“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.
“Jimmy…” Serge pointed at the brown paper bag. “Can I buy you another?”
“Sure.”
“Okay, we’ll need to find a liquor store.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your bag.”
“I don’t have booze in here.”
He handed the sack to Serge, who glanced oddly at Jimmy before reaching inside and pulling out five paperbacks. “Kurt Vonnegut?”
“I read all the time.” Jimmy nodded at the books in Serge’s hands. “And that guy knows the real shit, man! The whole fuckin’ lay-down: time travel, other planets, alternate planes of existence. You need those if you’re going to survive in Miami.”
“Couldn’t agree more.”
Jimmy took the books back. “So when was the last time you saw the agents?”
Serge pointed down out the window at a side street running parallel to the monorail. “There they are now.”
Jimmy leaned toward the safety glass, then covered his mouth in horror. “One of the black SUVs! We have to get out of here. Follow me!”
The next platform approached. Serge waited with Jimmy just inside the pod doors and grinned at Felicia.
She exhaled with dwindling patience.
The doors opened…
Five minutes later, Coleman looked out the back window of the city bus. “Still following us.”
The bus slowed at the next stop. Jimmy stood up. “Time to switch transpo.”
One block behind. A passenger in a black SUV with binoculars: “They’re switching again. First the People Mover, then a public bus, and now a jitney. How much training does Serge’s new contact have?”
“I don’t know, but do you see where we’re heading?”
The passenger lowered his binoculars. “Liberty City? At night?”
“The home of the Miami riots,” said the driver. “One of the highest crime rates in America, and birthplace of some of the biggest rappers ever to grab a mike. The contact agent is probably their go-between with that faction. They’ve diversified into all kinds of other underworld endeavors.”
“The rappers are involved? Christ!”
“Just keep watching.”
He raised them to his eyes again. “You sure you want to go into Liberty City? We can always say we lost them.”
The driver’s knuckles turned white. “Just don’t think about it.”
The passenger adjusted his binoculars. “They’re getting off the jitney. And running across a vacant lot to where another bus is just pulling up at that stop.”
“Standard evasion. Hang on!”
The driver raced to the next intersection and made a skidding turn, then another, putting them at the bus stop on the other side of the lot.
“Where’s the bus?” asked the driver.
“Up there two blocks. Stay with ’em.”
“I’m trying to, but there are a lot of cars.”
“Where could they be heading?”
The bus took a left on Seventy-ninth Street and drove beneath the interstate.