Two dark forms staggered and swerved up the street toward the robbery.
The shaved head turned. “Yo! Reggie, check it out. It’s our lucky night.”
Serge and Coleman stumbled closer to the group.
A MAC-10 swung toward them. “Give it up!”
Serge staggered a few more steps, covered his mouth, and bulged his cheeks. “My tummy doesn’t feel so good.”
The dreadlocks kept his own gun aimed at the entourage and looked over his shoulder. “They’re drunk.”
“Stop right there!” ordered the shaved head.
But the pair continued weaving and stumbling, each headed toward one of the assailants.
When Serge was a few feet from the shaved head, he grabbed his stomach and bent forward.
“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.”
