It Was Only on Stun!

by Declan Finn

  Sean smiled. “You must be kidding me.”

  Luan raised his weapon high and charged.

  Then an arrow knocked the sword out of his hand.

  And a rock hit him in the side of the head.

  And Sean slashed him across the side.

  And he fell to the ground.

  Ryan looked up. On his right, he saw Galadren, Middle Earth’s Most Wanted, reaching for another arrow. On his left, he saw a hot pink thong being wielded by Inna.

  He shook his head. “Wow, this is odd.”

  The shooting stopped. He grabbed his gun, checked the remaining bullets, and looked up. “Where is everybody?”

  Francis O’Riordan and Dennis Boyle stepped out of the woods. “It’s amazing how these people killed each other.”

  Sean sighed. “You two, check the dead for ammo, we’ll need it.” He opened his cell. “Mom, I need an HRT to Rockycreek now. The Serbs are alive; they’ve a hostage, and odds are, they’re about to have another—some idiot is going to try a rescue…yes, that idiot is me… Think of it as an incentive to get hostage rescue out here. I gotta go.”

  Ryan still could hardly believe he’d been so badly set up. He held the gun before him. The moment a branch moved funny, he’d fill it with more metal than the armory of a Lord of the Rings prop department.

  Sean ran to the bushes. “Mira, Inna, you two okay?”

  Mira looked fine, her gun out, in both hands, as he had taught her, her fighting pike collapsed and under her arm. “We’ll live,” Mira replied. “What about—”

  “I’m going back for Goran. I don’t know how many of them there are, and I don’t want you to hang around long enough to find out.” Sean turned toward his oncoming guests—Boyle, O’Riordan, Gresham, and McGrail. Ryan jammed his fingers into Boyle and O’Riordan’s chests. “Any ammo?”

  “They emptied their last bullets into each other,” Boyle answered.

  “Darn. Well, Frank, Dennis, you two are going to be a joy and escort Mira and Inna to the hideout of their choice. You will remain there until I or the cops reach you.”

  O’Riordan pushed his glasses up his nose. “Why?”

  “Because you want to be on my good side. Because you want me in ‘the cause.’ Because you’re her fan. Because you’ve been such a joy. Because if you fail and anything happens to them, I’ll send you home in pieces.” He whirled. “Eric, Maureen, if you two could be so kind, recheck the area. I hate being bushwhacked.”

  McGrail glared at the IRA men. “And them?”

  “They’ll behave—won’t you, boys?—we’ll work out something. Come on, this has to be more fun than chasing these two. Hell, Boyle would be a great killer, only he has this thing about killing civilians. Remember he shot up an entire street and hit nobody? McCullough told me Boyle couldn’t fire around the civilians, so he shot over everyone’s heads, missing his target. At least he has character.”

  Maureen sighed. “We’ll talk.” She jerked her thumb at Gresham. “And him?”

  “He’s fine.” Sean pulled out fists of peace bonds. “Tie up anyone I missed. I dislike repeat customers.” He holstered his gun, handed the sword grip to Maureen and the staff to Eric. “Unless you find a gun, you’ll need these.”

  Eric frowned. “You don’t trust me with sharp objects?”

  “I’ve seen McGrail swing a katana. Take the staff.”

  Mira looked at Ryan, confused. “What are you going to do?”

  He faced her. “End this. I'm going to save Goran. Losing one client this year is my quota.”

  She looked at the distribution of weaponry. “Save him with what?”

  Sean grinned. “A gun, throwing knife and sword.” He chuckled, grabbed the sword, and pressed a button at the hilt, breaking the grip away from the blade. “They’ll think it’s fake, they won’t know about the knife, and the gun… I can do without.”

  Eric and McGrail looked at each other, wondering what spaceship he’d come off.

  Sean glared at the Irishmen. “What are you waiting for? Get going!”

  Francis and Dennis moved toward the women. Inna merely tapped the muzzle of her gun against O’Riordan’s chest, and Mira brushed Boyle off with her staff. Mira also took her AMT Backup by the barrel and offered it to Sean.

  Sean smiled and placed his hand over her gun, shaking his head gently. “A .38 won’t make the difference. And if I’m wrong, you’ll need it. Edward and Athena can use the assist.” He held her cheek, then kissed her on the other. “Don’t worry. I’ve done this before.”

