Tim Dorsey - Pineapple grenade

“This looks interesting,” said the spotter.

“Where?” asked Serge.

“Third room from the end.”

“That’s him,” said Serge. “Looks like an Israeli Galil seven-point-six-two. When did the window open?”

“Just a few seconds ago.”

“He’s going for the shot now! Take him out!”

Serge kept his binoculars trained on the window. “What are you waiting for? Take him out!”

The spotter and Serge simultaneously looked over at their own sniper, slumped with an entry wound between the eyes.

“What the-!”

A tiny explosion with a fine mist of blood. Then the spotter toppled over from a bullet through his forehead.

Serge glanced quickly at the hotel, then grabbed Felicia by the arm and pulled her down flat below the lip of the roof. Another tactical round flew through the space where they had just been and pierced the coils of a rooftop air-conditioning unit.

“Downstairs!” Serge led her scrambling on hands and knees across roof pebbles to the access door. He reached up for the knob just as another slug punctured the metal a few inches from his hand. They tumbled into the stairwell and ran down to the street.

“What now?” said Felicia.

“To the hotel!”

“That’ll take too long.”

“Anything else will take longer. And Guzman’s still exposed in the tent.”

They sprinted through the marketplace, hurdling police barricades and darting between limos on Biscayne Boulevard. Into the hotel lobby and onto the elevator.

Serge’s hands shook impatiently as he stared up at slowly ascending numbers. Ten, eleven, twelve. “Come on!”… finally… fifteen. They jumped out and dashed down the hall.

A maid stuffed soiled towels in her cart.

“Federal agent!” Serge flashed his badge. “Open this room! Now!”

“No ingles.”

Serge saw her universal magnetic door key hanging from a string on the side of the cart. He snatched it and pulled his pistol.

The maid screamed and ran off in a manic duck waddle.

Serge held the card over the slot. His other hand gripped the gun. Hearts pounding. He turned to Felicia, already poised with her own weapon. “Ready?”

She nodded fast, eyes boring through the door.

Serge slipped the card down. Green light. They burst in.

“Don’t move!” yelled Serge.

Silence.

Empty, like it had never been slept in.

Felicia swung her gun in the bathroom. Nothing. “Sure we got the right room?”

“Positive. Window and curtains open a half foot.” Serge knelt on the carpet. “And look: rug indentations from the feet of the rifle stand. He was here all right.”

“Now he’s gone.” She ran to the window. “And Guzman’s still out there.”

She bolted from the room, and Serge chased her onto the elevator.

Doors opened in the lobby. She started running for the entrance, but Serge grabbed her from behind. “He would have gone out the back.”

They ran around the pool and through a gate to the parking lot.

“What are you stopping for?” asked Felicia.

“Look.”

A stream of thick red blood dripped from the corner of a Dumpster. Serge pushed the lid open. “This shortens our search considerably.”

“You sure that’s him?”

“Recognize his face from the binoculars across the street. And those are shooting gloves.”

Felicia looked inside. “Hey, that’s the same guy who killed the reporter by the river-and tried to kill me. What the hell’s going on? Why’s he dead?”

“The penalty for failure. He followed standard procedure by clearing out once the sniper nest was compromised. And his bosses followed procedure by cutting ties.”

“But what about Guzman?”

“Safe,” said Serge. “Standard procedure also calls for canceling the mission after the first miss. Until next time, when they try again somewhere else.”

“We better get over there anyway,” said Felicia. “Still haven’t reported the two men we lost on the roof. Since we still don’t know the full picture, it’s probably best I pass it through my own country’s security detail.”

“Hold up,” said Serge. “I haven’t had a chance to ask. Since there’s a break in the action.”

“What?”

Serge dropped to a knee. “Will you marry me?”

“Serge! This is a crazy time!”

“Doesn’t that mean no?”

“No, it means it’s a crazy time.” She pointed. “There’s blood streaming from a Dumpster behind you. Whatever happened to a quiet dinner?”

Serge stood and shrugged at the growing red puddle. “It’s our culture. This whole go-go lifestyle.”

15:17

A SWAT team swarmed a rooftop at Bayside Market. A walkie-talkie: “Team three is down! Repeat, team three is down!”

The bulletin came over the radio in a black SUV as it screeched up to a barricade on Flagler. “We’ve already lost men,” said Agent Lugar. “He could be anywhere, so fan out. And don’t trust Oxnart. We don’t know what side of the play he’s on.”

Four doors opened. Agents took off running in six directions.

Three blocks the other way, another black SUV. Doors opened. “Move out!” yelled Oxnart. “And keep an eye for Lugar’s team…”

A Volkswagen Beetle pulled up behind the SUV. Twelve men got out wearing red berets.

15:22

Serge and Felicia walked back across Biscayne Boulevard at a more leisurely pace, waving credentials at checkpoints. This time they avoided the impassable crowd by walking up the VIP drive next to slow-rolling limos and entering the rear of the tent.

A smiling caterer. “Champagne?”

Felicia shook her head and looked around. “I don’t see the president.”

“Relax.” Serge aimed an index finger. “He’s up there. Back of the stage. Must be on next.”

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.”