It Was Only on Stun!

by Declan Finn

  Matthew Kovach stepped out from behind Goran, sliding out of his hiding place with ease, and treated her teasing as though it were a serious question of dogma. “Communion is only required once a year at Easter; all other times, just showing up counts in his favor. Besides, I think God can acknowledge that Ryan has work.”

  “Matthew,” Mira laughed, “I was joking.”

  He grinned. “Your point?”

  Sean half-grimaced, half-grinned. He still didn’t know what to make of this man. He gazed down at the book in his hands. “You read Andrew Greeley? I thought only anti-Catholic Catholics read him.”

  Kovach waved it away with a laugh. “Andrew’s an odd duck, but he’s all right in the long run. He’s just universal in his politics and American in his Catholicism. He thinks the church should be democratized as if it were a solution in and of itself; he doesn’t seem to acknowledge the lowest Italian peasant is probably more educated in Catholic theology than some of the lay theologians he works with, and more honest about it, too. And in Greeley's politics, Americans can’t do anything right unless the universe—or the UN—agrees. If you can suffer that, his books are enjoyable, primarily because they’re about relationships, somewhat realistic love stories. Greeley’s also from Chicago, so he hates New York, like most people before 9/11. But Chicago doesn’t like being called the Second City.”

  Sean rolled his eyes. Did this kid ever shut up? “Thanks for the book review, Junior. Mira, we’ve got to get you to the convention, feed you, then move to your lecture. There’s the C-Con awards, and then you have another Q&A period.”

  Kovach smiled and moved around them, nodding at the Europeans as he headed toward Moira. His eyes flickered across the area in front of the church, catching the eye of one man barely shorter than he was, with gray hair and cold blue eyes, and he swore he knew him. Eric Gresham moved along, and Matthew merely sighed.

  “What’s wrong, lad?”

  The author sighed again, worrying about Tweedle O’Dumb and Tweedle McDumber. “You know what? I’ve had enough. I just want you to go away and leave everybody alone, because you are seriously going to have your asses kicked.”

  The brown-haired one—Boyle—laughed. “And who’s going to do it, you?”

  “Bozo, you claim to be good Irish Catholics who go to church. You think McGrail isn’t here waiting to send you both to the hospital before shipping you home on a stretcher? Hell, my Moira could reduce you to piles of quivering jelly in a few strokes.”

  O’Riordan leered.“Stroking what?”

  Kovach’s eyes turned dark…

  Boyle grabbed Francis and jerked him back hard before dragging him away in a run, as though something had scared them.

  “What got into them?” Sean Ryan said over his shoulder.

  “The fear of eternal damnation.”

  Sean gave Kovach a sidelong glance. “And I thought LA people were flaky.”

  Kovach glared at him. “You shouldn’t talk, pal. I’ve got your number.”

  Sean scoffed. “How?”

  “You really haven’t read my books. I’ve checked out security since high school. Hell, I saw the Crown Jewels at the Tower of London, and took notes on their security. And you, friend, were posted on the C-Con website as head of security; all I needed was a Google search for details on your greatest hits.”

  Sean felt pieces snapping together. The cartel could have found him that easily? They could have been tracking him for God knows how long. He’d have to ask the people in charge of the website how quickly they had posted his name.

  “Hey, look at it this way,” Kovach said, intruding on his train track of thought. “At least you don’t pull security at the X-rated films: a Lord of the G-Strings trilogy, Barry Potter and the Orgy of the Penis, 24: Real time sex, and the less said about ‘nunsploitation’ films, the better.”

  Seam cocked his head. “And you know this how?”

  “I read the entire program. I guess none of the Tolkein fans have heard about it; otherwise, the filmmakers wouldn’t make it off campus alive… Don’t give me that look, what do you think the black leather goods are for? Matrix fans? Trust me, Sean, leather isn’t for Indiana Jones anymore. Hell, your coat is a tame example.”

  Sigh. “Whatever happened to simple capes?”

  “By the way: naughty, naughty, bringing weapons to church.”

  His eyes looked over the weapons, and Ryan indented a brow. “Something?”

