by Tim Dorsey
“Someone has gone to a lot of trouble.”
“We’re being set up?” said Felicia.
“And not by amateurs.”
“Son of a bitch! I knew you should never have trusted that Malcolm Glide!”
“It’s not him.”
“Of course it’s him!”
Serge shook his head. “Look at the back of the stage. Guzman’s still breathing. It would only be a double cross from Glide if your president had already been hit and they needed patsies.”
“So who then?”
Serge looked out the tent at the hotel across Biscayne Boulevard. “Whoever booked that room on the fifteenth floor.”
“Why would they come after us?”
“Maybe your arms investigation . . . Maybe anything . . . But whoever it is knows we’re protecting Guzman. That’s why they had to scapegoat us ahead of time. We were spotted at Dinner Key and tailed to Liberty City—”
“Back up. You said ‘ahead of time’?”
“Before the hit on Guzman. It’s still on.”
“I thought you said they cancel after a miss.”
“I’ve been wrong before.”
“I have to warn them!”
From the other side of the tent, security officers with suspect photos from the flash report. “I think I just saw them over there.”
“Uh-oh,” said Serge.
“What do we do?” said Felicia.
“Quick.” Serge raised a skirt of white linen. “Under the table!”
They both dove beneath.
“Serge,” said Coleman. “What are you doing down here?”
“Shhhhhhh!” Serge pointed underneath the tablecloth at shiny cop shoes.
“Excuse me?” said a police officer.
“Yes?” said Savage.
The bulletin photos again. “Have you seen these people? A witness thought they saw you talking to them.”
Ted gave the pics a closer look. “Seem familiar, but I’m not sure.”
The officer looked around. “Are they still here?”
“No.” Ted gestured out a tent flap. “Left a while ago. Said something about a flight to South America.”
“Thanks.” The officer walked away, talking in a radio mike.
The linen table skirt lifted. Ted’s face upside down: “Coast is clear.”
Felicia crawled out and dusted herself off. “We have to stop the speech.”
“We have to get him out of here,” said Serge. “I doubt they’ll use a sniper twice. The backup plan will probably be up close and personal.”
“Someone near the stage?” said Felicia.
“Or on it.”
They turned to move quickly toward the rear of the tent.
Nope. Cops gathered with printouts and arm motions.
They turned left.
Other officers huddling with pages.
To the right.
Someone else handing out more pages. In fact, in every direction, everyone seemed to be studying photos of Serge and Felicia.
Serge reached down for a hem of linen. “Everyone, back under the table!”
Coleman turned his face in the dirt. “Weren’t you just here?”
“Shhhhh!” said Serge. “I have to think.”
“So what’s the plan?” asked Ted Savage.
“Now pinch-hitting in the bottom of the ninth.” Serge placed a hand on his shoulder. “We need your help.”
“Me?”
“Bases are loaded and Casey’s at bat.”
1521
Serge adjusted a bow tie. “How do I look?”
“Perfect,” said Ted.
Felicia balanced a silver tray. “They just gave you these uniforms?”
“Said I needed them for undercover agents.” Ted grabbed a flute of champagne off the tray. “I love my new badge!”
The pair worked the tent in a sinuous route, circulating with trays that allowed them to make abrupt detours without suspicion when officers approached . . . gradually working toward the back of the stage.
More agents appeared; the couple made about-faces on opposite sides of the tent, crisscrossing again in the middle.
“This is like Pac-Man,” said Serge.
“Shut up,” said Felicia.
Finally, the goal line. They stood halfway up the side steps, where it wasn’t unusual for the help to stop and listen to a few words, maybe snap a picture.
“I don’t see how anyone can get through the net,” said Felicia. “The place is crawling with security.”
“But looking for us.”
“True.”
The crowd burst into applause. The bald president of a former French colony smiled and raised his arms in appreciation. The left side of his military jacket was weighed down by countless, impressive medals representing the accomplishment of buying a lot of medals.
Felicia watched the president being spirited off to waiting blondes. “That means Guzman’s next.”
The president of Costa Gorda walked toward the podium to a stout ovation.
