by Declan Finn
The bodyguard wasn’t overly worried at first, thinking that the knife would catch on the suit's metal frame, only to realize that he felt the tip of the knife poking him in the back as the blade slipped between the slender steel beams, which only stopped the knife at the hilt. Since Zorro was pulling on the metal frame, the anterior portion was moved away from Sean, keeping the knife from ramming him fully in the back.
Another one for the “Aren’t you glad they’re stupid?” file.
Ryan threw the book behind him, hoping to slap Zorro across the face. However, it managed to catch the attacker’s blade as it came down sharply into Ryan’s back. He moved straight for the wall between the exit stairs and the elevator, both hands on Mira, guiding her run. He turned his body three feet from the wall, and let go of the actress as he threw himself sideways. His shoulder slammed into the wall, and Zorro hit the concrete wall, bouncing off it into the floor.
“Run!” Ryan ordered. He turned back to Zorro, only to receive a full body slam from the man in black, overbalancing the former stuntman and bringing him to the ground. Zorro whipped the knife to one side, throwing the restraining book to one side. He straddled the prostrate Sean and rammed the knife into his chest, twisting it viciously before stabbing him again. On the second strike, Sean Ryan went still.
Zorro was about to laugh over his victory when two strong hands grabbed him by the shoulders and lifted him up and off the ground before tossing him aside.
“That wasn’t very funny, my good fellow,” said a very deep, genteel voice. The man’s chest was built like a block of concrete, and long legs that were as thick as the trunks of an adolescent maple tree. A sharp nose separated two piercing gray eyes, and his grin held teeth that looked like they belonged to a shark.
Zorro looked confused, his brown eyes searching for a way out, realizing that he had chased Ryan down to the exit. The elevator next to him was useless unless it moved at the speed of a car. The giant was now in front of him; and he was huge—at least 6’4”, if not 6’5”. Zorro clamored to his feet, knife in hand; he had apparently forgotten that he had a three-foot rapier at his side. He thrust forward, and his target easily blocked the knife thrust with a wave of his hand, catching wrist on wrist, and cuffed him on the side of the head, dropping him.
“I don’t think so, dear boy. Now be a good chap, and give up before I harm you by accident.”
Zorro raised his knife with the full intention of hurling it into the large actor’s chest. Instead, he felt his wrist grabbed by strong fingers. His arm was pulled down and behind as a hand thrust into his back, which levered his weight into the floor.
Zorro rolled away, dropping the knife. He blinked at the slight, graying woman who had dropped him. Erin Green smiled at him, gray-green eyes twinkling. “That wasn’t very nice.”
Zorro looked from one actor to the other, wondering exactly where they learned to fight for real, apparently not hearing of the rigorous fight preparation given to actors.
Luckily for him, the elevator doors opened. Zorro grabbed the passenger inside and hurled her in front of him as the doors closed.
“Damn!” the tall, English actor snapped, ignoring the applause of the crowd breaking out around him. The audience moved in, shaking Erin Green’s hand, asking when she was teaching tai chi this afternoon.
“I would have had a clear shot had you not been standing right in front of me.”
The large actor turned to Sean Ryan as the bodyguard grumbled, rising from the floor.
The actor cocked his eyebrows. “Terribly sorry, I thought you were dead.”
“I’m better now…I have real metal underneath this that caught the knife at the hilt. I have a dime-sized hole in my epidermis, but not much else.” Sean looked up at the English actor and smiled. “Hey, Lee, nice to see you again.”
Lee Kristoff smiled. “Sean Ryan?”
He nodded, slipping the helmet just above his eyes. “Haven’t seen you since the end of principle photography on the trilogy. How’s life?”
“Not bad. That other trilogy, all that. They’re still labeling it as my ‘comeback,’ but how can you explain to them that I never left?”
“Good point…how long since you’ve been in the SAS?”
Kristoff smiled. “A very long time.” The actor looked down at Ryan’s suit. “And what have you been up to?”
