Tim Dorsey - Pineapple grenade

“The Young Independents,” said Felicia. “They really love Guzman.”

The president addressed the microphone. “Good afternoon…”

A louder roar went up.

Serge examined faces onstage, back and forth. Relatives, traveling assistants, cops, paramedics. Felicia checked the front rows of the crowd, cheering citizens, children on parents’ shoulders, news photographers.

“Nothing out of place,” said Serge.

Felicia’s eyes swept back the other way. “We need to stay alert. Anything could happen.”

And things happened, as they are known to do, in fast order.

Clouds rolled in across what had just been a clear sky. Wind began to whip. The park dimmed.

“I think they’re wearing caterers’ uniforms. We saw them heading toward the stage.”

Felicia watched security closing in. “What do we do now?”

“Pray for pandemonium.”

“What’s that noise?” asked Felicia.

Ripples of thunder from across the bay.

The crowd held programs and anything else over their heads.

“Starting to rain,” said Felicia.

“Regular afternoon shower,” said Serge. “Never seen snow.”

Outside the perimeter on Biscayne Boulevard, drivers lost traction and slammed through police barricades, scattering screaming pedestrians.

More yelling from the street as protesters used the opportunity to break free from their cordoned-off squares, attack one another, and hurdle the smashed barriers toward the amphitheater.

The security net that had been tightening on Serge and Felicia turned and ran from the stage.

Other agents rushed back to the main entrance of the VIP tent, where Guardian Mimes clogged the checkpoint, frowning and pulling their pants pockets inside out to show no credentials.

The aggressive windshield washers arrived, squeegeeing limo glass.

“Give us money!”

Another fracas. Young women chased someone running south on the sidewalk.

“Leave me alone!” yelled the Most Laid Guy in Miami.

Johnny Vegas sat on the curb and tossed a bouquet in the gutter.

A platoon of Guardian Clowns pushed through the crowd and squirted people with plastic lapel flowers. “Out of the way! This is serious!”

The High-End Repo Man jumped in a driver’s seat, speeding off in a stretch and running over a shark. A prime minister in back held on to the door. “Hey, you’re not my driver.”

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.

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 cafe 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?”