by Declan Finn
It Was Only On Stun!
A Thriller
By
Declan Finn
Acknowledgments
My writing career can be blamed on two people: Joseph Michael Straczynski and my father.
J. Michael Straczynski (JMS) created a television show called Babylon 5. It was essentially a filmed science fiction novel. By reading his online posts about writing, about construction of story, the elements of character, my interest was peaked. At sixteen I came up with a concept for fan fiction, simply set in the universe of his television series.
My father encouraged me to write what I had in mind. I designed my own characters, weaving stories out of loose threads of information in Straczynski's universe. After a while, the stories were mostly my own, and it grew into something completely different. In fifteen months, I had created a science fiction quartet of over 575,000 words that sprawled all over a universe mostly of my own design. I was hooked on writing.
Since then, I wrote multiple novels, some bad, some readable. I'm still working on creating a version of my science fiction series that will not get me sued. I wrote thrillers, a hostage novel, short stories that were mostly a result of my creative writing professor, James Sheehan.
I would like to dedicate this book to my father, Dr. John Konecsni of St. John's University; he gave me life, hope, and Middle Earth's Most Wanted Elven Assassin. For helping me with my story lines, and giving me half of them.
I'd like to thank my betas: Jacqueline Vick, Ann Seeton, and Annie Yoskowitz.
I'd also like to thank everyone who believed in me, even when I didn't: Allan Yoskowitz, Jason Bieber, Matt “Funtime” Pryce, James Masciale, Daniel Pietras, and Amanda Kennedy.
To everyone on the Facebook page. We made it.
I should probably note here that any similarities to persons living or dead are purely coincidental; I've been told that “Oh, he's Harlan Ellison,” or some such other person – trust me, I've met Harlan Ellison, he's a perfectly nice guy. There are no real people in this book.
The only elements of real life are the stories from the former state of Yugoslavia; those are ripped from the headlines.
Prologue: One Way to Stay Out of Jail.
The (relatively) Recent Past, Los Angeles, California
“Weapons?” asked the bored LAPD desk sergeant.
Officer Shubitz smiled as he lifted a small crate and placed it on the counter. The desk sergeant blinked and straightened. This was about to get interesting. He looked through the crate and started to read out the inventory.
“Two tactical batons, diamond grip. Three .45-caliber handguns, one with sound suppressor. One—” At one object he pulled out, he hesitated. He couldn't tell what that thing in the evidence bag was. “What the—?”
The prisoner shrugged. “A pen.”
The sergeant looked at the prisoner, a short fellow. He was, maybe, 5'6”. “Why is it covered in blood?”
There was only the merest flicker of a smile. “Long story.”
“Uh huh.” The sergeant reached for the tactical batons, and paused, staring at the handle on one of them. “What is the button on this baton?”
The prisoner looked at the patrolman who held him. Officer Bussey unlocked the cuffs, and the prisoner made a show of slowly – very, very slowly – reaching for the baton.
The sergeant's brows rose at the exaggerated movements. Most guys brought through the station were so confident, they would think nothing of grabbing weapons. But then, the patrolmen watched this prisoner with undue caution. Usually, the officers were big and macho, and they ate Aryan Brotherhood steroid cases for lunch. Yet Bussey and Shubitz treated this one prisoner like unstable explosives, and he wasn't that impressive. He was short, compact; his raven-black hair was combed into a nice, neat business cut, and his attire was business casual.
The eyes were something else, though … the color of lightning.
With two fingers, the prisoner dragged both batons toward him. Using only the thumb and forefinger of each hand, he touched the tactical batons pommel to pommel, and twisted, interlocking them. “The one with the button has a CO2 cartridge for instant extension.”
“Into what?” the sergeant asked.
The prisoner rolled his electric-blue eyes. “Into a quarterstaff, duh.” He gave another hint of a smile. “Maybe a three-eighths staff.”
“Uh huh.” He looked over the spread of weapons. “Any more?”
Officer Bussey laughed as he re-cuffed the prisoner. “Isn't that enough?”