  “But you need to take something.”

  “I have God on my side.” He smiled. “This, my dear woman, is a day of reckoning.”

  He smiled with more certainty than he felt, turned to say something to Inna, and merely met her eyes. He’d said everything he’d ever have to say a long time ago, with a dozen situations like this. There was nothing new he could add in the next moment he couldn’t say better taking the next lifetime.

  Instead, he turned to the empty woods. “Middle Earth’s Most Wanted, you’re an assassin for hire?”

  Galadren stepped out from behind a tree and nodded. “Aye, my kinsman. But why?”

  “Consider yourself hired.”

  The elf smiled. “For you, my brother, I will work for free.”

  Chapter 13: The Grapes of Wraith

  The basketball court held four men wearing gray hooded cloaks, differing only in height—5’6”, six-foot, and the other two were 6’7”. Each of them were armed with a sword on a belt, and Sean expected to see a bolt cutter somewhere—the plastic peace bonds that had been put on the weapons had been piled in a corner next to the door. Each had armored boots and gauntlets, and Sean was certain they had more than just that.

  The strangest thing was Ryan knew them.

  “Big, pale and bloodless; might as well be vampires” was how Mitch had described the perps of an attempted break-in on Tuesday. And they were much like the ones that had attacked him during the vampire’s ball.

  One of them held a Stechkin on Goran. Two of them were on top of the stage used for guests to stand and answer questions. The seats were still in place, the video camera on the tripod was on, ready for a wide view of the entire court. Goran was on his knees, legs crossed at the ankles, hands clasping the back of his head, and eyes closed in prayer.

  To the giant’s left was his brother in height, if not in reality— How many 6’7” giants could there be in Yugoslavia, anyway? It’s called Serbia-Montenego now… Whatever.

  Off to Sean’s far right, a six-foot Wraith stood next to the stage; on the other side was the one Sean’s height. All he could think of was the first moment in the hotel lobby, when a six-foot Turian tried to stab a fake dagger into Mira’s heart—a test of security. As the Turian said, he was told to do it by someone “Your height, bloodless face, blue eyes…” There had also been one matching that exact description hurling bottles at Mira, bellowing about Trek Triumphant; not to mention the man in the zocalo room, swinging an axe and having far too much fun.

  Sean stood there in a Ranger costume, assessing the situation, equipped with only a sword on his belt, his telescoping batons, one pistol, and a throwing knife in his badge.

  “Where is the whore?” demanded…one of them. It was a deep, commanding voice, impossible to locate; it seemed to fill the room without aid of the sound system.

  “Oh, Mira? I didn’t let her come. I wanted to give you this last chance to surrender before I kill you all in a variety of gruesome ways. Release Goran and we’ll talk.”

  After the laughter died down, the Voice said, “Tell us where she is, or he’ll die.”

  Ryan chuckled. “And lose your bait? You kill him, she has no reason to come—she won’t for me.”

  The giant holding the Stechkin cocked his head. “We think otherwise.”

  “No,” he drew out the word as though chiding a recalcitrant baby. “Now you’re confusing her with her character on G5.”

  The grip tightened on
the Stechkin. “Give up your weapons.”

  He shrugged. “Why not?” He slowly reached behind him and drew the Firestar in its SHP shell. Ryan grimaced, ejected the clip, and tossed it away. “I guess I’m perfect for Frenki’s Boys now I’m disarmed,” he lied. He reached for the sword at his hip, and pressed a button on the hilt, disengaging the handle from the blade. He held it up for them to see before putting it back, clicking the sword back together.

  The Voice chuckled. “Let’s begin by killing him one piece at a time.”

  The gunman lowered his pistol to Goran’s knee.

  “Dragov!” a voice yelled.

  Everyone looked to the entrance as Mira Nikolic strode in, elegant in her character's robes, hands at her sides, collapsed fighting staff clasped in one fist; the other hand lay pressed behind her thigh. She stopped at Sean’s side, paying his shocked look no attention.

  “You wanted me, did you not?” she said in her native dialect.

  The gunman began to raise the weapon, ready to shoot Goran first, then Mira—both in the stomach, so both of them could watch the other die. It was simple, but efficient; it had worked a hundred times in a dozen cities scattered across Yugoslavia.