“Private security for the Hollywood set, you haven’t heard?” Ryan blinked and turned, looking for Mira Nikolic. He recalled he had sent her up the stairs… And if Zorro went up there…
Ryan turned, ready to dash up the exit stairs, and almost ran Mira over. He reached out to steady her. “What are you doing? I told you to get upstairs.”
She smiled sheepishly. “I was going to shoot that man with the knife.” She looked down at her pocket, where he saw the handle of the AMT Backup. “But the gun was caught.”
Ryan smiled. “Thanks, I appreciate it. Put that away, though. I don’t want you using it in my defense, only yours.”
A shadow drew over Ryan, and Lee Kristoff, “Nice pistol. I would have gone for something a little smaller, don’t you think, Sean?”
Ryan scoffed. “What, a .22? It’s a glorified BB-gun; I wanted her with something that might actually stop a perpetrator.” He turned back to Mira. “Let’s get you to the table before someone else decides to jump you out here. I’d rather have your back to the wall, because I know the wall isn’t going to jump out and bite you.”
Mira cleared her throat lightly. “I think I’ll go check my makeup first, if you don’t mind.”
Since she’s not wearing makeup, I guess that’s a variation on powdering one’s nose…unfortunately, in Hollywood, saying “powdering one’s nose” refers to cocaine. “Sure, follow me.”
A broad grin spread out across her face, a substitute for laughter. “Sean, in case you have not noticed, we cannot exactly head to the same restroom.”
“Follow me into the men’s room. I can guarantee that no one is going to throw you out.” Before she could argue, he added, “Besides, do you think all assassins are men?”
Her reply was cut off by a group of C-Con members who wanted to use the stairs, and she realized she was still blocking it. Before moving, Ryan looked at his surroundings, making certain he wasn’t about to be pounded with yet another nasty little surprise.
And when he switched on the infrared, he spotted it.
Sean looked at Mira and nodded. She nodded to him in turn.
They started moving, barely coming out from the protective awning of the catwalk above. The crowd started to disperse slowly and evenly, clearing a path.
He paused briefly to pick up the book that saved his life. He laughed—he had forgotten to put it back after throwing it at the annoying tribble—Writer’s Book of Poisons and Other Malevolent Objects, edited by Corbin Eielson.
Who knew I’d be grateful for that bugger? He stopped to pay for it.
At which point, Galadren, Middle Earth’s Most Wanted Elven Assassin, struck.
The elf wheeled around the catwalk railing and fired. And he never missed.
Sean wheeled around before the arrow let loose and stood in front of Mira. They fell back, out of sight of the elf for a moment.
Someone screamed. With a roar of rage, Sean stood again, his papier-mâché armor soaked with blood. He came up with a gun, blasting away at the elf.
Galadren smiled and leapt to one side. He had known about those things called guns for some time now. They were still ineffective.
He leapt out of sight and disappeared, pushing through the guards who tried to stop him.
Chapter 7: Illusions and Delusions
Galadren ran off into the fields of the campus, almost skipping and laughing with joy. He had hit her, he had hit her!
Soon she’ll recover, and then I can educate her about her roots, and then—
Galadren stopped and turned by the time he had reached the forests of the Javits Center. Something was wrong in the air. His elf-sen
se was tingling; thankfully, he had excellent self-control, otherwise he would have spun towards the problem and snapped a shot off at it.
Instead, he glanced over his shoulder, seeing mostly with his premium picture-perfect peripheral vision. There was only a construction crew. He cocked his head to one side, and he SAW them. Because he knew all of them, down to the exact shades of their olive skin.
He had seen all of them at the airport the day he waited for Mira to arrive. Son of an Orc whore!
***
On the other side of the concrete boulevard, on a scaffold above the Javits Center, one of Luan Mulliqi’s men spared a glance toward the rapidly-moving object that caught his eye a moment ago. It was a freak with long blond hair and arrows.
Habib Roshman rolled his eyes. Infidels.
