It Was Only on Stun!

by Declan Finn

  “There is a man in Hollywood,” Sean said, his voice low, tight, and controlled, “named Mitchell Scholl. Talk to our local, friendly ATF agents, and you'll discover that there are two people parked in front of his house at all times. ”

  Edward cleared his throat. “What is he, an arms dealer?”

  Sean looked at Edward, not even glancing in Athena Marcowitz's direction this time. “Mitchell Scholl has a very illustrious reputation, and a better-looking house, most of it just a very large 'toy' storage facility, for which Mitch is famous throughout Hollywood. There are suggestions he had once worked for the Israeli Jeptha—their army corps of engineers, or Q-branch—and there are some that say he'd been working in special effects since before Ray Harryhausen made first-rate claymation monsters to work with second-rate actors.”

  He looked back to the Secret Service agent. “I like the old man. And if you even consider touching him, I'll be the least of your problems.”

  Agent Marcowitz didn't even blink. “Threatening me won't help, Mr. Ryan.”

  He gave a low chuckle. “Who said anything about threats? When Hollywood went to glorified cap guns instead of real guns with blanks, Mitch may have had all of the guns shipped to his personal collection. They're all live, and he makes some of his own rounds. That's why the local ATF is parked in front of his door every hour of every day. And, for the record, his son is the agent-in-charge of the local ATF office.” He gave her a smile that clearly said, So there.

  Edward leaned forward, hoping to be let out of this surreal discussion and back to something more normal—like a war zone in the midst of LA. “You said you saw what Sean did. I didn't think crooks would want a security tape lying around. What happened?”

  “There was a record,” Athena Marcowitz told him. “They wanted to have a record of their employees, in case someone started distributing the money on their own time. That way they could hunt down whoever stole from the company till, and hurt them.” She looked to Sean. “The man nearest the burn button is now a lefty.”

  Sean thought a moment, and blinked. “Oh, was that what the button was for?”

  Edward arched a brow. “What button?”

  The Secret Service agent answered. “They had a security tape. They also had it rigged to be burned in the event of a raid by the police.”

  Sean Ryan shrugged. “When I see someone reaching for a button instead of a gun, I assume the worst. I decided it would be better if he didn't have use of that hand.”

  She nodded, and tapped a particularly gruesome photo. “Yes, but…was that done with a fire ax?”

  “Hatchet,” Sean corrected. “Thrown from a distance of forty feet.”

  She tapped another photo, with someone else's head crushed in. “And a yawara stick made with golf balls? Really? What, you read too many Modesty Blaise novels growing up?”

  Sean frowned. “Of course. I couldn't exactly go by the movies, now could I? They sucked.”

  “Keep on track, Mr. Ryan,” Agent Marcowitz warned. “I want you to walk me through some of this. You told the police that a client's stalker was part of the counterfeiting operation. You discovered his day job, and you decided to 'talk' with his boss, in an effort to see that the stalker was executed in some back alley somewhere.”

  Sean nodded. “That was the gist of it. I wandered in behind some of the guys offloading the paper. I used my silencer to quietly put down a few who cornered me in a hallway. When I ran out of ammunition for that gun, I resorted to some homemade weapons for silent kills. But I discovered I wouldn't be able to get through to the boss's office unless I cleared a path.”

  Athena tapped the burned out printer. “And you decided to take out their press.”

  “Bingo. It was the one thing I knew would draw everyone's attention. And it worked—until they saw me moving in the opposite direction. Then they opened fire, the inconsiderate bastards. After that, I needed to get…creative.”

  “And then things got messy,” Edward joked.

  Athena Marcowitz nodded. “Okay. What happened to the plates?”

  “What plates?” Sean answered. “There weren't any dinner plates.”

  “What were you doing there, really? And what did you do with the plates? Don't play dumb with me, Mr. Ryan.”

  Edward leaned forward and said, “I don't know how much you've read about him, agent, but I don't think he's playing.”

  “Nah,” Sean agreed, “I prefer target shooting.”

