It Was Only on Stun!

by Declan Finn

  “You know all of those moves you see in The Matrix? I don’t need the special effects to do them.”

  “Wow, you mean you can fly?” she said in all innocence.

  He grinned broadly. “Get going, wiseass, before I shoot you myself.”

  “Don’t you need a hand?”

  He grumbled and handed her a Stechkin, set on semi-automatic. “Fire one shot—aim through the tablecloth on the counter.”

  She fired, and the kick sent her tiny frame sliding back a few inches on the floor.

  Sean confiscated the weapon and put it on full automatic. “Now I’ll cover you.”

  He thought a moment, figuring Obi-Wan was still by the doors, either recovering or dead, and the other two would still be directly across from him, behind the tablecloth of the side boutiques. He bounded to his feet, firing one weapon at the table across from him and in the direction of the doors. Unfortunately, Bond and the Ranger had circled left to outflank him. The Ranger stood at the side perpendicular to Ryan, and Bond was at the vertex between the Ranger and where Sean was firing. As they fired, Ryan swiveled his weapons at them, firing without remorse. Unfortunately, Mira was running away from Sean and the two attackers while running into Obi-Wan’s line of fire.

  The Star Wars character raised his weapons high, aiming directly at Nikolic’s back.

  The doors exploded inward as a large blond male roared through, head ducked and shoulders braced for impact. Obi-Wan turned to intercept the raging target and was rammed, head on. The impact lifted him off the ground and he was stopped as his back met the corner of a table. Obi-Wan finally whipped the gun across the blond’s face, dropping him to the ground, a long gash leaking blood from his temple.

  Author Matthew Kovach looked up, glaring at him with dark eyes. Maybe rushing in wasn’t such a great idea.

  Obi-Wan turned to fire after Mira Nikolic, but the actress had vanished. With a feral snarl, he turned on Kovach, both guns leveled at him.

  Kovach swept the legs out from under the man in the Jedi costume, rolling to his feet and hurling himself behind the column Ryan was using for cover, nearly crashing into him. Kovach looked on the floor as the bodyguard reached for fresh weaponry. There were four empty Stechkins on the floor.

  “Nice,” Kovach said over the automatic fire. “The weaponry isn’t bad either.”

  “Thanks.” Ryan held two more Stechkins, listening for a lull in the shooting.

  “Check out Obi-Wan, see if he’s still there.”

  Ryan sighed and peeked around the column. The Jedi had ducked out of sight. He pulled back. “That’s something. The Ranger was almost at my left flank before I opened fire. I’d like to protect one backside at a time…” He looked at Kovach’s latest shirt: With Great Power… Comes Heat Vision, with the last two words in flaming letters.

  Ryan smiled. “So, was that supposed to be you, angry?”

  A shake of the head. “I’m clingy when I get mad—teeth-buried-in-the-throat sort of thing…give me your hat and a gun, I’ll distract them when I run down the stairs.”

  The dust from the concrete pillar filled the air, making it slightly harder for him to breathe. He sighed and tossed Matthew the hat and two Glock 18s.

  “Don’t push the select fire too far. I modified it to fire on full auto. Just be careful, I’ll cover you if they’re fast enough to change direction.”

  Kovach nodded. The filk singers from below began to wail out something to the tune of “Holding Out for a Hero.”

  Matthew Kovach smiled, flipped both select-fire switches to full automatic, and bolted across the floor toward the entrance to the gym instead of taking the more direct route through the exit. He swiveled the guns in the general direction of Bond and the Ranger as he ran. They paused too long and ducked for cover, while Obi-Wan, directly across from Ryan, merely changed target.

  Ryan wanted to take advantage of the temporary lull in combat—from Bond and the Ranger—and popped his head over the table, sighting Obi-Wan down the pair of Stechkins. He fired, emptying forty bullets into the pseudo-Jedi’s torso. The continuous impact sent the bastard reeling; he fell backwards over a table.

  The Ranger couldn’t hear Ryan’s attack over the sound of Kovach’s automatic fire, but Bond managed to spy his science-fiction companion as he landed on the tiles. He stood as Sean Ryan reached for the last two Stechkins in his belt. Ryan saw his world become very bleak as James Bond drew down on him.