  “No…fond memories.”

  “You get stranger the more I know you.”

  “Welcome to my life…and it is in the fiction section.”

  ***

  “It was only on stun! It was only on stun!” the Klingon yelled as he ran after his poor victim, an Asian woman in her late thirties.

  Sean sighed and ran to intercept the woman, heading straight for her at a forty-five degree angle, reaching for his fighting pike. He bowed down, letting the woman run into his shoulder, and he straightened, putting her into a fireman’s hold. With a flick of his wrist, he opened his weapon and held it in front of him like a lance.

  The Klingon saw the weapon and slowed to a stop. Sean tapped the pike against the linebacker’s chest. “Don’t scare the tourists, damn you. It was perfectly clear to everyone the campus is holding a tour, so back off. The next time I see you with anything even resembling a gun, I’m going to kick you so far off the campus, you’ll wake up in the Bronx, am I understood?”

  The Klingon growled. He looked into Sean’s eyes and stepped back. “Yes sir.”

  Sean nodded. “Good boy. Run along now.”

  The Klingon skulked away as Sean lowered the poor guest to the grass. “My apologies, miss. Next time, though, stay with the tour group.”

  She glared at him. “Tell the administrators they’re not going to have any of my children come here. In fact, I’m going to tell my husband to stop giving alumni donations to Rockycreek, and that’s a few thousand right there.”

  Sean merely smiled. “Ma’am, I’m only a mercenary, so tell someone who cares.”

  The 5’6” self-described mercenary walked back to the student union building. He smiled at Mira, who he had briefly left on the steps. “Sorry, I’m not a fan of weapons, even if they are only on stun…unless I’m the one who has it. Shall we?”

  Knowing Corbin Eielson had made bail, Goran was kind enough not to bring the baby for the awards ceremony. Ryan took a seat in the middle of the front row, next to Mira. They were bracketed by fellow actors, and the row behind them was filled with other actors and actresses who would be winning “new kids on the block” awards.

  The first person up to the lectern was “Mr. Perky” from the Friday night costume contest. Ryan groaned at the thought of him as the primary presenter of the “C-Con awards” whatever they could be given out for: being a good sport with the screw ups by C-Con personnel? Willing to come back next year?

  Mr. Perky smiled at the audience so brightly his teeth could have been used for landing lights. “I’ve been assigned to introduce our host for this morning’s awards. These are awards given out to our guests and the people who’ve worked the convention. I want you to meet the Dean of 20th century Science fiction. Before Star Wars, before Trek, before Stan Lee was born. I want you to meet the hundred-year-old science fiction writer. He fades in and out of what he calls ‘alternate universes,’ makes Harlan Ellison look like Mr. Rodgers, and David Peters look like a Franciscan monk. The Founding Putz of 20th century Science Fiction. Corbin Eielson!”

  Ryan blinked. Eielson couldn’t possibly be that old, and he certainly wasn’t flaky—mean spirited and evil, but not flaky. And who the hell was this Ellison person? Mr. Perky must have taken his nasty pills this morning… Or he’s met Eielson, which explains it. Way to go, Mr. Perky!

  Eielson took the stage and glared out at the audience, his gaze resting on Ryan and Nikolic. What the hell is his problem? Cranky after a night in jail, are we?

  “Today we’re here to identify our real enemies
: each other! This is the time in which we gather around and see who it is we have to beat next time around—who we have to claw and bite through to the top.”

  Ryan furrowed his brow and shared a confused glance with Mira as they pondered the same question: Did they not give him his medication?

  “You can probably guess I haven’t been chosen for anything, because I’ve been reduced to host. I worked on the original Trek, I worked on the Twilight Zone when it meant something! But they’ve decided not to give me a damn thing, just like the rest of my life, so you can relax, I can’t give any speeches.”

  Too late.

  “I mean, hell, in fact, the only reason I’m dragged to this fucking little convention every year is I’ve nothing better to do…and it’s close by.”

