“He’s not passing out,” said Felicia.
Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. “No, we’re well past that point.”
“Look at his face! It’s completely red.”
“Purple’s up next,” said Serge. Squeeze, squeeze…
Eyes bulged. Then his whole head began vibrating like a paint-can shaker in a hardware store. Spastic tremors through all limbs, feet slapping the tiles.
The outer restroom door opened.
“Serge,” Felicia whispered. “Someone’s here.”
An undersecretary from Montevideo stepped up to the urinal. The thrashing in the adjoining stall couldn’t go unnoticed. “Is everything okay in there?”
Felicia intentionally fell back against the stall’s wall with a loud moan. “Mmmmm, yes, oh yes, baby…”
The undersecretary chuckled to himself. He’d been to a lot of these balls. He zipped up and left.
Felicia stared down at a foot still twitching from residual death rattles. She seized Serge’s hand. “We’re out of here! Now!”
They sprinted back to the ballroom, then composed themselves in the doorway and resumed walking at a casual pace.
“What on earth did you do to that guy back there?”
“Long explanation,” said Serge. “But a great dinner story. Involves the history of Florida Championship Wrestling and the infamous sleeper hold. We’ll grab a bite later.”
On the other side of the room near the main entrance, Victor Evangelista hung on to a brass railing. “If this goes sideways…”
“Shut up,” said Malcolm. “These guys know their job.” He turned and gave a nod.
Five new men slowly fanned out across the ballroom around the central axis of President Guzman.
Guzman smiled. “Serge, where have you been?”
“I’m like a cat. Whenever I’m in a new building, I have to explore.”
Guzman smiled. “Then you haven’t seen the whole building.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because if you had, I’d be able to tell.” Guzman looked toward Felicia. “Why don’t you take her and check out the other big room through that ornate door. It’s the mini-expo where countries tout local goods and attractions.”
Serge glanced through the door. “Burlap sacks of coffee beans must be Colombia. The colorful, twirling carnival dancers, Brazil.”
“Machu Piccu diorama, Peru, obviously,” said Guzman.
“Wait…” Serge took a couple steps left to see farther into the room. “I don’t believe it. A horse! A real horse!”
“Argentina,” Guzman said with a grin. “Was waiting for you to notice.”
“What a coincidence! Come on, Felicia, this is a gas.”
Guzman watched with amusement as the couple departed. The president’s mouth slowly turned down as Serge approached the archway. A certain simultaneous confluence of movement had begun. Funneling behind Serge. A guy here, another there and over there, deliberately scattered in the vast crowd so nobody would give a second thought unless they were Secret Service. Or a politician who gave a lot of speeches in public. Guzman continued observing the men, whose converging vectors defied random cocktail-party mingling. “This is not good.”
Guzman quickly gathered his own security detail from the loose pocket surrounding him. He pointed through the arch and snapped orders.
“But, Mr. President, you’ll be unguarded.”
“Rodriguez and Acevedo, stay with me,” said Guzman. “The rest of you, move!”
On the far side of the expo room, next to the Juan Valdez impersonator, Serge stroked a horse’s mane. “Hey there, fella. You like canapes? Try these…”
The horse lapped Serge’s hand.
Glances shot back and forth across the room, slight nods exchanged in a five-point spread formation. The tallest agent in the capture unit uncapped a tranquilizer needle concealed in a fountain pen.
The pattern tightened toward Serge.
Behind them, a second pattern flowed in the same direction at a faster pace. It filtered between the men in the first formation like a basketball team getting back in transition for defense. It was man-to-man coverage. The one with the needle was first to hit the ground from a stun gun in his ribs.
And so went the element of surprise. Malcolm Glide’s intercept team knew they had company, and they weren’t hard to identify. Guzman’s security chief hit the floor from a wicked right cross. A wholesale brawl broke out; the startled crowd began shrieking and running. Another of Guzman’s agents took a hard blow to the temple. Just before going down: “Serge! Catch!”
Serge looked over from the horse. A small stun gun flew through the air. Serge snatched it, about to make a break.
But two of Glide’s boys had gotten through. Serge dropped the first with a loud zap. Then he made his move. He grabbed Felicia’s hand. “Up we go.” The second capture agent raced forward with his own stun gun. He lunged and zapped, but Serge saw it and dodged.
The sizzling electrical arc missed him. And hit something else…
Back in the main room, President Guzman watched a screaming, panicked crowd stampede through the doorway. Followed by Serge, atop a wildly galloping horse with a fresh stun-gun burn on its hind quarter.
Felicia held on tight from behind. “Chandelier!”
“Got it,” yelled Serge. They ducked.
The trusty steed took the corner, continued galloping down the lobby carpet and out the front doors of the Olympia Theater.
Two tourists stood on a street corner.
“There’s a guy in a white tuxedo racing up Flagler on horseback.”
“It’s Miami.”
Chapter Thirty
South of Miami.
Felicia checked her watch.
Serge checked his camera. “This is going to be so cool! I haven’t taken pictures here since they filmed the TV show.”
“We’re not doing this for your entertainment.” Felicia watched traffic signs. “Take a left.”
“I know the way.” Serge slipped the camera in his pocket. “You sure have a hard-on for this Evangelista character.”
“He’s the biggest arms dealer in Miami, and he’s threatening to destabilize my country!”
“Maybe that’s a tad dramatic,” said Serge. “Ow, you popped me in the ribs.”
“Your own government is in bed with him!”
“Now wait a minute. That would be illegal.”
“The Iran-Contra Affair was illegal and look where that led.”
“Ollie North got a cable-TV show. Haunting.”
“I’m not amused.” Felicia pulled out a scrap of paper with coded times and locations. “We need to finish tracking these shipments before the big summit finale.”
The Road Runner turned into a wooded entrance and pulled up to a booth. “Four tickets, please.”
Felicia looked up the road. “There’s another black SUV. Give me your camera.”
