“He doesn’t understand,” said Felicia.
“We have to get to him!”
They began pushing their way through the crowd. “Sorry… Apologies… Sorry…”
Felicia grabbed Serge’s arm and pointed another direction. “There’s a guy with a black bag. He’s heading toward Guzman.”
“And he’s closer.” Serge dispensed with apologies. Shoving people, spilling drinks.
“He’s almost there,” said Felicia.
“So are we.”
“We’re not going to make it.”
“Failure isn’t an option,” said Serge. “Guzman!”
“He still can’t hear,” said Felicia. “The music’s too loud.”
More drinks spilled.
“The guy’s reaching in his bag,” said Felicia.
“What the fuck is that thing?”
“Pneumatic hypodermic gun.”
“Shit, Guzman’s back is to him.” Serge elbowed past a waiter. “He can’t see it coming.”
President Guzman shook hands with an attache from Ecuador. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Congratulations on your election.”
“Thanks.” A smile. “But now the hard part…”
The man with the black bag inched closer. The last person between him and the president stepped out of the way. Clear shot. Nothing but the back of Guzman’s tux.
The Ecuadoran attache took a sip of champagne. “So how are the generals treating you these days?”
“We’ve resolved some differences,” said Guzman. “But there’s always going to be that with the military.”
The glinting tip of a hypodermic gun neared his back. Two feet. One. Six inches. Finger on the trigger.
The fake doctor felt a small barrel in the middle of his back. And a voice over his shoulder. “I wouldn’t do that. Put it back in the bag.”
He did.
“Now start walking,” said Serge.
The man remained still.
Felicia poked his ribs lightly with the tip of a stiletto blade extending from a lipstick. “I’d listen to him.”
This time he began moving.
All three ended up back in the restroom. Serge gave Felicia the gun and crawled under the stall again. He unlatched the door. Felicia pushed the man inside.
“Interesting,” said Serge. “There’s a dead guy on the floor and no reaction from you. Most innocent people would comment.”
“You’re pointing a gun.”
Serge glanced casually at his hand. “Just a formality.”
Felicia shoved the man into a wall. “Who sent you to kill Guzman?”
“What are you talking about?” The man rubbed the back of his head. “I’m his physician.”
“Sure you are,” said Serge. “Then what’s the deal with the hypodermic gun?”
“Oh, that, ” he said, nodding. “The president was complaining of fatigue. Lack of sleep from all his appointments here. I was going to give him a vitamin-B injection.”
“Serge,” said Felicia. “What are you doing?”
“Going through his bag.”
“I see that. What for?”
“We’re going to have fun,” said Serge. “What have we got here? Maybe I can use this. And I can definitely use this…”
“Serge!” Felicia looked around quickly. “We don’t have time. Someone could walk in here any minute!”
“This will be express fun.” He reached in his pocket and tossed something to her. “Bind his hands behind his back.”
“Plastic wrist restraints?”
“Always carry some to parties,” said Serge. “You never know what the theme’s going to be.”
Felicia pulled the strap tight as Serge laid out medical supplies atop the toilet tank. “So you’re really a doctor?”
“Absolutely.”
“But maybe your certification has lapsed in this country.” Serge picked up a blood-pressure tester. “So I’m going to give you a field exam to see if you’re still up to snuff.”
Serge wrapped the tester around the man’s neck and fastened the Velcro. “They always put these on people’s arms. But the neck is much more accurate.” Serge began squeezing the black rubber bulb. “Wow! You’re off the charts!”
“… I… can’t… breathe…”
Serge eased off the pressure until the slightly deflated ring hung loose around the man’s neck.
The man trembled uncontrollably. “Dear God! Please don’t strangle me!”
“Strangle you?” said Serge. “Never. What gave you that idea?”
“So you’re going to take this thing off me?”
“Didn’t say that.” Serge grabbed an empty syringe and a small surgical vial. He slipped them under the blood-pressure wrap, one on each side of the man’s trachea. Then he squeezed the bulb a couple times to hold them in place.
Felicia stared in confusion. “What are you doing?”
“Placing braces beside his windpipe because we wouldn’t want him to stop breathing.” Serge smiled big in the man’s eyes. “How’s your breathing?”
“Okay.”
“Felicia, your purse.”
She tossed it. “What are you looking for.”
“Here’s a lipstick. And a nice fat pen.” He held them up to the man’s face. “This is your medical recertification test. If you really are a doctor and not an assassin, this should be a breeze and I’ll let you go. I always like to give my students an escape clause.” He stopped to grin again. “Don’t you just love the suspense?”
Felicia nervously peeked over the top of the stall at the restroom’s outer door. “Will you hurry?”
“Don’t sweat. It’s just a one-question test.” Serge turned to the captive. “And here’s the question. Answer right, and I’ll take that thing off your neck and you’re free to leave. Now, I’m going to reinflate that tester to the max. But first I’m going to place these two items next to a blood vessel to relieve the pressure. And that’s the name of my new game show: You Pick the Blood Vessel! ”
“So if I pick right, nothing will happen to me?”
“No, you’ll pass out. That’s definite.” Serge began squeezing the bulb again. “But I’m a trained professional. I’ll catch it in time and cut you loose. You’ll come back around pretty quick.”
“And if I guess wrong?”
“You won’t pass out.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does if you’re a doctor.” Serge squinted at him. “You wouldn’t be lying to me about that, would you?”
“Serge!” said Felicia.
“Almost done.” He turned to the captive. “What? No idea?” A frustrated sign. “Okay, I shouldn’t be doing this because it’s against contest regulations, but here’s a hint.” Serge tapped two different spots on the man’s neck. “Jugular vein or carotid artery.”
Silence.
Serge squeezed the bulb. “If you don’t pick, I’ll do it for you.”
“Okay, carotid.”
“Interesting choice.” He slipped the lipstick and pen under the inflation ring. Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze, squeeze…
