Pineapple Grenade (11 page)

“Don’t you dare puke on me!” The robber jumped back a step, reflexively pulling up his arms, which meant the weapon was momentarily aimed at the sky.

“Coleman,” Serge slurred. “Now.”

“Now what?” said the robber.

“This!”

He got an eight-hundred-thousand-volt stun gun to the chest, dropping him to the street in a flopping seizure.

Midway up the side of the limo, someone else hit the ground with violent tremors.

Serge looked down at Coleman twitching on the pavement. “Shit.”

The battle would be decided in milliseconds. The dreadlocks realized the ruse and began swinging his TEC-9. Serge hit the ground and grabbed the other robber’s gun.

Pow-pow-pow-pow-pow
 . . .

Before the carjacker had a chance to fire, the pavement around his feet was raked with Serge’s salvo. He promptly dropped the machine gun and raised his hands.

Serge stood back up.

The Costa Gordan entourage went slack-jawed as Serge marched the attackers at gunpoint back to the Road Runner and forced them into the trunk. He slammed the hood and looked over at the group with a happy smile. “Show’s over. You can relax now.”

Heavy traffic whizzed by, out of sight, up on the expressway. An inbound 737 roared overhead as Serge strolled back to the limo past a row of shocked faces. He leaned down and helped a woozy Coleman to his feet: “You okay, buddy?”

Coleman nodded.

“What happened?” asked Serge. “Did he take it away from you?”

“No, I Tased myself.” He rubbed the middle of his chest. “Forgot which way to point it.”

“Don’t embarrass me,” whispered Serge. “These are important people.” Then he turned toward a tall man about sixty, balding on top with a thick gray mustache. “President Guzman?”

“Who are you?”

“Storms. Serge Storms.” He extended a hand. “I’m attached to your consulate down here.”

The president tentatively shook it. “In what capacity?”

“Security.”

“I haven’t heard of you.”

“Just got assigned today.” He bent down and picked up Coleman’s dropped stun gun.

“So you work in our consulate?”

“No. In fact, it’s best I not be seen near there.”

“I don’t understand.”

“By
attached,
I mean unofficially. As far as you’re concerned, I’m not attached at all.” He winked. “And I was never here.”

“So what
are
you doing here?” asked the president.

“Extra protection for the summit.” Serge glanced back at his Plymouth’s banging trunk. “Which you can never have too much of.”

A block east, a black SUV rolled up and parked without headlights.

President Guzman rubbed his chin. “So you’ve been following us since the airport?”

“Just keeping a friendly eye.”

The president joined Serge in looking back at the Plymouth. “That was close. I’ve heard of the crime around here.”

“This might not have been a robbery,” said Serge.

“Then what was it?”

“Who knows?” Serge made a lobbing motion with his arm like he was tossing a hand grenade. “Heard you’ve been having a little trouble with some rebels.”

“My generals have all that under control now,” said Guzman. “It’s been blown way out of proportion by the press.”

“Let it be blown,” said Serge. “You’ll get more foreign aid.”

A block west, a second black SUV pulled up.

President Guzman squinted into Serge’s eyes. “Foreign aid. Who are you really with? You’re Latin, but the accent’s American.”

“Born and raised an hour north of here.”

“So you’re actually on loan from . . . the CIA?”

Serge just smiled again.

The president nodded solemnly. “I understand.” He turned to his bodyguards in disapprobation. “You could learn something from this guy about real security. If it wasn’t for him . . .”

Serge began walking back to his car with Coleman.

“Excuse me?”

Serge turned around. “Yes?”

“What are you going to do with the guys in your trunk?” asked Guzman.

“I need to find out who was behind this. We’ll debrief them.”

“But I mean after that?”

Another grin. “What guys in the trunk?” He resumed walking back to the car.

“One more thing,” said the president. “Thank you.”

“Just doing my job.”

Chapter Six

Miami Morgue

The lieutenant stared in defeat at a shark and partially digested arm. “Is it too decomposed to get an ID?”

“Definitely.”

The officer took a deep breath. “Then I guess it’s the missing-persons files.”

“Randy Swade.”

“Who?”

“That’s his name.”

“But I thought you said—”

The M.E. stuck his pen into a tray and lifted a wristwatch. “Engraved.”

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me sooner? . . . Wait, where have I heard that name before?”

“Journalist for the
New Metro Loafing Times
.”

“That weekly rag with ads for sex-chat lines and kits to clean urine samples?”

The M.E. dropped the wristwatch in the pan. “Went missing a couple weeks ago in Costa Gorda. Found a passport and junk in his room.”

“Now I remember,” said the lieutenant. “They thought he got drunk at one of those spring-break bars that caters to underage American kids and then went swimming at night or some other misadventure.”

“They got the misadventure part right.” The M.E. snapped off his gloves and began washing up in the sink.

“You’re saying the shark swam all the way back to the Miami River?”

“Of course not.” The M.E. turned off the faucets. “I don’t think Randy ever left Miami.”

“But his passport and luggage . . .”

“Remember the investigative series he was working on for the paper?”

“I don’t read that trash,” said the lieutenant. “Nobody takes those conspiracy nuts seriously. All their articles about the CIA dealing crack.”

