fuel tank. The fireball lit up everything for miles, and debris plunked down into the water like flaming rain.
The launcher hung loose by Coleman’s side. “Far out.”
The Road Runner screeched up. Felicia jerked him into the car. Tires squealed.
Evangelista: “They’re getting away!”
Everyone ran to the vans and patched out, but the Plymouth was already gone.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The elevator reached the bottom floor, and Serge opened the accordion cage.
He led Coleman and Ted through the lobby. They suddenly froze.
“Felicia,” said Serge. “What are you doing here? We weren’t supposed to meet for another two hours.”
“You’ve picked up a tail. The guys we ditched last night at Dinner Key must have traced your hotel.” Her eyes shifted. “And one of them is already in here. Tan windbreaker. Don’t look.”
Coleman looked.
“Dammit,” said Serge. “He always does that.”
“It’s moot anyway.” Felicia felt inside a shoulder bag for her purse gun. “They know you’re staying here. You were made before you got off the elevator.”
“Suggestion?”
“The only option is a shake. And since they’ve already acquired us visually, it’ll be a hot pursuit.” Felicia made sure her shoulder bag was zipped tight and clutched fast to her side. “From your police record and knowledge of Miami, I’m guessing you’ve been here before.”
“My specialty.” Serge bent down to double-tie his sneakers. “Everyone ready?”
Felicia looked toward the lobby door and took a deep breath. “Lead the way.”
From the rear: “Excuse me?”
They turned. The hotel manager waved a stack of note cards behind the bulletproof glass. “Mr. Storms, you have a message. Actually several.” He slid them through the metal slot. “From the owners of those bodegas you shipped all that stuff to.”
Serge sighed. “I told you I’d get all their money back. I just need a little more time.”
“It’s not that,” said the manager. “They canceled the refund requests. And want to double their next orders.”
“What happened?”
“Completely sold out,” said the manager.
“Which ones?”
“Every island. Said they’ve never seen merchandise move so fast.”
“Serge!” said Felicia. “We have to get going!”
They did, hitting the sidewalk in a sprint and making a sharp right behind Serge’s lead.
Seconds later, a man in a tan windbreaker ran out to the curb. He waved hard for a black SUV parked across the street. The vehicle screeched up.
One block west, Felicia hit her aerobic jogging pace, one of the few ever to keep up with Serge. “Where are we headed?”
“Foolproof way to lose a tail in Miami.” He dashed through an empty intersection without breaking stride. “We’re bringing another of the city’s cultural districts into play.”
“How far away is it.”
“Pretty far.”
“I don’t think Ted and Coleman will make it.” She looked back. “And here comes the SUV.”
“No problemo,” said Serge. “The final destination is miles off, but the star gate’s coming up quick. Fifty feet.”
“Star gate?”
“The free People Mover.”
Serge and Felicia ran up the stairs to the monorail platform. She looked down over the railing. “The SUV’s parked right below the station.”
Serge hopped on the balls of his feet. “This is going to be so much fun!”
Ted and Coleman finally staggered up the steps. “We can’t go on.” “We’re gonna die!”
A monorail pod pulled up. Doors opened. Serge gave them a shove. “In you go.”
The tram pulled out. An SUV began rolling on the street below.
“We’re moving too slow,” said Felicia. “And there are so many stops. We’ll never lose them.”
“Yes, we will,” said Serge. “That’s the job of our escape guide. He’ll be our control agent. I just need to make contact.”
“Who’s that?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Then how will you recognize him?” asked Felicia.
“Random street person. Preferably homeless.”
“You’re looking for someone in disguise?”
“No, the real thing,” said Serge.
“I don’t understand,” said Felicia. “Is he expecting you?”
“No,” said Serge. “We’ve never met. And probably never will again.”
“Now I’m totally confused.”
Serge surveyed fellow commuters in the pod. “Street people are the best to help you navigate a city’s underbelly and lose tails. Plus they don’t cost much, but you have to break the payment up in small pieces or they’ll simply run away. Just as long as you keep feeding them ones and fives like bread crumbs, they’ll remain loyal protectors like the family dog with bacon treats.”
Felicia stood up. “This is ridiculous. We’re getting off, and I’m taking charge.”
“Trust me,” said Serge. “It’s one of Miami’s untapped resources, convenient and ubiquitously located all over the city like newspaper boxes or trash cans. And especially in the People Mover because it’s free and air- conditioned, like a mobile public library.”
Felicia stepped to the doors as they approached the next station. “Coming with me or not?”
Serge’s eyes locked on the rear of the pod. “Here’s our guide now.” He walked to the rear of the car and took a seat next to a lean, forty-year-old black man with bloodshot eyes and laceless sneakers. His tattered Miami Hurricanes jersey had been selected from the bottom of a storm-water culvert. Clutching a brown paper bag.
Serge smiled and extended a hand.
The man stared at it with disdain. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Serge Storms. You must be my contact agent.”
“Agent?” The man’s eyes widened as he shrank back into the corner of the molded bench. “Don’t hurt me! Don’t take away my thoughts!”
“Why would I do that?” asked Serge.
“Because you’re with the CIA. I told them at the shelter, but nobody would believe me.”
“I believe you,” said Serge. “I’m not with the CIA, but I am running from them.”
“You, too?”
Serge spread his arms. “It’s exhausting.”
The man tapped his left temple. “They have implants.”
Serge rubbed the side of his own head. “Mine still hurts.”
“It’ll go away.” The man removed a grungy Marlins baseball cap. “I lined the inside with tinfoil. You should get one.”
Serge held out his hand again. This time they shook.
“Name’s Jimmy,” said the man.
