Pineapple Grenade by Tim Dorsey

grabbed two briefcases from the backseat, then went down the row taking wallets and watches.
    In the commotion of the blitz attack, nobody had noticed an orange-and-green Plymouth roll up quietly without headlights and park on the shoulder under petticoat palms.
    Serge reached in his backpack. “We’ll have to move fast.”
    “What do we do?”
    Serge pulled a pair of items from the glove compartment and slapped one in Coleman’s hand. “Remember when we apprehended those thieves in Orlando? Just take this and do what I do.”
    Back at the limo, a bodyguard made a false move, and the dreadlocks gave him a skull crack with his gun butt.
    Two dark forms staggered and swerved up the street toward the robbery.
    The shaved head turned. “Yo! Reggie, check it out. It’s our lucky night.”
    Serge and Coleman stumbled closer to the group.
    A MAC-10 swung toward them. “Give it up!”
    Serge staggered a few more steps, covered his mouth, and bulged his cheeks. “My tummy doesn’t feel so good.”
    The dreadlocks kept his own gun aimed at the entourage and looked over his shoulder. “They’re drunk.”
    “Stop right there!” ordered the shaved head.
    But the pair continued weaving and stumbling, each headed toward one of the assailants.
    When Serge was a few feet from the shaved head, he grabbed his stomach and bent forward.
    “Don’t you dare puke on me!” The robber jumped back a step, reflexively pulling up his arms, which meant the weapon was momentarily aimed at the sky.
    “Coleman,” Serge slurred. “Now.”
    “Now what?” said the robber.
    “This!”
    He got an eight-hundred-thousand-volt stun gun to the chest, dropping him to the street in a flopping seizure.
    Midway up the side of the limo, someone else hit the ground with violent tremors.
    Serge looked down at Coleman twitching on the pavement. “Shit.”
    The battle would be decided in milliseconds. The dreadlocks realized the ruse and began swinging his TEC-9. Serge hit the ground and grabbed the other robber’s gun.
    Pow-pow-pow-pow-pow  . . .
    Before the carjacker had a chance to fire, the pavement around his feet was raked with Serge’s salvo. He promptly dropped the machine gun and raised his hands.
    Serge stood back up.
    The Costa Gordan entourage went slack-jawed as Serge marched the attackers at gunpoint back to the Road Runner and forced them into the trunk. He slammed the hood and looked over at the group with a happy smile. “Show’s over. You can relax now.”
    Heavy traffic whizzed by, out of sight, up on the expressway. An inbound 737 roared overhead as Serge strolled back to the limo past a row of shocked faces. He leaned down and helped a woozy Coleman to his feet: “You okay, buddy?”
    Coleman nodded.
    “What happened?” asked Serge. “Did he take it away from you?”
    “No, I Tased myself.” He rubbed the middle of his chest. “Forgot which way to point it.”
    “Don’t embarrass me,” whispered Serge. “These are important people.” Then he turned toward a tall man about sixty, balding on top with a thick gray mustache. “President Guzman?”
    “Who are you?”
    “Storms. Serge Storms.” He extended a hand. “I’m attached to your consulate down here.”
    The president tentatively shook it. “In what capacity?”
    “Security.”
    “I haven’t heard of you.”
    “Just got assigned today.” He bent down and picked up Coleman’s dropped stun gun.
    “So you work in our consulate?”
    “No. In fact, it’s best I not be seen near there.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “By attached, I mean unofficially. As far as you’re concerned, I’m not attached at all.” He winked. “And I was never here.”
    “So what are you doing here?” asked the president.
    “Extra protection for the summit.” Serge glanced back at his Plymouth’s banging trunk. “Which you can never have too much of.”
    A block east, a black SUV rolled up and parked without headlights.
    President Guzman rubbed his chin. “So