Habib’s radio clicked.“This is Luan. Our target has been hit. Repeat, she is down. The assassin is an infidel with long blond hair.”
Habib blinked and looked over his shoulder. The man he had seen had disappeared.
However, even though Habib could not see Galadren, Galadren could see him. There was something about these men, and he fully intended to find out who they were, what they were, and what needed to be done about them.
After all, had he not quelled an entire riot out in the West not a year before? Had he not managed to best a Ranger, Sean Ryan, just five minutes before?
***
Sean carried Mira toward the men’s bathroom, gun at his side. He made sure the restroom was empty before going in.
Then he set her on her feet.
Mira smiled. “That was exciting.” She looked down at the blood-soaked shirt, the shaft of an arrow sticking out of her abdomen. “Now, tell me again, what was the point of ruining the shirt?”
Sean Ryan smiled and slowly lowered himself to one knee to examine the damage. The arrow had, as expected, penetrated the fake-blood packet he had taped under Mira’s shirt. The arrowhead had lodged in the body armor he had given her that morning, before Mitch had dressed him in the TechnoCop uniform.
“He wanted you mortally wounded,” Sean explained as he pulled out the arrow. “A wound, not instant death, and that limits his target area. He wanted to prove you were an elf, and we convince him you had been hit, but you’re feeling much better now. Maybe once we tell him he’s right, he’ll either go away, or be useful.” He paused a moment to notice a large puddle on the floor. He looked at it, and then to the urinals it came from. He waved his hand at them, and the sensors on the urinals triggered off, flushing all of them.
He frowned. “I guess the sensors are too sensitive.”
“Indeed.” She opened one of the stalls and wrinkled her nose.
He grinned. “Hold on while I slip out of this contraption. It’s a nice toy, but I can’t go walking around with holes in it attracting attention.”
He stepped out of the suit, and Mira blinked at the vividly garish blue-and-red suit he wore underneath the TechnoCop costume. “What is that?”
“Spider-Man.” He stepped to the stall, pointed his hand at the bowl, and raised his palm outwards, ninety degrees from his forearm. A light mist emerged from underneath the wrist, and after a one-second burst, he stepped back. “Be sure to wipe the ammonia down, but aside from that, it’s clean… I’ll explain later.”
Mira closed the stall door while Sean stood guard, holding the gun behind his back as he called Mitchell Scholl to collect the TechnoCop suit.
As he hung up, Eric walked inside, checking to make sure he wasn’t followed. “Mr. Ryan, I need to talk with you.”
Sean nodded. “What can I help you with, Mr.…Kerikov, isn’t is?”
Eric shook his head. “That’s the name I gave you, but it’s not mine.”
Sean cocked his head and adjusted his grip on the gun. “What do you mean?”
“First things first, how is she?”
“She’s fine. We’ll announce shortly. What were you saying?”
“I know why you’re here, and I can help. You see, my real name is Eric Gresham; I’m an ex-CIA assassin, now a mercenary by profession. I also happen to be a fan of Mira Nikolic’s, and between the bottle throwing yesterday and right now, I guess you need help.”
Sean relaxed and let out a breath he’d been holding. Damn LARPers. One of the spy Role Playing Games, I’m certain. “Thank you, Mr…Gresham? But I’m afraid I can’t. On one hand, assuming you’re perfectly sane—”
“The Company shrinks would disagree with you on that.”
“—and you’re telling me the truth, you expect me to take the help of an assassin?”
Eric waved it off. “I’m not an assassin, per se, though I do wetwork occasionally. I prefer 'mercenary', but I think since my people are starting to unionize, they’ll change the name to something like ‘professional problem remover.’ Sounds less…”
“Mercenary?” Sean suggested.
Eric nodded slightly, and smiled just as little. “Just so. And, frankly, it’ll be difficult for us to unionize—we tend to be lone wolves, and don’t exactly frequent each other’s company. True, there have been a few conventions, but since 9/11, the work’s come in nonstop, everyone’s busy, and there’s the possibility a Predator drone will drop out of the sky and vaporize us with a Hellfire missile.”