Serge took a heavy breath. “Why the hell does he have to give this stupid speech with all that’s happened?”
“Because he’s a real leader.” Felicia began clapping. “This is why the people love him.”
The crowd became one massive, undulating organism. Tiny flags waved. Cell phones held up to capture the moment. A giant beach ball bounced in back. After repeated acknowledgments from the president, they finally settled down.
“Look at that mob,” said Serge. “It’s like a rock concert without the mosh pit . . . Wait, I was wrong. Those kids flying around over there.”
“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 i
n 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.
Epilogue
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 café 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?”
“Everything’s gone south. I just found out—”
“Hold that thought,” said Serge, turning up the TV.
“. . . Meanwhile, congressional leaders are calling for increased national security spending in light of today’s developments, and the threat level has been raised to an unprecedented pixelated red, which can only be seen in high-def . . . Joining us tonight is conservative campaign strategist Malcolm Glide.”
“Thanks for having me, Jane. As the unfortunate events in Miami clearly demonstrate, the nation is far from safe, even in our own hemisphere. That’s why my elected colleagues are introducing an emergency bill for immediate and massive arms shipments to our staunch military allies in Costa Gorda.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Glide. But weren’t you the lobbyist for the scandal-ridden contractor in Iraq that misappropriated over a billion dollars and whose missile guidance systems chronically malfunctioned, directing rockets back to our own troops?”
“Jane, when the nation is at war, it’s no time to undermine the morale of our corporate officers.”
Serge smiled at the set. “Have to admit he’s good.”
“Serge!” Felicia grabbed his wrists. “Glide did set you up.”
“No, he didn’t. I saw the files.”
“And I saw ours . . .”
TV: “. . . Meanwhile, funeral arrangements are being finalized for prominent Latin businessman Victor Evangelista, an innocent bystander who was accidentally killed by stray fire during the assassination attempt . . .”
“Huh?” said Serge. “Didn’t they find his gun? . . . Oh well, first casualty is the truth. Guess someone high up decided it would be too embarrassing if his ties to Washington came out.”
“Evangelista was on our side,” said Felicia.
“What are you talking about?”
“Federal agent,” said Felicia. “He was the one working undercover for our governments, not Glide. He was amassing evidence against Malcolm and his companies. And he was just days away from taking down everyone, including half our generals. They couldn’t let that happen.”
&nb
sp; “But . . . that . . . what? . . .”
“Serge. There was an assassination plot all right, but not against Guzman. The real target all along was Evangelista. Everything Glide did was designed to take Victor out of the picture. He played all of us: you, me, Ted, a whole daisy chain of dupes.”
“But then why did Evangelista have that gun?”
“Like I said, federal agent. He was there protecting against the plot. My guess is that Glide fed him your name and photo, and when he saw you on the other side of the stage, his gun came out.”
“And then ours came out,” said Serge. “Beautiful.”
“They must have figured that even if he fired first, one of us would be left to get him.”
“Except poor Ted was the one who got the shot off,” said Serge. “And took a bullet from Victor in return.”
“That’s where it gets worse.”
“How can it possibly get any worse?”
“Where did the bullet come from that hit Savage?”
“Evangelista, of course.”
Felicia shook her head. “Our security got Evangelista’s gun. Never fired. And no GSR on his hands.”
“Then who shot Ted?”
“My money is on an undercover plant in our own bodyguard detail.”
Serge shook his head fast to clear the fog. “I’m getting dizzy.”
“Serge,” said Felicia. “During a plot, there’s always a backup gunman.”
“Why?”
“To kill the first shooter and cut ties for deniability,” said Felicia. “You’re big on history. Ruby shoots Oswald. And back when Aquino landed in the Philippines and that soldier shot him on the runway, and then that other soldier shot him.”
“So Glide set me up as the scapegoat, except Ted took my place?”
Coleman raised his hand. “Can I get a drink?”
Serge and Felicia in unison: “Shut up!”
TV: “. . . Meanwhile a massive manhunt continues tonight in South Florida for the would-be assassin who remains at large this hour and is believed to be in the Miami Beach area.”
Serge grabbed his head. “I can’t believe this was all about stupid gun shipments.”