by Declan Finn
With a roar, Dennis Boyle rushed his friend's murderer; Dragov heard him coming and merely backhanded him with a metal fist, leaving an indelible impression. Boyle staggered backwards, still standing for a few seconds before falling to the stage. Dragov drew his sword and swung from right to left with enough force to cut Boyle’s head off and send it through the window like an errant baseball.
His blade came up against something metal.
Dragov looked to his immediate right, and down, only three steps away from the stage was a pale young woman in black, holding a katana, who had also been attracted by the gunfire. Her sparkling green eyes held his for a moment before she pulled the sword back and swung for his knees, just above the iron boots. He leapt back and off the stage, keeping the platform between himself and the newcomer. She took one step onto the stage and then leapt off, clearing it in a jump. He swung, meaning to catch her as she landed. But she had already guarded against that, jerked the sword up and slashed for where his neck and shoulders were acquainted with each other. He parried in time.
Maureen McGrail, who had come in only moments after the Irishmen, stepped back and smiled. “Do you need your Miranda rights read to you, or will you be all right if I just give you a warning now?”
***
Sean waited for Dragan Vasnic to make the next move, and he did, thrusting at him to make him act. Ryan caught the blade with the hilt of his sword and picked up his opponent’s blade in a circular parry, lifting it over his head, and down the other side. With a sharp rotation of his wrist, Ryan released the blade and chopped down on Vasnic’s wrist. While Vasnic was able to keep his hand because of the iron glove, the sword clattered away from him and behind Ryan.
Sean, knowing that the best of armor didn’t fully protect someone, slashed upward into Vasnic’s belly, whirled around him and slashed again into his kidney. Dragan staggered as though he’d been hit by a club, but there was no blood forthcoming; in fact, Sean could see through the cuts into what was beneath the cloak…
“…A network of steel beams inside the suit to absorb the pressure of anything you lift, and possibly hit…beams go up and down the suit, out into the arms, and give support to the limbs. Should you grab someone and haul them off the ground, for example, the weight of the person you’re lifting will be distributed throughout the network of metal. …I even have a holster in the leg, and it can hold an old Stechkin ASP with twenty shots and a fully automatic function!”
Ryan then realized why his opponent was so strong—he had been wearing the TechnoCop uniform modified by Mitchell Scholl.
***
The final Wraith to wake up, Alexi Beider, managed to pull himself off the floor, still in shock that Mira Nikolic had manage to put three bullets into his Kevlar chest plate. He looked about him to the odd sounds; the last thing he had expected to awake to was a medieval battleground. He reached for his handgun, found it missing, and drew his sword, turning first to Captain Dragov’s problematic woman with the green eyes and the katana, who seemed to know how to use it.
He marched toward them with all the vigor in the world; it was, however, poorly directed, as he soon discovered when he was hit with a two-hundred-pound weight. The weight rolled off him to its feet at the same time he did. The man who had hit him had cold blue eyes and graying hair. He took one look at the sword and smiled.
“Nice toothpick,” Eric Gresham said. “Got a problem—you’re apparently blind.”
Gresham spun, leapt, and rolled to his feet, raising one of the fallen Stechkins. He fired on fully automatic into the hood of the Wraith, shredding the fabric. He kept firing, expecting the giant to fall down so he could save his favorite actress, perhaps even get an autographed photo for his wife, then go home and relax.
By the time the hammer fell on an empty chamber, Gresham realized his fatal error as the hood fell open, revealing empty air. Beider had shrugged and ducked his head, leaving the bullets to narrowly miss his skull, and destroy an empty hood.
Eric sighed, as if to say “I’ll live with it” and charged, expecting to use the gun as a temporary block against the sword while he could get close.
Using the sword hilt as a hammer, Beider knocked the pistol aside, then slammed it across Gresham’s forehead, tossing him into the wall face-first.
Beider thrust with all his might.