“But you see my point?”
“Indeed. I wish you luck, and I hope to be there when the shooting starts. Ciao.”
After Eric departed, Mira opened the stall door and looked at Sean. “Did I hear correctly that I have a murderer as a fan?”
Sean laughed it away. “Nah. Odds are he’s just a fan who gets too much into these live action spy games. Nothing to worry about.”
“Sean, by my count, there are at least four men driving a black SUV who mean to kill me, two Irishmen who would like you to help them destroy Ulster, an Irish Interpol officer who fights better than you do, and a man who thinks I am some sort of fairy princess, all of whom are in the same place at the same time, and you believe his story is impossible?”
He shook his head. “Because this con can’t get much stranger,” he answered as he slipped the Spider-Man mask over his face.
She did not comment. “Why do you have ammonia sprays on your wrists?”
He smiled. “It’s a somewhat legal weapon—pepper spray isn’t appreciated everywhere. When I move my hand back, as you saw before, it comes out in a wide spray for close combat. I also have a second trigger at the base of my palm I can reach with the tip of a finger—it shoots out a twenty- to thirty-foot stream. If this gets anywhere near a human face, it won’t be pretty. Now let’s satisfy your fans you’re all right.”
As he led Mira outside, he thought back to the bottle thrower from yesterday, and how he was as tall as Sean. Zorro had to be the same height. Guess who’s out to get her.
Sean Ryan stood behind Mira as she continued to sign autographs and chat with the fans.
“Did you hear about that panel on whether or not we’ll have flying cars?”
“Yeah, of course, but we know the answer—no flying cars. But self-driving cars!”
“Yes, but who’s at fault when it crashes? You as the owner? The maker? The programmer who the pilot program was subcontracted to?”
Sean sighed. All strange.
Matthew Kovach, briefly taking a break, said, “Where are you heading next? I’d like to help. I know people who could’ve taken Zorro out in three seconds.”
“So do I—and I’m one of them.”
***
Andre Dragov blinked with disbelief. Mira Nikolic was alive! He had watched the actress from his customary position—still a little sore from the smack Sean Ryan had given him when he was in the Purple Dinosaur costume last night—but he had never seen something like that before. She should have been dead! His great plans had come so close to falling apart, he could barely believe his eyes.
He raised a cell phone to his lips and said, “Disobey last order. The hunt goes on.”
***
At eleven, Sean and Mira—and, incidentally, Matthew Kovach with his redhead—made their way to what Mira had thought to be a curious little panel entitled “With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility: Ethics and Comic Books,” which was, in part, an ad for a new book entitled Graphic Novels and Philosophy. It turned out to be an odd little lecture on philosophy using comic book characters as examples of ethical viewpoints.
“Superman, with his Boy Scout philosophy of duty, is, of course, a representation of Immanuel Kant’s philosophy. He’s easy. Daredevil, however, is a little complicated; since he is Catholic, it is easy to see how he could be a Thomist—someone who follows the philosophy of St. Thomas Aquinas. On the one hand, as a lawyer, he has respect for the law as a ‘putting into order, by reason, by one having the authority, for the common good, which in turn seeks to perfect the balance between the rights of the individual of society’. As a superhero, he serves justice in cases where the law fails.
“Now as for the Hulk, he is a perfect example of modifiers of responsibility, and has the excuses of both ignorance and extreme anger to diminish his capacity to make ethical choices. He doesn’t exactly know what he does is wrong, when he does wrong, and his anger clouds what little judgment he might have. It doesn’t excuse his behavior—”
“Excuse me,” a member of the audience said. He stood, wearing a Mad Hatter costume. “But I must disagree with you. In reality, Hulk’s an existentialist, always living in the moment, and always authentic, getting in touch with his inner caveman.”
The philosopher looked at the Mad Hatter with curiosity. “Interesting viewpoint. Might I ask, sir, what do you do for a living?”