  Edward gave a short, sharp laugh. “Of course you do.”

  “Back on track,” Athena Marcowitz corrected. “The plates? You know what was there. You made your improvised bomb with the chemicals they used to print the money.”

  Edward blinked, but said nothing, as little pieces starting clicking in his brain. The industrial machines that Sean had set on fire—industrial printing presses to make counterfeit bills. Which was why this leggy drink of water from the Secret Service was doing here; they investigated counterfeiting. But why were the plates missing? He and Sean were the only ones to walk out of there.

  Sean leaned back in his chair, the amused glint in his eye returning. “Before I answer that, I want you to think about joining my firm.”

  Agent Marcowitz blinked. “Is that a bribe?”

  Sean visibly winced. “No. It's a job offer.”

  “Then no,” she answered him.

  He rolled his eyes. “Now really think about it.”

  Athena bunched up her mouth, and said, “Why should I?”

  “Because you're Secret Service, and half of my job is protection, so you'd be perfect.”

  “And the other half?”

  “Indulging in a license to kill anyone dumb enough to give us a halfway legal reason to end them.”

  “There are other Service agents around, Mr. Ryan, now—”

  “Not only are you a Secret Service agent,” Sean interrupted, “you carry three guns and a knife, and you're pretty enough to make even professional tough guys like Edward here phase out for a half-second—which is twice as long as you or I would need to take out most anyone who got in our way. You know when to press and when to get your finger off the button. You played the weapon card very well, and you knew to get off the subject of Mitch. You're good. Besides, when was the last time you protected someone important?”

  Athena blinked. “What do you—?”

  “Come on,” he said. “You're here in LA chasing down counterfeiters, and I know I haven't seen you running alongside a Presidential limo lately. When was the last time you protected someone that you yourself deemed important? Or was it you and a detail guarding a lazy ambassador who you wanted to assassinate yourself?”

  Athena didn't answer for a long moment. It was obvious to everyone in the room that the Secret Service agent started to seriously consider the offer. “The plates, Mr. Ryan?”

  Sean smiled. “Still Mister Ryan, is it? Well, then, I think it's time for me to talk about what I want.”

  She arched a brow. “Really? And what's that?”

  Sean pointed to Edward over his shoulder with his thumb. “I want Mr. Levine here released. Today. He came to lend aid at risk to himself, with no prospect of reward. His employment with my company can terminate five minutes after he's released, if he so desires. Until then, he's my people.” He looked over his shoulder at Edward. “I'll even give you severance pay. Trust me, you earned it.”

  Sean looked back to Athena. “We both know that I'm going to have more problems with the weapons charge than anything else. A sound-suppressor is illegal unless you're in law enforcement or the military. I'm many things, but I don't have a license to be Black Water. Now, given the weaponry in that place, and the bad guys involved, few people would convict me, even in Hell-A, and I pity the prosecutor who'd dare try. The weapons charges would be…annoying. I want them to go away. I want Mr. Levine and myself to get the heck outta this building today. Not tomorrow, not even after midnight. Today.”

  The Secret Service Agent cocked her head.
“After midnight? Do you turn into a pumpkin or a Gremlin?”

  Sean gave a little smile. “Yeah, sure, just call me Gizmo.”

  Athena rolled her eyes. “Uh huh… Now, seriously, what is it? You have a hot date?”

  Sean chuckled. “Yes. Her name's Inna. She's my girlfriend. I told her I wouldn't be late this time. We have reservations.” Sean's eyes leveled with hers. “Now cut the games. We both know this is just expediting what'll happen anyway. That's all I want. Then I'll give you the plates.”

  Athena looked at the two-way mirror, nodded, and the door opened. A lawyer walked in from the District Attorney's office, papers in hand. Sean took them, and looked them over. The papers were for complete amnesty for what had happened in the warehouse—weapons charges, assault, assault with a deadly weapon, murders one and two, manslaughter, everything. The surprising part was that they were for both him and Edward.