  Goran twisted off the stage, catching the gunman off guard. He readjusted his aim as Mira Nikolic, exiled pacifist Catholic, dropped her pike, raised her AMT Backup with both hands and fired three rounds into the middle of his chest. The Stechkin fired as he fell, winging Goran.

  By the time Goran hit the floor, Mira had redirected her aim to the gunman’s brother and fired three more times, catching him almost entirely off guard, which had been her plan. They would brace for any surprise from the security specialist, but they would relax for the actress.

  The 5’6” assassin had already drawn his own handgun by the time Mira fired her sixth shot. The actress turned toward him, dropping to one knee, and fired her last bullet.

  Ryan had learned that the FBI teaches its Special Agents how to fire with both hands for the simple reason that, in a gunfight, the hand is the most likely part of the body to get hit, because it’s closest to the bullets. So, Sean was not surprised her final bullet struck the assailant’s handgun just above the trigger, destroying the weapon.

  As the final projectile found its mark, the six-foot Wraith drew his own pistol. Sean reached for his green Ranger badge and ejected the throwing knife into his palm, hurling it into the gun, which sent it into the wall.

  “Now we have fun!” Sean bellowed. “Get out of here!”

  Ryan pondered if he would have the time to reassemble his Firestar before either of the two standing enemies could get to him. However, the 5’6” killer had already drawn his sword and started his run toward him. This man, one Dragan Vasnic, clinked as he approached. Ryan sighed, and grabbed his own weapon.

  ***

  Mira Nikolic reclaimed her pike and opened it. She took it in both hands and moved on the assassin Mikhail Drazen. Drazen, noting the distance between him and his weapon, and the rapidly-closing distance of the actress, smiled and grabbed his own sword, bought from a weapons boutique. These Americans, so helpful.

  He lifted the large, wood-cutting sword, meant to slice people in half, and swung it like a baseball bat, intending to draw a line of horizontal symmetry from hip to hip with the point. Mira parried the sword, and was bounced off the wall by the force of the blow. The sword rose again, and she thrust for his midsection with the left end of the pike. He swept the blade down like a pendulum; however, he failed to realize that a pike had two ends—the force of his downward stroke added to the force of her counterattack, lashing it across his face.

  Drazen staggered backwards, feeling foolish and fortunate at the same time. This actress had struck him, but at least he was still alive.

  And he wouldn’t be fooled again.

  ***

  Dragan Vasnic moved on the ex-stuntman, striking with blows as fast as his opponent. Ryan parried, then slashed diagonally at Vasnic’s shoulder. Vasnic pivoted 360-degrees, first meeting the other’s blade, letting the rest of his body spin; his raised foot connected with the hilt of Ryan’s weapon, sending it flying. The sword having departed, Vasnic brought about his sword arm to decapitate the annoying bodyguard. Sean instead stepped into the swing, catching the wrist with his hand, throwing his full weight into a palm thrust into where the killer’s chin should have been. He knew that, beneath the thick cloth, of the hood, he had struck a person, but the blow didn’t actually stop Vasnic from sweeping a leg across both of Sean’s, bringing him to the floor.

  Vasnic hacked down. Ryan rolled away, his cape sliced, part of the floor cut out. The Serb sidestepped, getting between Ryan and the sword, which had landed in the midst of the chairs. Sean rolled to his feet and took a step back, pondering the next attack. Dragan, though, wasted no time and slashed once more, this time at the man’s chest. Ryan leapt backwards, set his teeth together, and moved towards the wall, keeping Vasnic just out of striking distance. The assassin moved calmly, patiently.

  Ryan darted for the wall. One yard away, he veered slightly left, kicked with his left foot at the wall, took one step up and pushed off with his right foot, sending himself back at the Wraith. Ryan turned his head to aim and whipped his foot forward, hitting Vasnic’s sword hand. When his right foot landed, his left foot was still spinning, and, like a good dancer, Ryan whipped his head around to aim, landing a solid left roundhouse kick into the assassin’s chest, a move that should have shattered his breastbone. The hooded one fell to the floor and slid across the highly-varnished wood. Sean would have picked up his fallen weapon and ran toward Mira’s rescue, had there not been one slight problem—

  Ryan heard clinking when he'd kicked his adversary.