  The next fifteen minutes were spent with Eielson cursing his life, career, those in the immediate vicinity, and everyone he had ever met. There was simply no way out without putting a bullet in his head—when someone tried to leave, Eielson spotted him and reduced him to tears in minutes, embarrassing him in front of four hundred people.

  Hmm, if I let him live, call him to the stand, let him talk, the jury will let me off in no time. Sean leaned over to Mira and whispered, “How could you have not missed his presence after the series ended?”

  “My aim was not very good back then.”

  “Now,” Eielson snapped, “to business. The first award goes to the guest who’s put up with the most crap during this convention. It, of course, goes to Mira, for having to deal with the most annoying man on the planet, her fucking bodyguard.”

  “Let’s not forget she also shared a panel with you, jackass.”

  The audience laughed. Sean blinked. “Mira, did I say that out loud?”

  Mira smiled and nodded.

  “Hey,” Eielson growled, “why don’t you put on something more appropriate until you look like Banderas—maybe a Freddy Kruger mask?”

  “This way I can pull the hat down so I don’t have to see the toad in front of me.”

  Eielson’s face turned an interesting shade of puce. “And you wonder why people want to kill you, you prick. Mira, come get this stupid award before I throw it at him.”

  Charming. “How soon will it be before this wife divorces him?” he whispered.

  “She’s already filed,” Mira whispered as she stood. Ryan rose with her, standing directly in front of the podium, scanning the audience as she walked onstage.

  Sean’s thought wandered. Above all of the annoyances thus far, I think I’m more concerned with the antabuse, the mugging, and the poisoned dart. It’s someone who can keep him- or herself as far away from the action as possible while causing havoc. Not to mention a reckless disregard for human life. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like that dart—even the cartel discriminates enough to aim for one target or another. The Third Party—him/them/her/whatever—seems willing to kill large amounts of people for no gain whatever… It’s going to be a lot worse if this is someone I don’t know—which means they’ll be impossible to catch.

  After she received her award, the two of them immediately left, hoping to make it to her question-and-answer session on time—an impossibility if Eielson kept talking.

  They walked through the doors of the sports center, scanning the area carefully. From the track below, sounds of music floated through the exit doors. He remembered that it was something called “filk” music—parody songs—getting its name from a misprint of folk music. The name filk had stuck. As he walked in, he heard the tune of “Strangers in the Night,” with lyrics of “Danger in the Bite /Exchanging juices /Won’dring when we might / Open the sluices…/ Strangers who may bite…”

  Sean tried not to laugh.

  Mira’s new session was in the gym just off the central registration area. The tables were still in the square formation—each side of table linked one concrete pillar to another, giving the appearance of a fort. Only three people were still behind the table, and he knew them all by sight.

  He felt his phone vibrate, and reached around his handguns to grab it.

  “Sean, it’s time to come home now.”

  Sean narrowed his eyes. “Mom, what are you talking about?”

  Elizabeth Tierney smiled inside her FBI building. “Ever hear of the Red Berets?”

  “That anything like the Pink Berets?”

  “More like the inverse of the Green Berets, and I don’t mean the color scheme. Special Forces are peace keepers, Red Berets were, well, not…The Red Berets, a.k.a. Frenki’s Boys, were Milosovic’s elite extermination unit; so brutal, mere word of their approach drove people over the border. Rumor has it they even scared Milosovic’s number two man. The leader was Franko Simatovic. Frenki—or as we would say, ‘Frankie’—started as an intel officer; he assembled his gang from ex-cops, convicts, and volunteers. They were psycho killers specialized in killing noncombatants. Once, five of them took over a hundred Croats and Muslims and stabbed, shot, or beat them to death.”

  Ryan wondered how long it could take. A shiver went down his back. “And…?”

  “Today, Special Forces finished clearing through the remains of a bomb site. Apparently, someone opened a letter bomb returned for insufficient postage, and one of the dumkopfs opened it. The house was leveled. What was left of the package had the address label for Mira's home; our boys calculate it would have arrived a few days after the conference—probably a backup in case they failed in New York.”

  He was tempted to laugh out loud, but didn’t want to disturb those around him. “You mean they never even got on a plane!”