  Sean blinked in surprised, then smiled. He took out a pen and started to sign the papers. “Very well played, Agent Marcowitz. You always try to anticipate behavior?”

  “I'm Secret Service,” she answered. “That's what we do. Besides, as you said, it's simply expediting.”

  Sean nodded, and spent a few more minutes signing off on forms that were almost all in triplicate. “I am definitely going to have to reiterate that job offer. I like you even more now.” He looked up. “You have them, by the way,” Sean told her. “The plates.”

  “No, we don't.”

  He signed the last page and dated it, slapped the pen on the papers, and slid them over. “Tell them to clean off the blood.”

  “Blood?” Agent Marcowitz looked down at the file, and started sorting through all of it, looking for the photos. There, at the bottom, she found a picture. It was of the leader of the operation, or what was left of his face. She knew there had been something wrong at the time, but she didn't know what.

  In the middle of the man's forehead was the impression of the corner of a $20 bill. “You beat him with the plates?”

  “Yup. I figured they should be put to good use. They may be a little damaged. The hole in the middle is from the acetylene torch.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  Sean shrugged, stood, and looked at Officer Shubitz, wordlessly asking permission to leave. After an exchange between the lawyer and the officer, Shubitz nodded. Sean looked back to Athena. “I figured the dollar would be safer without the plates in existence.”

  Edward Murphy rose from his seat, but hung back. The room was getting crowded, with the DA, Shubitz, Marcowtiz, Sean, and his own bulk. “And if my new employer pays me in cash, it would be good to know it's not counterfeit.”

  Sean Ryan gave Edward a nod. “Don't worry, Mr. Levine. My checks don't bounce. Welcome to the firm.”

  Athena rose, sweeping the photos back into a pile. “I suppose, in a way, you did us a favor. If we had to prosecute, and we made a deal for your testimony, you and your record would have made it difficult…to make…a case.” She blinked and stared at him a moment. “And without the plates, prosecution would have been a problem…”

  Sean chuckled. “You mean if there was anyone left to prosecute?” he asked her. “Well, it's a good thing they're all dead then, isn't it?”

  Athena stared at him for a long moment, trying to do the math. “You came in with a sound-suppressed weapon so you could get in and make a deal with the boss. You didn't expect to get caught when you went in, but when they spotted you, you knew the jig was up. Did you decide to kill all of them when the plan went south, or were you just lucky?”

  Sean's bright blue eyes crackled with amusement. “My dear Agent Marcowitz, as I told my new associate here, I don't do random acts of destruction. The end result made everyone's life easier, dead people don't sue, and the plates were my get-out-of-jail-free card.” He gave a casual, easy shrug. “There are people that the world is better off without, lass. And that's why I made you a job offer. You can help me end those people.” Sean gave her a feline grin. “Come, join the Dark Side. We have cookies.”

  Chapter 1: Troubles and Tribbles

  Later.

  They all wanted a war, and they were going to get one. Again.

  In 1993, there began a great and glorious war to divide Bosnia into two separate, ethnically distinct countries. Two years later, a settlement was reached. Bosnia was divided into two, separate, ethnically distinct countries that wanted to kill each other. Three years after the Dayton Accords, the Muslims in Kosovo—known as Ethnic Albanians to the PC set—were attacked by Serbians, who had a grudge with the Muslims for a thousand years.

  The Serbians created general destruction; Albanians caused selective destruction; and there was pointless destruction from the NATO bombs trying not to hurt anyone. After the NATO bombs started to drop, everyone hurried up and killed as many people as possible before they ran out of time. The NATO troops barely arrived in time to keep the Albanians from killing all the Serbs. The Albanians were already taking their turn as the oppressors. In 1999, there were less than four hundred Serbs left in Kosovo, a town that had held over ten thousand.

  In any event, Captain Andre Dragov of the Serbian underground smiled to himself. The tall man sent himself into a laughing fit so hard that his lungs disagreed with him, and sent him into a coughing fit that threatened to hack out a lung.