  They obviously bought the swords here at the Con; they also sell chain mail here.

  That didn’t worry him so much as his next thought—if they had real metallic armor, could they have had body armor?

  He ran after his adversary’s fallen sword and turned, ready to come to Mira’s aid.

  Vasnic was already feet away, thrusting Ryan’s sword at his chest.

  ***

  The man Mira had accurately described as Dragov—or, more specifically, Captain Andre Dragov of the Red Berets—who had held a gun to her husband’s head, felt for the presence of the Stechkin in his hand. After a brief scan of his surroundings, he gave up and reached into the cloak of the comrade next to him, grabbing his Stechkin.

  Dragov leapt onto the stage, scanning the lay of the battlefield. Mira Nikolic was busy with Mikhail; fine, they would be finished soon enough. But Dragan seemed to be having trouble, and he was the man in the Red Berets for close-quarters weaponry. Dragan thrust at the bodyguard’s belly, and the bodyguard swept the blade away and twirled like a Star Wars character and hacked at Visnic’s right side. Dragan parried and hacked down at the Irishman. Twice, three times, and seemed like he was getting nowhere.

  Dragov put the Stechkin on full automatic fire, leveled it at Ryan...

  And fired.

  ***

  Mikhail Drazen slashed from overhead at Mira, who intercepted the strike with the center of the staff. She knocked the sword to her right, and spun, slipping the right side of her staff behind Drazen’s knee and pulled up, dropping him to the floor. She stabbed down, but Drazen managed to roll away from the blow to his feet, despite the clumsiness of the armored gantlets and boots—his military athleticism made up for it. He leapt forward again, hacking downward once more, expecting her to try the exact same move, but he’d block any attempt to trip him this time.

  Again, she caught the sword in the center of the ceramic staff, this time using it as a lever from which she struck at his head. She only glanced his skull, but it knocked him to one side long enough to raise her staff high, like a club. She sent it down in what she knew to be a killing strike for his neck, meaning to snap it like a DVD. Before she did, however, she was distracted by a brief burst of gunfire, allowing Drazen the time to raise his sword
and block her.

  Not only did Drazen’s sword save his neck, the force sent Mira staggering backwards. She automatically repositioned her pike for a steady grip once more. Mikhail brought himself to his full height and began his attack again, using the maximum length of the sword to keep her weapon at a goodly reach. He thrust, she parried, and he hacked against her, his strength and body mass more than twice hers, making up for whatever skill she had. All he had to do was play to his strengths, and she’d be dead in a moment.

  ***

  Dragan Vasnic thrust for Sean’s belly, and he swept the blade away, pivoted and hacked at Vasnic’s right. Dragan parried and started slashing down at him from overhead several times, meaning to cut in him half. Despite being of the same height and build, Ryan felt as though his attacker was stronger, an impression that grew with each blow.

  Gunfire echoed through the basketball court, briefly distracting Vasnic as he was ready to strike down once more, and Ryan took advantage of the moment to leap back, away from the berserk swordsman—and he was a swordsman, fully trained, he could tell.

  But by whom? Sean, like Dragan, spared a glance at the source of the bullets before joining the battle once more.

  ***

  While everyone had been busy fighting and having their brains beat about, the sound of Nikolic’s AMT Backup had attracted two individuals in particular, who both knew the sound of gunfire, and could tell it apart from that of firecrackers, or even Mitchell Scholl’s squibs. And, as Andre Dragov, terror of Kosovo, leveled his weapon on Sean Ryan, Dennis Boyle and Francis O’Riordan both body slammed the 6’7” Captain, making him release a stream of bullets from the fully-automatic handgun, just before it flew off into its own little corner.

  Andre looked down at the two smaller men and swept them both to separate parts of the stage. Boyle, on his left, swung up to punch him; Dragov blocked it with his left hand, struck down with his palm, then slammed Boyle’s chin with his elbow. He turned to his right, delivering a sharp hammer blow to O’Riordan’s face, breaking his horn-rimmed glasses. He stepped forward, driving stiff, metal fingers into O’Riordan’s solar plexus. He grabbed both the front and back of O’Riordan’s belt, lifted him off the stage, and sent him hurling back with extreme force. Francis slammed against the edge of the stage with his back; his spine was shattered only a little below the neck.