The prisoner cleared his throat. “You forgot the stick with the two golf balls.”
Officer Shubitz looked into the crate, and nodded. It was yet another bloody mess. “What was this for, anyway?”
“Yawara stick,” the prisoner answered. “Also known as a kongo. Look it up.”
The prisoner was led to the nearest holding cell. The cell was filled with the refuse typical for LA, and fairly crowded. The only seat was a spot on the center bench, next to another prisoner. Unlike the short Caucasian they were throwing in, the other prisoner was big, black, and uncuffed.
The prisoner stepped inside. “You're not going to uncuff me?”
Shubitz smiled. “Do you need to be?”
He laughed. “Probably not. Thanks.”
The prisoner sat down next to the black fellow, and ignored the other guests of the LAPD. He looked around, as though looking for out-of-date magazines in a waiting room.
The electric-blue eyes drifted, and locked onto the biggest biker in the room. The prisoner smiled at his bench mate, said, “Excuse me, I'll be right back,” and wandered over to the biker.
The biker, Jay Ross, arrested for distribution of crystal meth, looked down at the shorter man through his dark sunglasses. He leaned against the prison bars and sneered. “What do you want?”
The cuffed prisoner smiled genially. “I would like you to stop being a bad biker stereotype, get a shave, lose the headband, and wear something not made of leather. But I'll settle for your sunglasses.”
Ross growled, flexed his hands, and pushed away from the bars.
The shorter fellow started with a right roundhouse kick to the biker's knee. Ross's leg gave out and he twisted. The other man did not recoil the kick, but set it down just outside the biker's foot. Ross's face was in a perfect position for a left knee to his face, which bounced Ross's head off the prison bars.
After the disturbance settled down, and the police heard the story of how the short, handcuffed prisoner dropped Ross, the cops looked at each other, rolled their eyes, and moved on.
The prisoner took the fallen sunglasses, broke off the arm, and again sat next to the large black gentleman.
“So,” the bigger one began. “What, exactly, are we in for?”
“You, for being a good Samaritan.” He paused as he worked the broken arm of the glasses into the cuff lock. “Me, for being very good at what I do.”
“Random acts of destruction?” the other asked with a smile.
“Nah. None of them were random.”
“Just who the hell are you?”
He paused a moment, then smiled, offering the other prisoner his (now) free hand. “Sean Ryan, of Sean A.P. Ryan & Associates.”
His bench mate arched a brow. “You have associates?” he rumbled. “Where were they?”
Sean smiled. “You're here, aren't you?”
The other laughed. “Hey, man, I just heard automatic fire and thought that there might be people in trouble.”
“Oh, there were.”
The eyes went flat. “I didn't think the guys with assault rifles were the ones that needed help.”
Sean gave him a smile. “Hey, you should talk, SpecOps boy. You weren't exactly frowning wh
en you needed to beat one of them, repeatedly, with a crowbar.”
“He had just tried to castrate me, beating him felt good … ” The bigger man paused a moment, and lowered his voice. “And what do you mean, SpecOps?”
Sean sighed, leaning in, keeping his voice down. “You disarmed one of them, beat him with his own rifle, and dismantled said rifle so fast, I didn't even see it. You were doing things that impress me, and I know how to kill people twenty ways with a ballpoint. So, what were you? Snake Eater? Ranger? SEAL? Recon?”
He sighed, looked away, and sagged back, relaxing. “No one you heard of. Back end of nowhere.”
Sean arched a brow. “Really? And you can do all that? Uh huh, right. So … Delta.” There was a long silence. Sean shrugged. “Right. Hush hush, won't tell a soul.”
After a long moment, the larger fellow still did not look at Sean, but said, “Edward Murphy. Call me Eddie, and you die.”
Sean didn't even smile, but nodded with great solemnity. “Understood.”
“So,” Edward said, “what were we doing at that building?”
