Free Pineapple Grenade by Tim Dorsey Page A

the monorail to the parking lots and taxis.
    “Hold up,” said Serge. “There’s one more thing I have to do . . .”
    The last passengers exited the aircraft, which was the signal for a standby tactical unit in body armor to rush aboard. They swept the plane and reached one of the restrooms. On the mirror, drawn in soap:
    A bowling ball with a lit fuse.
    Back in the airport, total chaos. News crews surrounded passengers getting off the monorail for firsthand accounts. “. . . You wouldn’t believe the smell! . . .”
    And at the departure gate, calm was finally restored. A woman with four-inch nails headed back to her desk. She stopped and gasped. On the ground, a clean rectangle indicated the outline of a missing Elite Club doormat.

Chapter Five

    Miami International Airport
    Blinking lights in the night sky toward the Everglades. A distant drone. Another Beechcraft full of weapons on its way to points south.
    Limos continuously left the airport.
    An orange-and-green Road Runner sat at the curb outside arrivals.
    Coleman killed a Schlitz. “That really blew, driving all the way from Tampa.”
    “But it took less time than we sat on that runway yesterday. Planes are now dead to me. I hate airports.”
    “Me, too,” said Coleman. “The magic toilets always flush before I can squat and get fully situated, and it sucks down the little paper covering I laid out, because the paper tongue in the middle hangs in the water, and then I have to get another, and it sucks that one down, too.”
    “Coleman, the whole key to airport life is tearing off the paper tongue first,” said Serge. “It’s against the rules, but you have to start fighting back somewhere.”
    “Serge?”
    “What?”
    “Then if we both hate it so bad, why are we at another airport?”
    “My new job.” Serge adjusted small opera binoculars.
    “Job? Who hired you?”
    “Those guys who threw me out in the street. Remember? Just after we got into town and I started taking photos of consulates.”
    “I thought you were kidding about getting hired. They told you to come to the airport?”
    Serge shook his head. “When you’re hired for such a sensitive intelligence position, they trust your judgment.” He set the binoculars down and opened a laptop.
    “What are you doing now?”
    “Killing time until my mission starts.” He began typing. “I’m writing to a pen pal.”
    Coleman cracked another beer. “You mean that guy whose family got abducted.”
    Serge shook his head. “Someone else.”
    “You’re cheating on your pen pal?”
    Serge continued typing. “I know it’s not right, but the heart wants what it wants.”
    “Can I see?”
    “Just let me finish this.”
    More typing. Serge finally hit the save button and passed the laptop across the front seat.
    Coleman leaned closer and began reading . . .
Dear Sarah Palin, Almost President
Going Rogue . . . and making it look so hot!
First, I know others say it all the time, but I’m your number one fan. And I’ll straight-talk like you always do: I’m writing you for a date. I’ve been following your career and there’s no stopping the Palin juggernaut if you’ve got the right man behind you (which you don’t). We both know the marriage is finished. You’re so past that Alaskan Urban Cowboy phase. So here are my plans to manage your life. Next phase: blockbuster movie star! It’s a natural—all you need is the right vehicle. And I’ve got it! Are you ready? Are you sitting down? All in the Family: The Movie . Can’t believe nobody’s thought of it before. To update the show for our times, we gender-shift and make you Archie Bunker. They wouldn’t even have to write your lines, just tape-record the speeches. Remember “Drill, baby, drill”? You pushed for offshore drilling, then after the spill you opposed offshore drilling, saying it was a dangerous idea that was forced by restrictions on arctic refuge exploration. No screenwriter in Hollywood has that kind