***
With each successive blow, Mikhail Drazen drove Mira Nikolic a little further back. She fell to one knee; he carried the weapon as though it were a club, and hefted it as though it weighed less than a fly swatter, casually moving after her as she tried—and failed—to scramble to her feet. He wasn’t in much of a rush; his comrades were still alive, and he wanted the camera to capture her crawling before the end.
He backed her up against the stage and moved to strike once more, kicking her onto her stomach. The staff slid from her hands, leaving one end under her chest. Drazen grinned broadly, and lifted the sword up and over his head.
The next moment, the sword went flying as an arrow flew through it.
Galadren, Middle Earth’s Most Wanted Elven Assassin, glared at the cloaked figure, dropped his bow and quiver, drawing both of his blades—he figured that a creature like this would require a sharp thrust of solid steel through its belly.
Drazen blinked, wondering exactly what he had gotten himself into.
Galadren leapt up against the wall and pushed off it, heading at Mikhail like a missile. Drazen struck out with a right hook, but Galadren spun in midair, kicking for Drazen’s chest. The blow sent Drazen sliding across the floor on his back.
The Serb looked up at Galadren. “What are you?”
“I am your doom.”
Drazen rolled backwards, onto his feet, and hit a transmitter to his men in the other room—they needed backup. They had severely underestimated how many Ryan had at his command.
Galadren cocked his head, as though he heard the radio transmission, and smiled. “I disabled your men in the other room already; that’s why I have so few arrows left.”
Drazen roared and charged. Galadren impossibly leapt up, over his head, in a forward flip better than any Olympic gymnast. He thrust both feet straight down into the man’s head, dropping him.
***
Andre Dragov was having serious problems with Marueen McGrail, for he was soon starting to fall back under the windmill attack of the Interpol agent, her sword blurring in front of him, occasionally making contact with his sword, the rest of the time merely making him guess where she’d next strike. She went high, slashing at his face; he moved to parry, but hit only empty air. It had been a feint. She had instead chosen to attack his underbelly, quickly moving with the sword as though it were a Ginsu knife. She had shredded his cloak, and she stepped back as he fell, disemboweled.
***
Alexi Beider thrust into the wall, having not noticed that Gresham had already sidestepped and whirled around. With the sword deeply imbedded in the brickface, Gresham kicked out one of Beider’s legs and thrust a fist into his throat.
***
Vasnic was on Sean again, this time, grabbing both of Ryan’s wrists without much of an effort.
“I should have done this sooner,” Dragan said.
“And I should have killed you at first sight; we all make mistakes.” Ryan jerked Vasnic toward him, rammed his head against the other’s forehead, only to be greeted with the metal clang of the TechnoCop helmet.
Dragan lifted Sean off the floor and hurled him across the room. Ryan’s weapons fell out of his hands. He growled as he stood, turning to face the oncoming Vasnic.
Vasnic led with a right haymaker; Ryan leaned back, letting the fist pass his face, and kicked out, into Vasnic's chest. Vasnic staggered, then pushed forward, into Ryan.
Ryan rolled to his feet, leapt back and pivoted, pressing the button on the hilt, releasing the blade from the handle. The sword sped toward Vasnic, point at his heart.
The Serb didn’t move, but swept his armored arm down like a p
endulum, sending the deadly weapon into the floor at his side.
Ryan growled and hurled the useless sword grip at Vasnic, pulling out his fighting pike. He thought about all of the bad things that could happen should the Serb grab one end, and separate the two pieces, turning it into two collapsible “kendo” sticks.
Dragan laughed. “What do you intend to do, beat me to death?”
He shrugged. “I just want to introduce you to an American phenomenon called ‘clubbing’. My version, anyway.”
The assassin charged, and Ryan swept both sticks at once, as a pincher formation. Vasnic held up both arms, and let the gauntlets take the brunt of the blows, just as Ryan expected. Sean kicked one foot into Dragan’s chest, using it as a push-off point for a back flip, sending the other foot into the Serb’s chin. Vasnic’s neck should have broken, but his head snapped back into the wall, which prevented his skull from snapping back all the way, and the helmet prevented any harm to his brain.