“I know most of it’s baloney, but still entertaining.” He grabbed a hand towel. “Randy was writing about Miami being the arms-smuggling capital of the Caribbean basin. Fancied himself landing the next Iran-Contra scoop. He was naming some pretty big fish, excuse the pun.”

“Luckily it’s a matter for the Costa Gordan police.”

The M.E. glanced toward the tray with the severed hand. “Looks like it just swam back into your jurisdiction.”

“Great.” A deep sigh. “Couldn’t he have gotten robbed somewhere else?”

The examiner walked over and tossed the towel in a bin. “Lieutenant, if it really was his stuff in that Costa Gordan motel and he never left Miami, someone went through a lot of trouble.”

Biscayne Bay

Midnight.

All quiet on the water. The bay had been dark toward the east, but now a thin line of alabaster light appeared on the ocean’s horizon, where a full moon prepared to rise over the Atlantic.

Toward the north, a magical white aura from the distant Miami skyline and, closer, the lights of Key Biscayne with the outline of the Cape Florida lighthouse anchoring its southern tip.

But the island remained a ways off, as did the mainland. Even farther to the south, the Ragged Keys and Boca Chita, the first dribbling specks of exposed coral that grew into the Florida Keys.

A luxury fishing boat drifted silently with the tide in one of the isolated spots of Biscayne National Park. Serge stood up on the bridge with a nautical map and a flashlight, waiting for the moon. Two would-be carjackers lay by the bilge, wiggling with hands tied behind their backs.

“We weren’t going to hurt anyone!” “I swear we’ll never do it again!”

“All my guests say that.” Serge unloaded scuba equipment from one of the oversize duffels in the boat. “And they’re always right.”

The assailants stared at weight belts and mesh gear bags. “W-w-what are you going to do to us?”

“Thought we’d play a little game. You watch
David Letterman
? He leaves me in stitches!”

“Please let us go! We’ll do anything! We’ll pay you!”

“Shhhhh.” Serge repacked the bag. “You won’t be able to experience the peace out here.”

A beer cracked. “Where’d you get this boat?” asked Coleman.

“Stan.”

“Stan?”

“The High-End Repo Man. He owed me. You’ll meet him later.”

The moon finally rose, giving Serge needed illumination. He raised binoculars.

Coleman guzzled. “What are you looking for?”

Serge scanned the water. “A house.”

“House?” Coleman crumpled the aluminum can. “But we’re in the middle of the sea.”

“It’s one of our state’s most fascinating and historic features.” The binoculars stopped. “And there it is.”

“What?”

“Stiltsville.” Serge cranked the twin inboards and began motoring east just above idle speed. “A village of old wooden shacks on piers in the water.”

“Way out here?” said Coleman.

“That’s the coolest part.” Serge pushed the throttle forward and brought the boat up on a plane. “Most pier houses simply extend from shore, or sit just a short distance from it. Not Stiltsville! In the 1930s, these crazy pioneers started building them far out in the bay on the edge of the open Atlantic, a harrowing distance from nearest land. At its peak there were dozens, but neglect and hurricanes thinned their numbers until now only seven are left standing. If it was daytime, you’d see a colorful collection of eclectic huts with wraparound decks perched in bright emerald-and-turquoise water.”

The boat continued across the water without running lights except for the orange glow from Coleman’s joint. “But why’d they build them so far from shore?”

“To party.” Serge brought the boat around starboard.

“Hold it,” said Coleman. “For a second I thought you said ‘party.’ ”

“It was the first of many wild eras in Miami. The well heeled needed places to keep law enforcement at bay, and they held wild affairs at since-forgotten icons like Crawfish Eddie’s, the Quarterdeck Club, the Bikini Club, and the Calvert. The area used to be called ‘the Flats’ and ‘the Shacks,’ until ‘Stiltsville’ stuck. Despite its remoteness, there still were frequent raids over alcohol and gambling. One outside porch got so crowded with partiers that it collapsed under the weight. They filmed episodes of
Miami Vice
there.”

Coleman leaned eagerly and strained his eyes. “Do they still party?”

“No, most are now just private homes.”

“Damn.” A frown. “I wish I lived back then.”

“You do in spirit.” Serge looked back toward the bilge. “Guys, you might want to sit up or you’ll kick yourselves for missing this. Actually you won’t be able to miss it, thanks to my plan.”

Coleman pointed with the joint. “Serge, I think I see one.”

“Our destination.” The boat came to port on dead reckoning. “Although most of the shacks are residences, I did a property-record search and this baby’s only occupied a couple weekends a month. Some boating club owns it.”

Coleman looked around. “Where are the others? You said seven.”

“Spread out for privacy. Just like I’ll need tonight. Plus it has the deepest channel.”

The boat completed the rest of the journey without conversation, until Serge pulled off the throttle and threw a line around a pier. He lashed the vessel fast to the cleats.

“Everyone out!”

Serge hoisted his prisoners and rolled them onto the dock. Then unloaded gear. “Coleman, give me a hand with this cooler. It’s super-heavy.”

Soon, they were all snuggled inside the Stiltsville shack. Serge walked around the perimeter, propping open shutters, and soothing views of moonlit water poured in.