It Was Only on Stun!

by Declan Finn

  What the hell do they have against SUVs? Those limos eat more gas than tanks. Not to mention their Hummers and private jets …Careful, Claudia, you’re starting to sound like a Republican. You’re already white, straight and an actor; don’t make yourself an even smaller minority.

  She smiled, remembering one person's try for Congress; a G5 actor had incurred the indignation of all Hollywood by running as a Republican. He had said he was the best choice for election because he had his own action figure. He had almost won.

  Claudia’s cell phone went off, and her electric blue eyes flared with annoyance. She grabbed it and looked at the number. She honestly didn’t recognize it, and was about to hang up.

  “Wrong number?” asked a male she had been eying all evening, a young, healthy Latino of solid stature and firmer muscles.

  Claudia smiled. “I’m not sure. Let me check.” She answered.

  Sean Ryan's voice snapped, “Claudia, where are you at this moment?”

  She snarled and surprised those around her. “What the hell—”

  “Claudia, where are you!” her brother urged.

  “I’m at a fundraiser to ban SUVs, now—”

  “OK, I know exactly where you are. Stay away from the front wall, the glass isn’t bulletproof—they live in LA and don’t think bullets are an issue, go figure. Now you may be safe, but I don’t want to take chances; I want you out of there right now. Have someone else get your car—then get in and drive to the nearest police station.”

  “I will do no such thing,” Claudia said as she walked away from the front windows.

  “Do you remember I worked for the star of Escobar?”

  “Philippe Nero,” she answered. “You blew up his house.”

  There was some brief muttering. “No, I…never mind. The thing is, I thought I had buried the problem under a few tons of house, but they aren’t dead…not all of them. We found a body this morning, a street dealer, essentially a lower-level thug, which is why they had no problem bumping him off. I have no idea how many are still alive, and these people tend to use weaponry that makes Saturday night in Tikrit look timid. They also butcher whole families. Dad’s in Europe on-set, and Mom sleeps in the JEdgar building. You tell me who’s the most available target.”

  The young Latino smiled. “Is that your brother on the phone?”

  Claudia’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”

  The young man straightened, readjusted his suit jacket and slicked back his hair, becoming his character—Enrique Escobar. “Philippe Nero. Your brother saved my life once. You have his eyes.”

  No, but I’ll have them in a jar soon enough. “Oh crap, Sean, Nero’s here, at the party. He’s standing right in front of me. We’re so screwed.”

  “Listen, Claudia, don’t panic, just tell him what I said, and get out of there.”

  Then the power went out. Claudia cursed, then asked, “Does anyone here have a gun?”

  The entire party stopped and turned toward the sound of her voice. The hostess, speaking in a thick Greek accent, said, “Darling, this is Hollywood, of course not. How could you ask such a thing?”

  Sean’s voice came from the phone. “Claudia, what happened?”

  “The power just went out.” She sighed and pulled the phone away. “Everyone away from the windows, I’ve been informed the DEA is here to make a bust.”

  Half of the building ran to the bathrooms, and the sounds of flushing filled the air. She would have laughed, and probably would later, if there was a later. At least they were away from the probable points of entry. Now all she needed was a weapon.

  Philippe Nero waved a hand in front of her face to catch her attention. He was holding a .22 semiautomatic. “I’ve carried this since I met your brother. What's wrong?”

  “Sean didn’t take Dorothy’s advice on how to properly drop a house on people, so you’ll be meeting some old friends soon…a .22? Why not a BB-gun?”

  “Aren’t those illegal?”

  She sighed. “I’ve gotta go, Sean, I’ll talk to you soon.” She hung up and worked the action on the handgun. “Okay, little brother, let’s see how well you taught me.”

  ***

  Her leg span was the only reason Detective McGauren managed to keep up with Sean Ryan as he ran from the vampire’s ball to the hotel transport.

  Sean ran past the great lawn to see the shuttle from the campus to the hotel leaving the sports center. With an added burst of speed, McGauren managed to run past him and in front of the moving shuttle, flashing her gun at the driver.

  As they got on board, McGauren asked, “How do you know it’s your old cartel? What did I miss?”