  The next staccato of bullets he heard he expected to be his last….

  Wait, they’re using super-sonic ammunition, I shouldn’t be able to hear the bullet that took my head off…

  Taking advantage of his current pulse, he watched Bond knocked to the floor. He ducked before the Ranger could pop back up again, and he turned, noting Kate McGauren, gun held high.

  “Get back!” Sean called, expecting the Ranger to be the true trouble—he popped up, but the false Jedi instead rose to his feet, taking aim at the cop.

  He couldn’t miss.

  ***

  Galadren studied the olive-skinned creature curiously. He was not constructing anything, nor putting anything onto the building, yet he wore the traditional yellow helmet of the worker caste. He had spotted this man across campus, along with dozens of others, all weekend, on every building on campus, acting as if they were fixing buildings that needed no repair. I wonder what Devilry this might be.

  He looked at it a little more, and with his Elf eyes he could see the man was putting a block of something yellowish on the building’s roof. It was something he knew, he knew it, he just couldn’t remember. For some reason, words came to mind.

  Composite explosive…C4…Semtex… But none of that made any sense to him. Those words meant nothing in Elvish.

  Then he heard explosions.

  ***

  Moira McShane had been a cop’s daughter, and had spent the greater part of her childhood either in school or in martial arts. When she was six, she had an orange belt, because she flowed through katas with muscle memory that put the sensei to shame. However, the progress was not to last—her training wandered to the realm of silat, a manner of fighting that made the ugliest karate sparring seem as tame as two children roughing each other up on the playground. Then there was Krav Maga. She had recently graduated from college with a Bachelor’s in Karate, earning a black belt with her diploma at the University of Bridgeport, CT.

  Given her previous experience with real bullets, Moira lightly padded out of the washroom and into the middle of a gunfight. Matthew was in the middle of it, as always. And he was already bloody. She had taught him plenty of maneuvers, but sometimes he didn’t have the discipline. Other days, she wished he had less. She watched him get away, and hung back as long as she knew there was a chance to screw things up.

  But, as Obi-Wan stood, about to kill McGauren, she stepped forward, moving behind the gunman with more stealth than a cat. She hooked the back portion of his shoulder strap with her thumb, caught the front portion with her other fingers, and pulled back, throttling him with his own strap. She yanked back, throwing him into the wall face-first. She slammed a knee into his kidney, and rammed his face into the wall again.

  She pulled back and looked for any oncoming attack, and she found it in the form of James Bond, on the floor, weakly raising his gun to the level of her chest.

  Moira pushed off the floor, not relinquishing her hold on Obi-Wan’s straps. She landed on her side with the gunman—she fell on her shoulder, his head cracked against the floor—holding him in front of her as a shield. As the bullets came, she rolled away, and dove into the hallway leading off from the sports center.

  ***

  As Moira disposed of the her attacker, the Ranger fired off one Mini-Uzi at a time, spraying weapon’s fire to keep the opposition down. Ryan cursed lightly and slid down the tables to the front end, keeping the entire registration area between him and the Ranger. He waved to the police officer and slid his last two Stechkins to her.

  Wh
ere are all those blasted people when I need them? Sean thought angrily. McGrail, Gresham, Boyle, the Elf, they all claim they want to help, and aren’t anywhere to be found.

  Ryan growled and pulled out his remaining Glock 18s from the small of his back. Sure, I can do this. Just give me a half an hour and Stephen J. Cannell.

  He pulled two silencers from his leather coat and quickly screwed them onto the barrels. He fired six shots in rapid succession through the tablecloth in front of him, hoping to hit the idiot in question. The Ranger fired back in reply.

  James Bond grunted, rose, and blinked. He had a clear shot at Sean Ryan. He raised his weapon…and why was there an arrow in his arm?

  The pain caught up to him, and he screamed, dropping the Uzi. He looked to his left, and at the doorway stood a tall blond, lean fellow with a bow and arrow.

  Sean blinked. So did everyone else. Damn, who knew I’d be happy to see him!

  Galadren grabbed for another arrow, and “Bond” tossed himself behind a table. The Elf changed his target and fired for the Ranger, who was in mid-duck when the arrow flew.

