Pineapple Grenade Read Online Free PDF Page A

down. A briefcase handcuffed to a wrist. A key went in the lock. Airplane engines sparked to life.
    Victor’s hair whipped from the propellers. He grabbed the briefcase in a deafening drone and tossed it to one of the jumpsuits. Victor never counted. And the men never looked in the crates. That level of business. Not trust. Certainty of consequence.
    They stopped to watch the Beechcraft take off into the setting sun. The plane banked hard south until it disappeared behind rain clouds, casting long angular shadows over the glades.
    The suits stared across the runway at the Coast Guard detail, staring back. “After all this time, how do they not suspect?”
    “Because they know for sure,” said Vic. The smile broadened. “And under specific orders to stand down. But don’t worry: You’re paying a lot for those connections.”
    The tallest suit: “Dinner? Versailles?”
    Vic shook his head and pointed up. “Got another shipment.”
    “Do you ever stop?”
    “I’m the best.”
    Four men laughed and climbed in the Mercedes. It headed for the exit as another Beechcraft cleared the limo’s roof and touched down in waning light.
    A cell phone rang.
    Evangelista excavated it from a pocket under his flowing Tommy Bahama shirt. He checked the number on the display and flipped it open. “I thought you didn’t like to make phone calls. Hear it’s snowing in D.C.”
    “Vic, Jesus, what the fuck blew up at our warehouse?”
    “My car.”
    “But how’d it happen?”
    “How do you think?”
    “Scooter again?”
    “My cross to bear.”
    “You let that moron near the shipments?”
    “You’re the one who forced me to bring him along,” said Vic.
    “Because of politics,” barked the voice on the other end. “Doesn’t mean let him play with the rocket launchers.”
    Vic turned and shielded himself from the wind as another plane landed. “Thanks for caring about my car.”
    “This ain’t a joke! We got budget hearings Monday. And this is just the sort of thing that could expose everything.”
    “You worry too much.”
    “That’s my job! A few more shipments and we’re in the clear.”
    Twin propellers jerked to a stop. “Another just landed.”
    “No more screwups,” said the phone. “Have one of the boys take Scooter to get a milk shake or something.”
    “Speaking of which, what happened to that reporter who was poking around our offshore accounts.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “The one who went missing after getting drunk in Costa Gorda.”
    “Accidents happen.”
    “You’re the one who’s so worried about drawing heat,” said Vic. “Holy God, taking out a reporter—”
    “Not on the phone! How many times do I have to tell you? No more phone calls!”
    “You’re the one who called me.”
    Click.
    The Next Day
    Downtown Miami.
    Two pedestrians reached the corner of Flagler and turned left toward the basketball arena. “There’s Bayside Market,” said Serge. “They have a picture of Shaq next to a powerboat that takes tourists on runs past the Scarface mansion.”
    “What’s that UFO-shaped building by the marina?”
    “The Hard Rock Cafe.”
    “Didn’t it have a giant guitar on the roof?”
    “Hurricane blew it off and sank a yacht.”
    Across the boulevard: bright sun and a gusting breeze off Biscayne Bay. Colorful flags snapped atop rows of just-planted aluminum poles. An army of landscapers manicured hedges, drove lawn mowers, and rode skyward in hydraulic cherry-picker baskets to snip away any palm frond with the least tinge of brown. Behind them, others in yellow hard hats erected scaffolds around the amphitheater for lighting, sound, and news cameras.
    In the middle, an eternal flame.
    TV correspondents loved it as a backdrop.
    “Good afternoon. This is Gloria Rojas reporting live from downtown Miami, where workers are putting the final touches on the landmark Bayfront Park in preparation for this weekend’s Summit of the Americas, which promises to