Sean started unlocking the other handcuff with the broken arm of the sunglasses. He didn't even look down at his work, doing it all by feel. “A very bad man who worked there stalked one of my clients in his free time. I thought I could reason with the stalker's boss. When I saw that the stalker's fellow employees all carried Mac-10s and AK-47s, I knew that they were all Very Bad Men. And, I knew if the boss caught wind that one of his men was a stalker, jeopardizing his operation, the boss wouldn't take it well, and execute the little bugger for me.”
Edward frowned. “And in order to do that, you had to start blowing up his industrial-grade equipment?”
“Nah… I started by taking out his men with a sound-suppressed handgun so I could get close enough to blow up his equipment. As a distraction.”
The former Delta Force operator shook his head. “You thought blowing up all of that stuff was just a distraction?”
Sean grinned. “It caught your attention, didn't it?”
Edward studied Sean Ryan a moment. He had grown up listening to his neighbors talk of “crazy white people.” The way Sean's eyes glowed with merriment made Edward want to go back to the old neighborhood and redefine their stereotypes.
“So,” Sean continued, “what made you leave They Who Must Not Be Named?”
“What makes you think I left them?” Edward countered.
Sean gave him an “are you kidding me?” glare. “You ran into a building filled with armed men, just because you thought someone needed help against 'men wielding assault rifles.' ” Sean gave a deep sigh. “Somehow, I don't think guys like that are dishonorably discharged.”
Edward shook his head. “The moment Washington even discussed postponing the war against the Taliban for Ramadan, I turned in my papers.”
“That was a while ago,” Sean noted.
He sighed. “I know. You'd be surprised how long someone can string out 'just one more mission.' But I was done.”
Sean nodded. “Understood.” He looked off through the bars, and slipped the handcuffs into a pocket. “Have you ever considered changing your name?”
“Every day. Why?”
“Brian Levine,” Sean muttered. “I've always liked that name.” He glanced in Edward's direction. “You could do worse.”
“I don't look like a Levine,” Edward rumbled.
Sean arched a brow. “You look like a 'Murphy'?”
Edward laughed. “Sure, haven't you ever heard of Black Irish?”
“Har. Har.” Sean's gaze was still past the bars of the holding cell.
Edward didn't know how to read this, or Sean's sudden silence. “So, what does Sean A.P. Ryan & Associates do? Aside from property damage?”
Sean chuckled. “Oh, property damage isn't in the job description; it's a fringe benefit.” He glanced Edward's way. “Protection. Private security. Some people call me a mercenary. I think I prefer 'cleanser of the gene pool,' don't you?”
“Depends on who's wielding the chlorine.” Edward chuckled and shook his head. “So, where'd you get the 'cleanser of the gene pool' line?”
“Deadpool. Marvel Comic book character.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
Sean had gone back to staring out the bars again, and Edward followed his gaze. At the other end of the hall, there was a tall woman. And by tall, he meant tall. Edward's height neared two meters, but this woman may have had an inch or two on him. She wasn't as dark as he was; her appearance was more Mariah Carey/Halle Berry, if either of them played basketball. Her hair was short, stopping at the nape of the neck, and she was dressed in a sharp black suit.
“Oh yeah,” Sean said under his breath, “she's Secret Service.”
Edward arched a brow. “How can you tell?”
Sean smiled and looked at him. “You really were distracted by the fireworks, weren't you?”
Edward was tempted to once again roll his eyes. “I tend to be focused on people trying to kill me. Why?”
“You'll see.” He stood and moved over to the bars, then tapped on them with the handcuffs. “Excuse me, I think she's here for me.”
One of the other prisoners in holding snickered. “You wish, buddy.”
The woman glanced his way, nodded, and strode over to holding. Officer Shubitz walked one step ahead of her. Sean smiled, waved, and tossed the cop his handcuffs. “Thanks, I needed the practice.” He glanced to the tall woman and said, “Hi.”
“Secret Service Agent Athena Marcowitz,” she said stiffly, flashing her ID.
“Sean A.P. Ryan. Pleased to meet you. Shall we talk?”
Agent Marcowitz nodded, then looked to Shubitz. “I'd like him in interrogation.”
Sean poked his thumb over his shoulder. “Him, too.”
