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swarms of their adults.” Click, click, click.
    Coleman’s head swiveled sideways. “Ambush.”
    “It’s really something to watch.” Click, click, click.
    “Do they have it on TV?”
    “And miss it in person? Do you realize how fortunate we are to have this rare opportunity?” Serge stowed the camera. “Come on. We have to change direction and head that way.”
    “Why?”
    “To get upwind.” Serge crept forward. “So they can detect our scent.”
    Coleman grabbed Serge’s ankle from behind. “You’re deliberately trying to get them to attack?”
    “Of course. Otherwise what’s the point? . . . We’re upwind now.” Serge broke open the foil and removed a pump bottle.
    “What’s that?” asked Coleman.
    “Coyote bait.” He heavily sprayed the ground and grass. “In case they don’t like our smell, this stuff has the scent of their favorite food. And makes them more aggressive.”
    “Have you lost your mind?”
    “I know what you’re thinking: Baiting a field is illegal. But only if you’re hunting with rifles.” Serge looked back. “The bigger ones are getting restless and beginning to circle. Means they’ve picked up our trail. We’ll need to move fast.”
    Coleman scrambled over the top of Serge.
    Serge continued spraying as he crawled. “Now to launch phase two of my—”
    He was drowned out as a large jet flew low overhead and cleared a fence.
    Coleman looked up. “I can’t believe all these coyotes live around the Tampa airport.”
    “ National Geographic sails down the Amazon and climbs the Matterhorn. Anyone can do that.” Serge dismissed the idea with a flick of his wrist. “But tracking wild predators in the middle of a major American city is the real adventure.”
    “But how did they pick this place?”
    “World-class litterbugs. The bastards attract coyotes to the city’s west side, where they’ve begun straying onto runways, imperiling both themselves and frequent fliers. Serge cannot allow that. Airport workers are firing blank guns to scare them off, but I have a better plan.”
    “One of your secret master plans?”
    “Actually an impromptu mini-master plan, not to be confused with the fleeting notion, half-baked idea, or emergency room spin-story for a masturbation mishap.”
    “You had one of those, too?”
    “No.” Serge pocketed his spray bottle. “My current plan simultaneously draws the packs away from Tampa International and discourages littering.”
    “But who’s doing the littering?”
    “Those guys we walked past on the way out to this field.”
    “The ones in red jerseys by those pickup trucks with the gun racks?”
    “That’s them,” said Serge. “And you know how I hate litterers. No circle of hell is too low.”
    Another roar in the sky.
    “Whoa!” said Coleman. “That was really loud. Must be landing on a closer runway.”
    Serge shook his head. “It’s the military flyover for the national anthem before the football game. Planes take off from the MacDill base in south Tampa and follow Dale Mabry Highway north. One of my favorite local traditions. I love to stand in the middle of the highway and salute as they fly above. We can get up now.”
    They stood at attention and watched a quartet of F-16 Falcons blaze over the filling stadium.
    “At ease.” Serge looked at his watch. “It’s almost kickoff.”
    The pair reached the edge of the grassy field. Serge leaned down and extended the telescoping handle on his zippered bag, which was a suitcase.
    “Look,” said Coleman. “There are those guys in the jerseys again.”
    “So they are.” Serge rolled his luggage onto a dirt parking lot. “This is the new overflow parking area, which is how the whole coyote thing got started.”
    Coleman followed with his own bag. “Jesus, look at all the trash! There was just a little when we arrived.”
    Serge’s face turned redder than the jerseys ahead: guys whooping it up, faces and chests painted team colors, flipping burgers, chugging