  Sean grabbed the shuttle driver and pulled him out of the seat, then took over the steering wheel, and gunned the engine. “The drugs Juan Alvarez, our corpse, are the same brand sold by the guys I pulled a Wizard of Oz on. My guess is they iced Juan for indulging in business while they were here on a personal matter—killing me and anyone around me, including Mira. They want Mira because they want to beat me. There were a dozen of them back then. There were six men I dropped a house on, one has a stake through his heart. I would only send two to LA to kill my sister and Nero—”

  “Which leaves three here.”

  ***

  Claudia Ryan hugged the wall. The most obvious entry point was the windows that made the front of the house. The killers expected this to be a surprise attack, and would probably go for the direct method, shoot out the windows or crash through the doors, then empty a gun into Nero and Claudia before they had a chance to fight back.

  On the other side of the windows stood Philippe Nero, holding a poker from the roaring fireplace (the air conditioning had been put at full power to make the fire comfortable), so the attackers weren’t going to have too easy a time over it.

  Most of the party was clueless in more ways than one—they had a nice little political fantasy world in which everyone could be reasoned with if only we could listen more; their beliefs were so fervent they would listen to the bullets being fired at them, if given the chance.

  Upstairs, a window was broken with bullets from a silenced Uzi sub-machine gun. The SMG reduced the plate glass to ground glass in a matter of seconds, the first gunman lowering himself from the roof into the room.

  Downstairs, Claudia heard the breaking glass. She groaned, trying to figure out why anyone would want to enter from upstairs, and the answer was immediately apparent—one to spot them in the darkness and coordinate with the second. She quickly dashed over to Nero, avoiding the window.

  She handed him his gun. “I’m going to check upstairs.”

  “You should keep the gun.”

  “The poker won’t work against a gun.”

  “And you will?”

  Claudia smiled, lighting up the darkness. “I have this really cool brother who taught me how to kick ass.”

  Claudia padded her way up the stairs, straining to see shapes in the darkness. From the way Sean described these people, they might have anything from bombs to night-vision goggles. There was basically nothing she could do if they spotted her first, so her main hope was to pray very, very hard.

  Why couldn’t this have been a Republican fundraiser? At least then we could have had Gov. Terminator for backup, or Mayor Dirty Harry. But no, I have to be stuck here with yoga-practicing vegans trying to rope off public beaches and ban gas-guzzling devices for everyone but themselves… I have to be careful, I'm thinking like Sean.

  Claudia reached the top step as the gunman turned the corner. He would have run into her had she not sidestepped, grabbed the stock of his gun, and kicked behind his leg. He twisted, trying to keep his footing, but his momentum kept him going, down the stairs. Claudia held onto the Uzi even as the gun’s strap tightened around his neck. She pulled, dragging him back onto the landing, and she swung the weapon like a golf club, breaking his night-vision goggles and sending him back down the stairs. She dug in her heels and pulled him back once more. The gunman swung blindly,
trying to hit her without his NVGs. He missed by a hare’s breadth no larger than Roger Rabbit, and she slammed the Uzi down behind the ear. The blow threw him against the wall, and she repeated the measure, twice. The final stroke crushed his windpipe, and she kept swinging, hitting anything that came between her and his face until he fell to the ground, permanently still.

  Claudia Ryan panted a little. What if there was another one?

  Downstairs, the window shattered. Gunman Nicholas Diaz had swung inside from the roof after his partner had failed to check in. He was met with gunfire from Philippe Nero’s small handgun. The gunman stumbled a little, his return fire knocked off course by the impacts against his body armor. Each bullet barely missed its mark, kicking plaster dust into Nero’s face. The actor kept firing, his bright muzzle flashes making Diaz blink so much he barely even noticed his gun was empty. The gunman ripped off his NVG’s so he could see enough to reload his weapon. Nero, out of bullets, rushed Diaz with the poker. Diaz grinned and blocked the first overhead swipe with the Uzi; he jabbed the blade of his hand into Nero’s solar plexus. The air emptied from the actor’s lungs, and Nero crumpled like an old Las Vagas casino.