  Sean stood and slowly backed up towards Galadren, weapons ready. “Hi.”

  The elf held his arrow high. “Hello. Are these the Orcs known as Serbs?”

  “No, the Mumakill known as Cartels. You circle right, I’ll go left?”

  The Ranger ducked behind a table and was about to—

  “You’re dead!” someone screamed at him.

  The Ranger spun, his weapon poised.

  A Klingon held a phaser at the Ranger’s head, and stared at the his gun. “That is an out of period weapon, sir!”

  The Ranger cocked an eyebrow and sighed before turning back. He chuckled mildly as Trek fans walked through the lobby firing phasers at both sides. Ryan cursed as they flooded the field of fire.

  Thank you for being human shields. The Ranger calculated it would take most of his bullets to clear the freaks from his path. He could wait.

  Bond slid under the table he had been hiding behind, waiting for the elf to come within sight.

  Galadren leapt atop Bond’s table at the edge, deliberately tipping it over. Bond was covered by a tablecloth and didn’t even see Middle Earth’s Most Wanted Elven Assassin bring the bow down on his head. He dropped behind the table to make certain the Ranger didn’t blow him away. Galadren ran at a crouch, hoping for a good position.

  The Ranger found he had a great shot at the blond intruder and took aim.

  Suddenly, there was a loud explosion, and the Ranger looked beyond the elf, finding a rocket heading straight for him.

  ***

  Sean blinked and looked at the door, spotting a tall woman with auburn hair. He briefly remembered her name being Tracy…and she was wrangler on the guests from NASA… Do I remember a rocket launch scheduled into the program?

  The Ranger ducked as the rocket barely missed him, and took out the soda machine behind him. He growled and stood, ready to mow them all down.

  He found the great wave of Trekkies had turned on the Ranger, solidly blocking his point of view. The cartel shooter glared and raised his gun. “Enough!”

  He felt something jam into the back of his head. “I couldn’t agree more.” Matthew Kovach pressed his gun harder into his skull. “Drop it.”

  The Ranger looked out at the field of Trekkies, Galadren with an arrow aimed for his skull, and Sean Ryan with his handguns ready, as well as the police officer.

  There were also the sound of running footsteps. Doors were kicked in, and Edward Murphy's deep voice resounded, “Sorry we're late. We parked too far away, apparently.”

  Kovach pressed the gun firmly into his skull. “You know, if the Mad Russian found you in his character’s costume, you’d be castrated and passed around prison like a party favor. I guarantee this doesn’t have a stun setting unless I pistol-whip you.”

  The Ranger dropped his guns. Kovach looked him over, spying a split lip and a gadget watch. “I’m guessing if we tested the cobra head of a certain staff, we’ll find your blood on it?”

  The Ranger merely glared. Sean smiled as Kate McGauren slapped a set of handcuffs on him, reading his Miranda rights.

  The convention hall broke out into applause as Matthew Kovach worked his way to Sean. He looked at Kovach, then at the Glock. “That have any bullets left?”

  Kovach shrugged. “I dunno, do I look like Dirty Harry to you?”

  A laugh. “Where did all of these Trekkies come from?”

  “Sean,” Kovach admonished, “you underestimate the spine and initiative of the common science fiction reader. I rallied some of these folks to distract the fuckers. We’re crazy, we’re not stupid.”

  “True,” said a voice behind him.

  Sean jumped and whirled. “Damn it, don’t do that!” He took several deep breaths. “Thanks again, Galadren.”

  He smiled and bowed. “An honor…query, kinsman, do you know of a thing in elf speak known as ‘Semtex’?” Galadren explained what he had seen before coming to Sean’s aid.

  Ryan nodded. “One moment.” He made a quick phone call. When he looked up, Galadren was gone.

  Ryan sat back on the edge of an overturned table, quickly pondering the attack. If the Serbs had blown themselves to kingdom come, and his name was on the C-Con website, how would it work? I’m called in; the Cartel find me on the site. They test security by drugging the biggest sucker they could find and send them at the banquet. Alvarez has been busy selling, and he dies for getting sidetracked. They kill him in the zocalo because no one would find the body ‘til morning. They try to dispose of Mira and land in the pool…then with Zorro; and one tries me in the zocalo last night; finally, a full assault. Which means…

  “Hand me his keys a moment?”

