.” Serge stroked one of the trunks. “It’s like I’m at the Vatican.”

“Stop screwing around!” yelled Felicia. “Let’s go!”

Serge caught up with her at the front door. “Where are we heading?”

She marched inside. “The wine cellar.”

The quartet trotted down stairs.

A Latin man in a guayabera came the other way up the steps. He glanced suspiciously at Felicia, then looked back down at a tourist pamphlet.

Serge turned and watched the man depart. “You know him?”

“In passing.”

Serge winked at Coleman. “Told you spies meet in museums.”

“Wine cellar?” asked Coleman.

“Deering liked his grapes, but it was Prohibition.” Serge grabbed a wooden support and swung it back and forth. “So he built this bookcase that secretly rolls out to reveal that giant safe door.”

“The wine is in the safe?”

“The safe is a subterranean party room.”

They slipped inside the half-foot-thick metal door with ancient tumblers and entered the clandestine space. Curved, concrete bunker roof supported by brick arches. Walls covered with custom woodwork creating a thousand individual slots.

“Whoa!” said Coleman. “Look at all the wine bottles!”

“And recessed tables that conveniently fold down for festivities.”

“What’s Felicia doing?”

She was at the back of the room, reaching in a cubbyhole. Four rows down, sixth wine bottle from the left. A tiny square of paper unfolded in her hands.

Serge went over. “Fan mail from some flounder?”

“My friend in the stairwell.” She mentally decoded the symbols, then handed the paper to Serge. “Destroy that.”

He tore it in pieces and handed them to Coleman. “Eat these.” Then back to Felicia: “What did it say?”

“It’s happening sooner than I thought.”

“Where?”

“Right here, right now.” She looked around. “But why this place?”

“Maybe because it’s got spy history. At least in fiction.” Serge looked up at the ceiling. “The estate is all coming back to me now. In Season Two of Miami Vice — eighth episode titled ‘Bushido’-Lieutenant Castillo used the estate as a safe house before retreating to the grove of palms for his climactic confrontation with a Russian secret agent named Surf… Where’d Felicia go?”

Coleman dropped an antique wine bottle, but Savage made a nice save with his foot. It bounced harmlessly. “She ran up the stairs.”

“You two stay here.” Serge took off. He reached the front steps and made a sharp right for the logical location. Sprinting across the expansive open lawn that stretched down to Biscayne Bay.

“There you are.” Serge ran up to where Felicia was hiding behind one of the palm trees in the landmark grid. “This is exactly where Castillo hid from Surf.”

She grabbed a fistful of his tropical shirt and yanked him behind her. “Get out of sight.”

“What’s going on?”

“Hear that?”

“Yeah, sounds like an aircraft… And there it is. A seaplane.”

Another sound.

The pair scooted farther around the tree. Two heads peaked out from behind the trunk, stacked on top of each other, as five black SUVs raced past them toward the waterfront.

“This is my favorite feature of the estate,” said Serge. “On the outcropping at the very back of the lawn, Deering built a seawall inlet from the bay in the shape of a giant keyhole.”