  Diaz smiled and grabbed the poker, raising it over his head, only to be speared by a six-foot blonde who plowed her skull into his stomach. The poker flew out the window into the darkness. She straightened, snapping the back of her skull into his chin. His head went back. He growled and fired a palm. She swept it aside like a boxer’s block, ramming her fingers into his throat. She brought the blade of her hand up and quickly back into his neck, right before sending the point of her shoe into his groin.

  ***

  Kate McGauren leapt out of the shuttle, getting a head start on Sean Ryan. He ran directly to the front desk, asking if the room change had yet been registered on the hotel computer system. No, not yet? Thank you God, now I want you to register the names as Spock T. McCoy Higgins, and Gandalf O’Reilly, thanks.

  Ryan turned from the front desk, about to follow McGauren up the stairs, when he ran into Maureen McGrail, who’d been waiting in the lobby. “How are ya, Sean?”

  “No time, gotta hurry.”

  Maureen shrugged and ran after him. McGauren had already reached and secured the joined hotel rooms. Sean flew in and swept the room, noting Edward Murphy at his knitting—this time a blood-red cape as designed by Mitch—as well as Athena Marcowitz, his African-Cuban-Irish-Jewish-Japanese-Chinese-Puerto Rican associate. He expected them, as well as Inna, Mira’s family, and Mitchell Scholl. However, he didn’t expect Matthew Kovach and the redhead Moira McShane.

  Ryan nodded. “Inna, welcome back from your trip with Eielson. Hi, Mira, Goran, Mitch, Edward, Athena…might I ask what you two are doing here?” This last question he aimed at the writer and his girlfriend.

  Matthew smiled. “We’re right next door. You thought we wouldn’t try to harass one of our favorite actresses?”

  Edward didn’t look up from his knitting. “I wanted to kill him; Mira wouldn’t let me.”

  Mira smiled. “He’s been quite pleasant, no matter what he says.”

  Matthew Kovach playfully frowned. “Darn, you blew my cover.”

  Inna Petraro shook her head. “I invited him.”

  Athena shrugged. “I don’t think Inna trusts us to handle the situation properly…or we’re not entertaining.”

  Inna shook her head. “That is not it. I can watch Edward knit for hours on end, especially when he does one of his camouflage patterns.” She looked at his current project. “I am not thrilled by that one, however.”

  Athena nodded toward Kovach. “He’s at least amusing.”

  “Right,” Scholl declared, “you’d be surprised how much this young man knows about bombs.”

  “Well, he should,” Ryan said. “He blew up his high school.”

  Kovach glared. “Whatever you say, Dorothy. Drop any good houses lately?”

  Ryan sighed. “No, not on anyone. My old cartel buddies are back.”

  Petraro closed her eyes and swore lightly in Russian.

  Edward looked up from his cape. “Damn, that explains some of this crap.”

  Athena nodded. “The dead drug dealer from this morning, the drugged giants, and those idiot shooters last night.”

  Murphy smiled. “Sounds dumb enough to be them.”

  Kovach agreed. “So if your friends from south of the border want Mira dead… I guess they’d like to checkmate you in your own game before the end. I’d bet the body this morning was dealing on campus or during the con, leading his friends to kill him.”

  Moira nodded. “If one of his clients got caught by the state troopers, word would get back to you, you would know you have to hunt them down and kill them again. So they killed the dealer to keep from drawing your attention.”

  Kovach laughed. “Only in doing that, they drew your attention. I’d recommend putting a bodyguard on Nero, in case they go after him, if they haven’t already. You have any relatives need looking after?”

  “Already covered.” Ryan looked to McGauren. “You had to put up with this?”

  “All, the, time. It’s a wonder I didn’t shoot him.”

  Kovach smiled. “She did once, but that comes later in the novels.”

  The Detective looked at him. “No I didn’t.”

  “Don’t worry, you will, I’m just counting it against you now.”

  Ryan sighed. “Anyway, I figure Zorro was one of the cartel, and the bottle-thrower was either a Serb or a seriously deranged Trek fan.”

  “The antabuse in the salad?” the author asked.

