by Tim Dorsey
The pursuers accelerated again as they rounded the corner of the lake after Serge, like a track meet at a high school. Then all the fireworks let loose, crisscrossing the whole park, horizontally, vertically, loop-de-loops, rockets’ red glare, bombs bursting in air, lighting up that glorious American flag.
Bang, bang, bang.
Two of the residents stood back between their trailers, where they had attached a giant inner-tube slingshot to a pair of coconut palms. They worked as a team to stretch the long rubber cord as far as possible. They loaded their ammo and waited.
Serge ran by the gap between the trailers.
“Now!”
The pursuing gang never looked up because the projectile was dark. It exploded in their midst. They stopped and were as puzzled as they were surprised.
Then another giant slingshot cut loose from between other trailers. And another, and another.
More dim, quiet explosions on the pavement.
The gang began coughing in a large white cloud, waving their hands to clear the air. They looked at the broken bags at their feet.
“Flour?”
“Flour?” said Serge, turning around to see what was happening. “God bless ’em. They used my idea but forgot the ignition source.”
Just then, everyone heard a whizzing sound as a brilliant sparkler spun in a wide circle between two of the trailers. The person doing the spinning let go.
The gang watched upward in continuing confusion as a flaming Brillo pad fell down into the cloud.
Flash!
The ferocious fireball knocked half to the ground, and the rest ended up in the lake again.
The leader slapped his forehead.
Serge pumped a fist in the air. “They didn’t forget the ignition source after all. They were taking it to the next level! I love these people!”
The residents began emerging from their trailers, slowly, an army of dark forms like a zombie movie. The ones with old military pistols and rifles led the way.
“Uh-oh.” The leader slipped out of sight by the pool deck, and the residents converged on the lake. The injured were in no mood to resist.
“Don’t shoot!”
“We’re coming out!”
They struggled through the reeds up the banks from the water.
Ted Pruitt carried a vintage Colt .45 as he approached the west end of the lake to prevent any escape of the first swan-attack victim. He stretched out his shooting arm. “Hold it right there!”
Hands went up. “I’m not resisting.”
The leader had his back against a palm tree, shrouded in darkness. Cursing under his breath. Heart beating faster, and face growing hotter in escalating fury at the fiasco that had unfolded. Until all control left town. He snapped and charged into the open, sprinting down from the pool deck toward the lake.
Ted was paying attention to his prisoner and never saw what was happening behind him. The leader closed the distance to ten yards and raised his weapon in full stride.
“Nooooooooo!”
Ted heard the shout and spun around, just in time to see Tofer Baez dive in front of him.
Bang.
Tofer took the bullet and crumpled. Just as fast, Ted got off three shots, all hitting the leader in a tight group in center mass. His running momentum took him tumbling down the bank of the lake, until he ended up floating facedown in the water.
“Tofer!”
Ted turned his old comrade over, a spreading red stain across his chest. He cradled Tofer in his arms. “What did you go and do that for?”
“He was going to kill you.”
“Jesus!” Tears began to well. “Just hang in there. You’re going to be okay.”
“No, I’m not.” Shallow breaths. “Please promise me one thing.”
“You name it.”
“Tell them I was a patriot.”
“You’re going to tell them yourself,” said Ted. “And you’ll have many more years to do it . . . Tofer? Tofer?”
Tofer’s head slumped to the side.
Ted looked skyward. “Ahhhhhhh!”
Tofer blinked and opened his eyes. “What is it? You startled me.”
“You’re still here?” said Ted.
Eyes closed again. “I’m just feeling really tired.”
Epilogue
Boca Shores
A procession of dark sedans and tactical trucks flew past the guard booth so fast you could hear intervals of wind. They made skidding turns and stopped behind the clubhouse.
The FBI agents had been preparing to launch a blitz attack. Instead they slowly got out of the vehicles and tried to comprehend something they’d never seen.
Across the parking lot were two neat rows of prisoners lying on their stomachs, fingers interlaced behind their heads. Standing over them were the residents of Boca Shores, holding rifles, golf clubs, canes and gardening rakes.
The top FBI official on the scene led the agents across the pavement. “What on earth do we have here?”
“McCreedy!”
The agent turned and squinted. “Serge?”
“I was dressed different.”
“You locked me in a toilet,” said McCreedy. “If I hadn’t found the mole you mentioned, I’d be seriously pissed at you. Actually, I still am.”
Serge glanced toward the prisoners. “What took you so long?”
“Big smashup on the interstate below Venice.”