“You kick like Nikolic,” he muttered.
“You mean a girl, don’t you? You don’t know some of the women I do.”
With an unholy snarl, Dragan charged. Sean thrust with both weapons, aiming for Dragan’s throat.
The assassin’s arms came up, the baton landing harmlessly on the metal gantlets, and he grabbed it with both hands, sending it into Sean’s damaged side. The back of his eyes became a dazzlingly array of color as he stumbled back. The Serb came back to his feet and stepped over to Ryan, slamming his armored skull into Ryan’s. Before Sean could pass out, Dragan grabbed the stuntman by the collar and the belt buckle, and lifted him off the ground.
“And now you see how you’ve underestimated the power of the Serbian people!”
“Don’t you mean…the dark side?”
With an animal roar, Vasnic slammed him against the wall, the back of his head colliding with the brick. “Will you surrender?”
Ryan’s eyes fluttered. “We only…just…started.”
Sean Aloysius Patricus Ryan fell to the ground.
And stayed there.
Maureen McGrail and Eric Gresham looked at the scene as they recovered their breath. The assassin and the cop looked at one another before charging as one. Dragan turned on them, distinctly unimpressed as McGrail’s sword came down from overhead at an angle designed to remove his need for shampoo. He raised his arm, letting the blade land on his gauntlet before he slammed his mailed fist into her solar plexus. She fell to the ground, paralyzed and trying to breathe again.
Gresham was only a second behind her, taking a running start from the stage, and leapt off, hoping to at least grab Vasnic’s arms and grapple with him from there. Dragan stepped into the jump. Eric would have overshot him had not the murderer driven both fists into his body, one at the solar plexus, the other at the groin. He grabbed Gresham, and spun, sending him into the air, slamming against the stage. Vasnic leapt across the room in several quick bounds, moving for Mira's’s unconscious form.
A blonde ball of energy bounced out from nowhere, slamming into Vasnic, sending them both sliding across the floor. They scrambled to their feet at the same time.
“What the hell are you?”
Galadren cocked his head. “Why do people keep asking me that?”
“It’s the ears.”
“Oh.”
Vasnic moved on Galadren, confident in his abilities, having dealt with everyone else. Galadren slashed with the blade in his right hand, hoping to shred through the cloak before going for rest of him. Vasnic swept down with his left arm, using the metal gantlet to deflect the sharp edge, and launched a right cross. Galadren knocked it aside with the left blade as though it was an extension of his arm, and cut down with his right-hand weapon to attack his throat. Vasnic leaned back, letting the edge fall on his protected chest, then kicked into Galadren’s stomach. The elf fell back, and considered beating him to death with the blades as though they were clubs.
The assassin smiled a moment as he stood fast, turned to the bleachers, and ran up them, grabbing his sword along the way. Galadren smiled and leapt under Dragan as he leapt at him, swinging his blade where the elf’s head had been. Galadren bounced up and thrust at Vasnic’s back, but Dragan pivoted to parry. He ran the blade directly up to the hilt, skipped over the guard, and slammed his sword against Vasnic’s armored thumb. He didn’t manage to sever the finger, but loosened Dragan’s grip on the weapon, slamming down again to send the sword flying.
Vasnic cocked his head, wheeled around the elf, heading onto the bleachers again. Galadren leapt ahead of him, blades ready. Dragan’s eyes narrowed. “You are most annoying,” he said in Serbian.
The elf bowed his head. “Thank you,” he answered.
With a quick back flip, Dragan landed on the floor next to his sword, and immediately brought it down, cutting a board off of the bleachers about as long as he was. Galadren leapt at Dragan, and he was literally knocked out of the air by the board. Dragan brought the board down again, breaking it over the elf’s back, driving him to the ground. Then the elf stopped moving.
Dragan was a little breathless, but decided he had no time to waste. He was already far too behind schedule. He stepped around the bodies and unconscious forms, and grabbing his sword off the ground, trying one more time.