  “Caitlin Brown.”

  Inna, Goran, and Mira started yelling at him in Russian, Serbian, and Croatian.

  “What makes you say that?” Maureen McGrail yelled over the rest.

  “Simple logic. She has means: she could have slipped through the kitchen at any time after Eielson yelled immigration was coming. Motive: she represents Susan Christiani, and if you, Mira, were not in the G5 movie, Brown would get a higher take-home of her 15% cut, the antabuse would have kept you down for awhile, the poisoned dart would have definitely killed you, and God only knows what she could have done to you while you were out cold once she pushed over the wizard.”

  Athena raised his hand. “What wizard?”

  “There was a Harry Potter fan wearing blue-and-red robes that resembled Mira’s. We had only just told Caitlin that Mira was going to wear them. She pushed the wizard, suspecting it was Mira, and when she discovered her error, tried to make it look like a robbery. She had ample opportunity to fiddle with the blowgun, and I suspect we won’t be able to find anyone to verify where she was between the panel with Eielson and the display of sci-fi shows, and she could push over the wizard without a problem—she’s darn sure tall enough. And you, Mira, changed in a bathroom maybe fifteen feet away from the display room, and no one else could’ve known what you were wearing.”

  Edward Murphy interlaced his fingers before him. “Indeed. Also, a common mistake in CIA surveillance training is that trackers look at clothing and not the person.”

  McGauren took a deep breath. “It’s a good circumstantial case, but that’s all.”

  McGrail nodded. “Indeed, but it’s enough to make her worth watching.”

  Inna coughed politely. “There is one slight problem with all of this.”

  Sean cocked his head. “That would be?”

  “She wasn’t here Friday night. She couldn’t have tampered with the salads.”

  Ryan wanted to walk over to the window, smash it with his forehead, and jump.

  “The second problem is the mindset,” Kovach added. “You’re talking about someone so cold blooded she or he would poison dozens with antabuse, let the poison dart hit whomever it may, and recklessly slam people around in the middle of a crowded Con. You’re talking about someone who treats human life with an amazing, astonishing amount of contempt. Hitler couldn’t get into the Austrian art school because he couldn’t paint a human being; his vi
sion of a person was so distorted, he couldn’t see people as people. That’s the sort of freak you want. It can’t be an agent, because she’d be incapable of interacting with any human being to the extent an agent would need to.”

  Ryan scoffed. “Thanks, but leave it to pros. You ain’t Jessica Fletcher.”

  The writer scoffed. “Good God, I hope not.”

  Athena looked from Kovach to Sean. “I hate to say it, but the kid’s right, Sean.”

  McGrail leaned forward. “Excuse me, but why do you say that?”

  “I received profiler training in the Secret Service.”

  Ryan shrugged and rose. “In any event, I’m going to the sports center and see if I missed anything.” He checked his watch. “It’s Sunday, and the vendors closed up an hour ago.”

  He turned and started walking when McGauren said, “Shouldn’t you call your sister?”

  Sean stopped. Didn’t look back. “I can’t…not when I don’t know the outcome.”

  There were about five different voices saying, “I’ll come with you.”

  At that, Sean turned to face them. “McGauren, Inna, and Mira all have guns, and Maureen is so good at combat I’d rather not discuss it. I want all of you on hand to draw on these bastards should they try again.”

  McGrail blinked. “How would they know which room?”

  “Narrow it down by who changed rooms when. Not very hard. By the way, your lads can’t be hiding too far away, check who paid in cash—you’d be surprised what aliases people are getting away with here.” He turned and walked out.

  Matthew Kovach smiled. “Is he always this cheerful?”

  Inna lightly laughed. “You should see him at a party.”

  “I was there one time,” Mitch began.

  Moira, identifying the start of a monologue, said to Detective McGauren, “Katie, how exactly did Ryan get onto all of this with the Cartel?”

  McGauren explained the incident at the vampire disco. “Then he came out with cocaine, made a phone call, and ran here to double-check on you, Ms. Nikolic.”

  Mitchell Scholl laughed. “The two big vampires sound familiar, like the two guys who tried to push their way into my house last week.”