  Sean Ryan slowly moved through the parking lot, scanning the cars around him. He raised the remote control door opener and touched the button.

  A car beeped, a brand new black SUV with old, stolen, license plates. He would lay money there would be dirt and other trace elements native to California. God, I’m good.

  Chapter 11: The Killers

  Sean A.P. Ryan and Mira Nikolic walked into the sports center’s gymnasium. Behind them, the Long Island Crime Scene Unit slowly dissected the convention lobby, and he didn’t want to be the one cataloging the shells. Some loud MC announced Mira’s arrival, and the audience stood, turned to face them, and gave them both a round of applause that wouldn’t stop until Mira was on stage and shushed them.

  “We have already been held up longer than if Corbin Eielson made my introduction,” she smiled. She got the laugh—everyone there knew what she meant.

  The day isn’t over yet, Sean thought. There’s still our “third party,” and maybe even a fourth party. If the bottle thrower from Friday isn’t a Serb, was he just some lone Trek nut or something more vicious? Should I expect anything more from him/them?

  “What is your favorite practical joke on the set of G5?”

  “Next?” Mira said without pause.

  “If you can’t answer, how about you discuss some of them?”

  Mira rolled her eyes. “If you wish. We have had two kinds of practical jokes on the set, the majority of which are harmless, lighthearted engines of humor. However, there have also been…less pleasant antics. One time, my colleague Gerard was meant to come down through a hatch, and he instead dropped a manikin onto the set. Someone, however, once scattered a handful of…pellets for a shotgun?”

  “Birdshot?” Ryan suggested.

  She nodded. “Just so. This might not have been a great difficulty had not that hallway been where the cast was to have a running fight scene. Susan twisted an ankle and broke her arm. We never discovered who that was, but even our most frequent…prankster?…Gerard, was horrified. So, no, it was not a pleasant phenomenon.”

  Ryan blinked at the ferocity of her tone and glanced toward her. His eyes flickered from a look of well-hidden anguish on her face to her right hand on the microphone, to her free left
hand pressing against her abdomen.

  His eyebrow rose slightly, and for the first time wondered why she was in her forties and only had one child as young as Marko. He knew the average reproduction rate for Europe, and in some cases, the planet, was steady dropping to below 1.0, but still, having a child a little younger would have been a good idea. The risks increased ever so much as one aged.

  Lethal practical jokers. Sounds familiar. Birdshot is so small even cats can’t stand on it without losing their footing. Anyone who’d scatter it aimlessly around a set would be guilty of negligent homicide, if not felony murder. Sounds very familiar.

  He glanced at the back of the gymnasium. Kate McGauren stood, hand on hip, looking directly at him. He sighed and slipped out of sight, moving towards her.

  “Can I help you with something?” he asked, curious.

  “So far, it looks like the gadget watch from your staked drug dealer was filled with information about the hotel and convention layout, your sister’s location, schedules, and the entire plan for the hit, which is not something you want on a body you just offed,” McGauren explained.

  Ryan smiled. “That’s good. Everything under control—”

  “Ka pla!”

  Sean looked around the police officer, spotting oddball Ester Guzman, of the hundred and one fan fiction sites, standing next to the yellow crime scene tape as CSU moved around her, speaking to a pygmy, a Hispanic male, Morrie, and three Asians, one of which was bald.

  “Excuse me a moment.” He stepped over and smiled. “Hi, fellas. You know each other?”

  Ester looked up and began to speak in Klingonese. She stopped herself. “Of course. Morrie’s one of my Vamprotica authors. You know the others as well, I believe.”

  Ryan thought a moment. “You told me, didn’t you? Two of the PRC, drug dealer’s kid, a Lama and a pygmy”—walked into a bar—“all of whom write for you. What’s with the Klingon?”

  Morrie smiled, bearing sharp vampire teeth. “It’s the only language we have in common. It’s Latin for SF geeks; but I’m working on my BA in Elvish, so we’ll speak Tolkien next year.”