  “Looks it. They’re sifting through the bodies now, and they’ve got sixteen heads so far—skulls really, the only way to mark the death toll without playing mix-and-match with body parts. However, I don’t know how many more we can expect to find—”

  He had a bad feeling about this. “Damn! Four men in a black SUV!”

  There was a pause. “No, they wouldn’t find an SUV in the house.”

  “No! There were four guys doing recon in LA. With twenty men, they could afford four to tail her!”

  To Mira: “You know anyone in Frenki’s boys?”

  Horrified, “I know one or—”

  ***

  Obi-Wan had spotted Nikolic and Ryan shortly after he moved into the door, but he submitted to the search anyway. His collapsible plastic lightsaber, which he had bought in Disney Florida, was fully extended, held low by his side. He had a full, light-brown beard in the fashion of Ewan MacGregor, and his white gi was only marred by two small phasers hanging from shoulder straps.

  The security guard, a tall reedy black male with silver glasses named Ralph Janson, looked at him and said, “No gun shapes allowed.”

  Obi-Wan held out the weapon. “A gun has a handle at the start, not the center.”

  Janson sighed and let him through, puzzling over why someone from Star Wars would have a phaser from Trek. James Bond also strode in, wearing a full black combat suit, and also two phasers hanging from shoulder straps.

  “Hey, friend, what’s the deal?”

  Bond looked at him with a glare of contempt that made him look more like Ricardo Montalban than Pierce Brosnan. “You won’t let me bring in anything that looks like an Uzi, so I brought these instead, so I don’t look like a total idiot.”

  Ralph relented and waved him through after searching him one more time. However, Janson drew the last straw when the next man came in, dressed like a Ranger from G5, but sporting two phasers anyway. “Put the phasers down, I’m gonna—”

  ***

  The scream drew Ryan’s attention, just in time to see Obi-Wan raising his lightsaber to thrust into his back. Ryan sidestepped and grabbed the plastic shell of the lightsaber. As the shell collapsed, it revealed a long, stiletto-like weapon that would have definitely gone through Ryan and Mira.

  “Call you back, Mom,” Ryan said into the phone, and lashed out with a fist, twisting the lightsaber away. He launched an elbow into his face, an
d was about to follow it up with a spin kick meant to break his neck, when something odd happened.

  The Ranger head-butted Ralph Janson, dropping the security guard to the floor. He whirled on Sean and opened up with his twin phasers, each of which was a shell over a Mini-Uzi, a submachine gun more than capable of turning Ryan to kibble.

  The bodyguard twisted Obi-Wan so he was between Sean and the Ranger. The bullets slammed against Obi-Wan's body armor as Sean shoved Mira behind a pillar. As Obi-Wan dropped under the impact of bullets, Sean reached into his shoulder holsters, drawing both Stechkins. He fired around at full automatic, making the Ranger dive for cover across the floor behind one of the stone pillars. He fired cautiously, trying not to hit any of the civilians, who believed the entire show was just a matter of special effects—after all, why else would that idiot dressed like James Bond merely be standing there like a target?

  He blinked and saw James Bond standing there, aiming both phasers at him like a professional taking his time with a target too dumb to take cover. There was absolutely no way for Bond to miss.

  Ralph Janson, reedy security guard, slammed into Bond at full run, letting his shots go wild. Bond turned and cuffed Janson on the side of the head with his weapon, bringing him to the ground.

  Ryan opened fire on Bond, who leapt away to join the Ranger in taking over. However, Obi-Wan opened up from the floor, not taking his time like Bond had. Ryan wheeled behind a pillar and fired his last bullets before switching guns.

  Outside, two white guys looked at each other. “Hey, you gonna help?”

  “Fuck no, man, I ain’t stupid. My last shootout was arranged by my publicist; he figured in my line of work, I needed one.”

  “And you call yourself a rapper!”

  A third person glared at them a moment before running into the sports center.

  ***

  “I think it’s time to part company, Mira,” Sean screamed over the bullets. “I’ll cover you, you run for the zocalo.”

  “Yes, but what about you?” Mira asked.