  Anyway, where was he… Oh yes, he was practicing his evil laughter. Really needed to give up the cigarettes. Then again, he didn’t start coughing until he bought those new NATO filtered cigarettes. He probably had to switch back to the unfiltered version.

  He looked at the photo of the woman he was going to kill. Bright blue eyes, dark brown hair. Not bad looking. Pity he wouldn’t have the time for his rape squads to have a go at her; that would be a real disappointment. It also would have made good film. But then, he needed to kill her and make it out alive, so the death would have to suffice.

  After all, what could go wrong?

  ***

  Across Kosovo city, Luan Mulliqi looked at his laptop, studying his target: Mira Nikolic, another infidel. However, she was an infidel that the West and his neighbors knew. She was on Broadway and television, and she would be a wonderful notification that he and his organization were not impotent. Al-Qaeda still had teeth.

  And they would show it by killing Mira Nikolic, that heathen bitch who dared oppose his Albanian kinsmen and their just slaying of those damnable Serbs—spit and curse. She and her blood soaked corpse will be a sign that no one is safe.

  All they needed now was for Mira Nikolic to have the best security, the best bodyguards, the best protection that money could buy; and then, then, she would die screaming in agony. And then, maybe, Luan and his men could forget the recent shame of losing Osama bin Laden to those damned infidels.

  After all, what could go wrong?

  ***

  Now

  Meanwhile, back in New York City, in the borough of Queens, where most of the stranger people in New York City lived—if you didn’t count the entire 100 mile radius as one big nuthouse—there was a house on the edge of Queens, and it was on the edge in more ways than one. The Queens-Nassau border was a refuge for other, even stranger people; where the local Catholic schoolyard was filled with children wearing Indian Saris and Islamic Topees.

  In any event, the owner of the house in question was on the edge even more than the house was. His hair was naturally blonde, and it had been grown out long, down to the tips of his shoulder blades. Most people who saw him always noted that his hair was simply immaculate all the time—when woman asked him for hair-care tips, he always smiled, said “My hair is this way naturally,” and moved along.

  Then again, his hair wasn’t the only thing most women noted about him. His appearance was never in disarray. He was a handsome sort, with a perfectly circular face, and deep blue eyes so distracting most people never noticed that the tips of his ears were slightly pointed.

  He always wore interesting clothing, white shimmering clothe
s that looked like they were for a formal ball, if the Renaissance festival was designed by someone on acid; but nobody knew if that might be the case from one year to the other, because who knew where that festival was supposed to be? Or when? Or who cared; that’s what C-Con was for.

  His little-known secret—so little known that even he barely knew it—is that he was the most feared man at Science Fiction/Fantasy conventions across the country. He slayed Orcs for profit, as well as wizards, sorcerers, and other demons of the night places.

  He was only known by one title: Middle Earth’s Most Wanted Elven Assassin.

  You read that correctly: Middle Earth’s Most Wanted Elven Assassin happened to be 5’9”, with enough sleek muscle to make jaguars back away slowly. His daily routine consisted of eating his own homemade Mueslix, with enough healthy food to make health nuts run the other way. He did everything short of picking his own fruits and personally harvesting oats. He thought the Quaker Oats man was one of the oddest looking elves he’d ever seen, and wouldn’t even discuss the Keeblers (he had long ago figured they were actually Wood sprites, and someone was too lazy to make a distinction).

  At the moment, he looked at her in the full-blown poster on his wall. With her waif-like body, grace of speech and movement, and those eyes, she was definitely an elf—not those Earth Liberation Front idiots (who were they to steal the honorable name of Elves!). He had proved it to himself…especially the way she handled those weapons. He himself had his own personal weapons training, not that he needed it with his 20/15 eyesight—he could cut the wings off a fly at twenty paces, and circumcise it with an arrow at a hundred yards.

  Mira Nikolic looked something like a fairy princess; she had soft, high Slavic cheekbones that were dull enough to be exotic without making her explicitly alien. Her diamond gray-green eyes sparkled with reflected fluorescence, and her dark chestnut brown hair looked black in the low lighting.