“That made it a lot more interesting than it had to be . . .”
An ambulance arrived, and they loaded Tofer.
“You’re going to be fine,” Ted told his pal just before they closed the back doors and sped off.
Then he joined the confab.
“You McCreedy?”
“Who are you?”
“Ted Pruitt, retired FBI, counter-intelligence.” They shook hands. “Ever since Carlson got shot in Saint Pete, I’ve been sheltering his protectees . . . Now that it’s all played out, I think I can draw you a map of this whole mess.”
“I already have a pretty good idea,” said McCreedy, turning toward the crowd. “Which one of you is Benmont?”
The analyst bashfully raised his hand.
“Good work with your theory,” said McCreedy. “Once we found the traitor in the Bureau, everything else fell into place. Sorry you were a suspect . . .”
“. . . And that I was shot at. A couple times.”
“That too,” said McCreedy. “You’ve performed a great service for your country. You’ll be getting a civilian medal.”
A prisoner started to get up, and a rake knocked him back down.
“Who are these people?” asked McCreedy.
“The best our country’s got,” said Ted.
Agents began handcuffing the foreign agents and loading them into vans.
“That just about does it,” McCreedy told Ted. “Of course we need to take you and Serge in for debriefing to make it official. And we’ll need to do it now while your memories are fresh.”
“Of course,” said Ted. He turned to Serge. “Go back to my trailer and get that paperwork.”
“What paperwork?”
Ted raised his eyebrows and mouthed the words Get lost.
“Oh, that paperwork,” said Serge. “Be right back.”
McCreedy watched him trot off toward the mobile home and chuckled. “A duck costume! . . . What agency did you say he works for again? . . .”
Serge ran into the trailer and raced behind the sofa, vigorously shaking a shoulder. “Coleman, wake up! We have to get out of here! It’s that time again!”
“Another adventure?”
“Afraid so.”
The two dark figures exited the rear of the trailer and took a golf cart path until they arrived at the location where Serge had hidden the Ford Falcon along the overgrown back edge of the park. He used bolt cutters to cut through an old wire pasture fence covered in vines.
Coleman got in, and Serge turned around for one last look back.
Pow, pow, pow, pow,
pow . . .
The fireworks had started up again, but this time in celebration. Roman candles and starbursts filled the sky, lighting up Mr. Hornsby’s proudly waving American flag. Serge smiled as he put the image in his happy box, and he took off.
About the Author
Tim Dorsey was a reporter and editor for the Tampa Tribune from 1987 to 1999, and is the author of twenty-one other novels: Florida Roadkill, Hammerhead Ranch Motel, Orange Crush, Triggerfish Twist, The Stingray Shuffle, Cadillac Beach, Torpedo Juice, The Big Bamboo, Hurricane Punch, Atomic Lobster, Nuclear Jellyfish, Gator A-Go-Go, Electric Barracuda, When Elves Attack, Pineapple Grenade, The Riptide Ultra-Glide, Tiger Shrimp Tango, Shark Skin Suite, Coconut Cowboy, Clownfish Blues, and The Pope of Palm Beach. He lives in Tampa, Florida.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
Also by Tim Dorsey
Florida Roadkill
Hammerhead Ranch Motel
Orange Crush
Triggerfish Twist
The Stingray Shuffle
Cadillac Beach
Torpedo Juice
The Big Bamboo
Hurricane Punch
Atomic Lobster
Nuclear Jellyfish
Gator A-Go-Go
Electric Barracuda
When Elves Attack
Pineapple Grenade
The Riptide Ultra-Glide
Tiger Shrimp Tango
Shark Skin Suite
Coconut Cowboy
Clownfish Blues
The Pope of Palm Beach
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
no sunscreen for the dead. Copyright © 2019 by Tim Dorsey. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
first edition
Cover design and illustration by Christopher Sergio
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
Digital Edition JANUARY 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-279590-8
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-279588-5
About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty. Ltd.
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street
Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
www.harpercollins.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
Bay Adelaide Centre, East Tower
22 Adelaide Street West, 41st Floor
Toronto, Ontario, M5H 4E3
www.harpercollins.ca
India
HarperCollins India
A 75, Sector 57
Noida
Uttar Pradesh 201 301
www.harpercollins.co.in
New Zealand
HarperCollins Publishers New Zealand
Unit D1, 63 Apollo Drive
Rosedale 0632
Auckland, New Zealand
www.harpercollins.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF, UK
www.harpercollins.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
195 Broadway
New York, NY 10007
www.harpercollins.com