“This is what Croats are worth!” he bellowed for the camera, trying to increase the intensity of the drama like a ham actor. “This is what they can do! Nothing! Four of them could not defeat me. Three of them Americans—weaklings! They cannot stand up to Serbs, for we are people of iron! We shall prevail over all of them! Croats! Americans! Catholics! Muslims! All shall be defeated and driven from our country.”
Dragan Vasnic turned to Mira, raising the staff high for a killing strike. “May this blow be the signal for a new day.”
He struck.
***
Outside, one lone man heard the destruction, and looked down to his hands. He held what looked like a phaser, but this one was different. He had seen it work. He had seen it destroy furniture and slice into stone.
He turned the phaser on its side, looking at the power selection. He flipped the switch to “S” and pulled the trigger.
He blinked. Nothing happened. S is for safety?
He shrugged, looking at the other two levels. This must be an Enterprise model phaser, not the Kirk generation. Only safety, stun, and kill. But what could “D” and “F” mean? “D” is for dead, so that’s kill, and “F” is for…first level? Makes as much sense as putting the “hi” setting on a fan as the first choice.
He set his weapon for “F” and charged inside the building.
***
Dragan Vasnic turned to Mira, raising the staff high for a killing strike. “May this blow be the signal for a new day.”
He struck…
At least, he tried to strike, and tried again, but the weapon would not move.
The pike was wrenched from his grasp, and he whirled, only to have it whipped across his face before it was hurled to the ground. His attacker was a broken man, bleeding from the nose and a gash on his temple; he couldn’t stand straight through the pain of broken ribs, and his eyes were wide open and unblinking, as though deranged.
“This…American…Catholic…boy…” Sean Ryan growled between exceedingly short breaths, “isn’t done with you yet. “Don’t you know…how much it takes…to put down…someone like me? I’ve taken…more hits…to the head…than Rocky Balboa.”
Vasnic smiled confidently, even though he was a little worried. He would get a chance to finish this creature off in the most embarrassing way imaginable. “How nice of you to join us again, Mr. Ryan. And yes, I know exactly how much it takes to put down a man of your caliber…or should I say millimeter?”
Ryan grinned. “I guess…you’re not as tough as you thought… But you know why I came back, mein herr? I refuse to be killed by Euro-trash like you.”
“And how do you intend to beat me? You couldn’t beat me at your prime. I’m bulletproof,
and any blow will simply break your fist. So?”
Ryan smiled. “I mean to outsmart you.”
He laughed. “How?”
“Because I can count.”
The eyes of Dragan Vasnic opened wide as Ryan lifted a Stechkin and fired three rounds into his chest. Though one of the bullets bounced off the steel underwear, and his bulletproof vest preventing the bullets from breaking the skin, the impact of nine-millimeter rounds drove him backwards, and he tripped over Mira’s unconscious form, landing on his back. He crawled away from Ryan, and Sean was content to let him get some distance. As Dragan slowly scrambled to his feet—enduring the pain with remarkable ability that impressed even Sean—Ryan raised the gun again.
“One”—bullet hit Dragan’s chest, pinning him to the wall—“gun was blown out of your hand and into pieces. The second”—another—“emptied by my friend Eric. A third lost in the opening salvos of Mira’s entrance. A fourth knocked out of your friend’s hand by my knife.” He fired into Vasnic’s arm; the bullet bounced off a steel beam inside his cloak, and the impact dislocated his shoulder. “Guess where number four went.”
Vasnic opened his mouth, and Ryan silenced him by firing the Stechkin at full automatic, emptying the remaining fourteen bullets. The kick knocked Sean backwards, and he landed on his broken ribs. Pain flared up his body, and he blacked out.
The next moment of consciousness, he was on the floor, a light glaring down on him. He rolled onto his undamaged side and tottered to his feet, slowly; he hadn’t felt this bad since his final Lord of the Rings stunt, where he had landed incorrectly—as in, not on the net—and only saved his spine because he managed to twist in midair, letting his side take the brunt of the blow.