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Serge’s photo out . . .”
    Cops dispersed.
    “That dog won’t hunt,” said Mahoney.
    “Just watch,” said White. “This is my town. Looks like a busy city and an easy place to escape, but they built the theme parks to the south, surrounded by agricultural land. Just a few major arteries to seal—International Drive, Orange Blossom Trail, Interstate 417, firewall Orlando to the north and points south. Then all we have to worry about is the airport and Amtrak station.”
    The motel manager came in with a portable office phone. “There an Agent Mahoney?”
    “Depends,” said Mahoney. “Alimony come up?”
    The manager shrugged and held out the phone. “I just know you got a call.”
    Mahoney placed it to his head. “Mahoney here, jaw to me . . . uh-huh . . . I see, I see . . . Don’t you mean the Big Bamboo? . . . Really? . . . Okay, thanks Scratchy. I owe you.” He tossed the phone back to the manager.
    “Who was that?” asked White.
    “Snitch who ratted this flop.” Mahoney reached in his pocket for a toothpick. “There a joint near here called the Nu Bamboo?”
    “Yeah, opened a year ago. Why?”
    “Serge eyeballed at the bar. Might still be there . . .”
    Sedans screeched into the parking lot of the next motel. Agents poured through the lobby. White was first in the bar. He lunged at the counter and held a mug shot to Patty. “Seen this guy.”
    Patty barely had to look. “Yeah, Serge. He’s right over . . .” She set a mason jar in front of a customer and looked around. “He was just in here.”
    “When was the last time you saw him?”
    “A few minutes ago. We were all standing out front watching these cops race around.”
    Lowe raised his hand. “That was us. We’re under deep cover.”
    “Shut up,” said White, then back to Patty. “Any idea where he went?”
    “Nope,” said the bartender, setting empty glass jars in the sink. “If you know Serge, one second he’s here talking a mile a minute about how he could stay forever, then he gets bored and poof.”
    “Thanks for your help.” The detective handed her a business card. “If you think of anything else—”
    “White!” Mahoney yelled from the far end of the bar. “Come quick! I think I found something!”
    The agent raced over. “What is it?”
    Mahoney pointed down at a stool. “I’d know that duct tape anywhere.”
    “Yeah?” said White, leaning forward in tense anticipation. “And?”
    “It’s Ralph Kent’s.”
    “I don’t understand your methods, Mahoney, but this puts us on Serge’s trail, right?”
    “No, I’m just jazzed.”
    White’s thoughts drifted to strangulation.
    “Look!” yelled one of the customers.
    Everyone turned.
    “It’s the Doberman!”
    “And he’s got the Litter!”
    The bounty hunter entered the bar with blood-matted hair and left arm in a makeshift sling. Patrons swarmed for more autographs.
    “You’re my hero! . . .”
    “Are you on the hunt? . . .”
    “Remember when you ran over yourself with your own dune buggy? . . .”
    White grabbed Lowe. “Come on. We’ve got real work to do.”
    The detectives sped west in an unmarked Crown Vic.
    “Roger,” White said in the police radio. He hung the mike on the dash. “Everyone’s in roadblock position.”
    Lowe flipped through his manual. “You really think we’ve cut off all escape routes?”
    “Tighter than Fort Knox,” said White, scanning both sidewalks. “Called in the Orange County sheriff. Got deputies checking everyone on even the most obscure back roads.”
    A short drive up the Kissimmee strip: more bottom-shelf amusement. Bungee towers, video arcades, rock-climbing walls. Farther off the highway, a long, dark grassy field.
    Serge and Coleman climbed from a golf cart. Then up a ladder.
    They were sitting in front.
    Something roared to life with a tremendous, shuddering noise.
    Coleman sipped a flask and looked back at the bearded man in a scarf. The man saluted. Coleman turned and