Athena's eyes followed his gesture. “Why?”
“Because Mr. Levine will not want to stay in this little cage.”
Shubitz blinked, looking from one prisoner to the other. “I thought his name was—”
“It is,” Sean told him. “But I refuse to employ anyone with a name that could be easily shortened to 'Eddie Murphy.' So I will refer to him as Mr. Levine. He's my associate.” He looked at the officer directly. “As of five minutes ago, he is an employee of the firm of Sean A.P. Ryan & Associates.” He looked to Athena. “If he is tied up in red tape, someone will find themselves garroted, with the tape.”
Edward blinked. He didn't know he had agreed to being a paid member of “the firm”. But if this nutcase was willing to go to bat for him with the same dedication as wiping out a warehouse full of men with assault weapons, Edward was not about to complain. He rose from the bench and moved to stand next to Sean.
Now that Edward was closer to the Secret Service agent, he noticed she was sort of striking. Well-proportioned for her size, she was feminine, and she might have been good looking, if she only smiled.
Then again, Edward, have you ever seen a Secret Service agent smile while on duty? he thought.
Athena's gaze shot to him like a knife to the gut. “What are you staring at?”
Edward started. He hadn't realized his gaze had lingered. He smiled, trying to cover. “I was trying to count all of your guns.”
Athena's eyebrow elevated just a little. “And?”
“Ankle, bra, and shoulder. A .40, a .357, and a .22 in the ankle.”
“And the knife under the shoulder holster,” Sean added casually.
The officer looked at the three of them as though they were nuts; Athena and Edward focused that same look at Sean.
“Interview room now, I think,” Athena told them.
***
Once Sean and Edward were seated, Athena laid out photos taken at the scene of the incident. “We finally saw the video tape,” she told them. Looking at Sean, she said, “You really were a stuntman, weren't you?”
Sean sighed. “The cops have my union card.”
Athena tapped the closed file with the transcr
ipt of Sean's statement. “I don't think anyone believed half of this stuff you told the officers on-scene. It sounded like a John Woo film.”
Sean nodded. “I was in one of those.”
She looked at Edward, as if asking if Sean could be serious for a moment, then looked back to the shorter fellow. “Yes, but your story sounded insane for even one of you folks to try.”
He grinned. “Thank you. I won awards for crazy stunts.”
“I believe it.” She slipped out another photo, this one of Sean without a shirt on. “By the way, medics examined you on-scene, took photos. That giant scar on your body?”
“Burning Orc suit.” He shrugged. “I spent some time in New Zealand.”
“Left arm?”
“I told you I did a John Woo film.”
Athena didn't even smile. She looked to Edward. “And what about you? What is your involvement in all this, that Mr. Ryan here would go to bat for you?”
Edward smiled and held up his hands. “Don't look at me, all I did was run towards the screaming.”
Athena's attention turned back to Sean – which was the point of his odd comment. “Okay. Let's talk about your weaponry.”
Sean leaned back, his face slipping into neutral, his gaze blank. “What about it?”
Edward shifted in his chair. From the moment he had first laid eyes on Sean, he had noticed one thing: a constant expression of amusement. There was the glint in his eye, the constant, slight smile on his lips. Even he could tell that Agent Athena Marcowitz had just touched a nerve. And Edward didn't want to know which nerve endings were connected to Sean Ryan's large, shiny red button. From what he had witnessed thus far, it was probably connected to a nuclear launch code somewhere.
His tone was casual, and his voice softer, when he said, “Whatever could you mean?”
Marcowitz pressed the advantage. “Your tactical batons are custom-made; the connecting screw-in portion, the CO2 cartridge, and their locking mechanism.”
Sean gave a slight grin, though it didn't reassure Edward. It was almost feral. “Someone's been playing with my toys.”
Agent Marcowitz nodded. “It took me a minute or two to discover that you had to give the top of the baton a small twist to unlock it. All told, I haven't seen anything like your little 'toy', Mr. Ryan. And I don't think it would be very hard to track down the man who made it.”