Clouds continued gathering. Sky almost black. Wind howled.
Another set of screams from a large circle that quickly opened in the audience for the Guy Who Punches People.
More security responded from the stage.
A wild brawl broke out at the VIP tent, where police arrested the Guardian Mimes and charged them with nonviolent assault because they had pulled their punches.
“This isn’t good,” said Felicia.
“It’s perfect,” said Serge.
Remnants of the dispersed security force finally spotted Serge and Felicia and drew guns. “There they are!”
Lugar’s men spotted the security and drew guns. “Freeze! Drop the weapons!”
Oxnart’s team arrived and pointed guns at everyone else. “Nobody move! Who’s who?”
Guzman became distracted from the various commotions and lost his place, then refreshed himself with notes and continued about climate change.
Something caught Felicia’s eye. The curtains on the far edge of the stage slowly parted. “Serge! To your left! What’s he doing here?”
“Evangelista?” said Serge. “Shit, he must be the backup plan, coming to finish the job himself.”
“He’s advancing from the other side of the podium!”
“He’s reaching in his pocket!”
Ted Savage and Coleman came up the stairs, both a little unsteady. “Anything good going on?”
“Not now, Ted!” Serge reached under his shirt.
So did Felicia.
So did Evangelista.
They saw a glint of metal against the fat man’s stomach.
“He’s got a gun!” yelled Felicia.
She was right. A. 380 Ruger. Evangelista’s hand curled around the grip.
Serge and Felicia pulled their own pieces.
From the back of the stage and down in the audience, dozens pointing: “They’ve got guns!”
Instant panic.
Stampede. Screams.
Guzman stood frozen at the podium, bewildered by unseen events. Evangelista approaching from the right side of the stage; Serge and Felicia from the left. The president’s bodyguards tried to get to him, flailing through the crazed mob running helter-skelter across the stage.
“Evangelista’s still advancing!” said Felicia.
“He’s got the gun out! He’s aiming!” Serge swung his own pistol left and right. “Guzman’s in the way.”
Felicia braced her shooting arm, repeatedly shifting stance as innocent heads bobbed into her line of fire. “I can’t get a shot off.”
Serge’s free hand shoved someone aside. “Neither can I.”
Someone could.
Bang, bang, bang…
Hysteria became bedlam, then a circus, and finally a madhouse.
Half the people hit the ground shrieking; the rest ran blindly into things and dove off the front of the stage.
Serge stood on tiptoes for a better view.
An empty podium.
“Guzman!”
Serge and Felicia rammed through the mob like blitzing linebackers. They reached the pile of bodyguards behind the podium.
“Is he hit?” asked Felicia.
“No.”
“Felicia,” said Serge. “Look!”
Evangelista lay splayed out on his back. Silent eyes wide. Spreading pool of blood. Bullet through the heart. Gun still in hand.
“You shoot him?” asked Serge.
“No,” said Felicia. “Never fired.”
“Neither did I,” said Serge.
“Then who did?”
Somewhere below in the trampling of feet, a meek voice: “Serge?”
“Ted? Is that you?”
“Down here.”
Serge pushed through more people, then looked back. “Felicia! It’s Ted! He’s been hit!”
“Serge?” said Ted.
He bent down and cradled Savage in his arms. “How bad is it?”
Ted shook his head. “Did I get him? Is Guzman safe?”
Serge glanced back at Evangelista’s body, then the bodyguards whisking Guzman down the stairs to a waiting limo.
“Yes, Ted. You saved him.”
Ted smiled weakly. “Good. I think Evangelista got me back, but at least I nailed him first. I succeeded in my last mission.”
“Hey buddy.” Serge stroked his arm. “You got a million more jobs ahead. Just stay with me.”
Ted just smiled again. “Thanks, Serge.”
And he was gone.
Epilogue
CNN
“Good evening. Officials are reviewing security procedures tonight after a failed assassination attempt on the life of Costa Gordan president Fernando Guzman at the prestigious Summit of the Americas in Miami. The plot was foiled this afternoon by a quick-thinking federal agent who was tragically killed in an exchange of gunfire with the assailant…”
Serge looked up from his portable TV. Someone approaching on the sidewalk.
He hopped to his feet, ran around the table, and pulled out a chair.
“Serge…” said Felicia.
“Have you thought any more about my question?”
“Serge…”
“You said dinner, so here we are!” Serge swept an arm from the street to the sea. “Sidewalk cafe on Ocean Drive in beautiful South Beach. Coconut Palms. Sand. Male models rollerblading in scrotum-huggers.”
“Serge…”
“You already know Coleman, and this is Mahoney. They’re going to be my best men. I know you haven’t answered yet, but I’m an eternal optimist at love. What do you think about a night beach wedding with tiki torches and Creedence Clearwater music? I already ordered coffee-”
“Serge!”
“What’s the matter, baby?”
“Everything’s gone south. I just found out-”
“Hold that thought,” said Serge, turning up the TV.
“… Meanwhile, congressional leaders are calling for increased national security spending in light of today’s developments, and the threat level has been raised to an unprecedented pixelated red, which can only be seen in
