of the street before the turnpike entrance.
Coleman flicked an ash out the window. “Why are we stopping?”
“Plan our next spy moves.” Serge opened a map. “The seasoned spy brings all of Miami into play…”
Behind them, the sky grew brighter.
“Why all of Miami?” asked Coleman.
“To provide the cover of confusion.” Serge pointed at spots on the map. “This city’s like Europe-all these utterly distinct cultural districts with severe borders.”
Neighbors began walking out on lawns, pointing and dialing cell phones.
Coleman tapped another ash. A fire engine raced by. “But how do the different sections of Miami give us cover?”
“Throw off the enemy,” said Serge. “The more places you conduct your ops, the more factions they think are involved.”
Coleman leaned toward the map. “Like where?…”
The sky raged with light in the rearview. Sprays of high-pressure water. Another siren as an ambulance flew by. Onlookers yelling.
“Well,” said Serge, counting on his fingers. “You got Little Havana, Little Haiti, Liberty City, South Beach…”
Three police cars zoomed past with all the lights going.
“… Coconut Grove, downtown, Brickell, and the MiMo architecture district, to name but a few.”
“What’s that racket?” Coleman turned around and looked out the back window. “There’s all kinds of cops and emergency vehicles. Everyone’s standing on their lawns.”
“This is kind of a rough neighborhood.” Serge threw the car in gear. “We probably should get going before something bad happens.”
Chapter Sixteen
Costa Gorda
Another moonless night in the mountains.
“I’m hungry,” said one of the rebels.
“I told you, we have to ration staples until they make another supply drop,” said the squad leader. “Two spoons of Spam a day.”
“Henry,” whispered Ralph. “When is that next drop?”
“Don’t know. Can’t reach them on the high-band.”
“We were only able to salvage two boxes from the last drop. The rest landed on the others still burning from the napalm.”
“What do you want me to do about it?”
Ralph looked back at a waning campfire and audible groans. “The men are starving. Some are getting sick from eating the berries…”
On the other side of the encampment, more whispering among the lower ranks:
“I can’t take this anymore.”
“I’m so weak I can barely stand up.”
“Guys!” Someone ran over with a small shortwave. “Just picked up the BBC. The intelligence subcommittee canceled our funding.”
“But they wouldn’t just leave us here… right?”
“What do you think? This is an illegal operation. We’re expendable.”
Eyes darted round the circle. Panic. “They’ve abandoned us!”
“What are we going to do?”
“I know this village at the edge of the next province. They must have food.”
“How far?”
“About ten clicks past the river.”
“What are we waiting for?”
Back on the command side: “Ralph, what are those guys doing?”
Ralph turned around. “Hey, where the hell do you think you’re going?”
“We’re hungry.”
Downtown Miami
This time, a shark was dropped in front of a Cuban deli with plastic Italian tablecloths. The chalk menu sat under a painting of a rooster.
A light afternoon crowd. In the back of the deli, at the very last red-and-white-checkered table, sat a young man from a mail room on the seventh floor of an office building across the street. His face was in his hands. Pork sandwich untouched.
“They’re going to send me home!” said Scooter Escobar. “I just know it!”
“They’re not sending you anywhere,” said the woman seated across from him, picking through her avocado salad. “You’ve got the safest job in the whole consulate.”
“But you’ve met this Serge character.”
She sipped a glass of sangria. “Yes.”
“Then you know what I mean.”
“I know you’re paranoid.”
“But the president likes him.” His head jerked back and forth looking for phantoms. “Why didn’t they ask me to run backup security from the airport? I’m the spy in the office.”
She set her fork down. “Listen, Scooter, your uncle’s the general. You worry too much.”
“That’s easy for you to say.” He leaned over the table and sniffed. “You have job security.”
She did.
Felicia Carmen. All curves and hips and luscious red lips. A beauty mark. Long, curling jet-black hair, designed to make any man swallow his tongue and spit out deepest secrets, which was her job. The local honey trap in the Costa Gordan consulate.
The consulate was the ultimate brass ring.
Everyone wanted the Miami gig. It was a sexy city with easy lifting and all the perks. The rest of the local staff wrangled their assignments through politics. Felicia earned hers. Top performance reviews during stints in St. Kitts, St. Lucia, Montserrat, and Trinidad. On the short list for Miami.
Then Scooter jumped to the head of the line.
It wasn’t fair.
Openings were few and far.
Then it accidentally became fair. Because…
Scooter arrived in Miami.
Word went back to the capital in Costa Gorda. “We’ve got a problem.”
They added another opening.
Scooter required a full-time job, just to chaperone Scooter.
So Felicia arrived in town.
And for the first time, the tiny Costa Gordan consulate had a backup spy. And a spy’s first priority is job security. She began spying on her consulate’s head attache.
“I’m telling you,” said Felicia. “If they were sending anyone home, he would have mentioned something in bed.”
Scooter sniffled back tears. “Did you use the vibrator?”
Felicia lit a thin cigar. “When that thing’s in him, he tells me a bunch of secrets I don’t even give a shit about.”
“Was it on the high setting?”
“What’s with always asking about the high setting?” She reached for an ashtray. “You’re just trying to get a
