by Declan Finn
“Which one was he? One of the wraiths?”
“The short one. The only one we took alive from the last round.”
Mira cocked her head. “There was a survivor? I did not see the police take him.”
Sean’s eyes widened and had to restrain himself from screaming, “Move! Now!”
Sean stood and turned to his left, avoiding any muscles on the right side of his body with the broken ribs. He scanned the cafeteria, looking for anything that could be more out of place than space aliens on Long Island. He might have been paranoid; maybe Mira didn’t notice Dragan being carted away in handcuffs…or on a stretcher.
A glint of metal caught his eye, and for a moment he thought it was just one more weapon strapped to someone’s body. Closer examination made it appear to be more like a robotic Terminator exoskeleton, like the type that was supposed to be under Arnold Schwartzenegger’s skin in the films. This man wore it as an exoskeleton lying over a silver asbestos space suit from Lost In Space.
Mitch’s TechnoCop frame! I’m in a slasher movie—they keep coming freaking back.
Ryan raised a leg and axe-kicked the table’s edge, upending the table. “Down!”
Those who had seen the violence of the day followed his advice and dropped. Unfortunately, those who couldn’t hear them over the noise of the vast and crowded cafeteria merely watched with interest as the man in silver, Dragan Vasnic, drew a small, toy-like gun from his side, a micro Uzi.
Sean was a little slow to realize there was nothing between him and Vasnic but a few scattered civilians who could either be fired over or shot through. He dropped, rolled on his left side, and grabbed an apple from the floor, hurling it at Vasnic like a baseball. Vasnic batted the ball away with the barrel of his weapon as Sean leapt to his right, leading the Serb away from his primary target.
Sean darted through the least-populated tables, stooped, and grabbed a Kirk burger off a plate. “Sorry.” He whirled, crouching, and hurled the burger like a discus.
Vasnic took the burger full in the face. He shook it off, blinking like he’d been hit with a hockey puck. He glared menacingly at Ryan, and leveled his gun at his back.
Inna Petraro, who was sick and tired of being a female stereotype all day, took that moment to carefully aim at the assassin’s back, and fired, emptying five bullets in his general direction, all of them hitting his back…and his flak jacket.
The Serb stopped where he was, thought a moment, and slowly turned, leveling his weapon at the table with his prey, Mira, and Inna.
Inna dropped to the floor, and popped back up again, hurling a banana like a boomerang. The banana knocked the gun to one side, and it unleashed two bullets into the ceiling.
“I spent time in Australia,” Inna explained. “Let us get out of here.”
By this time the audience was laughing and decided to participate, also hurling food at the villain. Apples bounced off the metal frame, and tofu cubes clung to him with each throw. Vasnic was about to gun down the cafeteria populace when a solid ceramic plate stabbed into the pressure point of his left shoulder. Waves of pain coursed down his left side. Ryan had dislocated the shoulder before—Vasnic was always able to reset it, but the nerves were still raw after the last time.
Dragan whirled and sprinted through the crowd of food throwers, keeping an eye on Sean’s flowing Ranger cape.
The bodyguard slapped both hands on the table in front of him and flipped over it, landing on the food line. He scanned the offerings of food and smiled. He leapt over the bar and behind it, looking for the bag holding the dried beans he had seen at the counter. He spotted a nice fifty-pound bag and hefted it over his shoulder, grabbing a bottle of cooking wine from the rack.
He placed the bottle down and ejected the throwing knife from his Ranger badge, using it to cut a slit along the length of the beanbag. He grabbed the bag at either end, lifted it over his head, and threw it in Vasnic’s general direction.
The Serb snickered as the bag fell short of its goal, not coming within five feet of him as the beans scattered all over the floor. He shook his head and approached, keeping his eye on Sean’s location after the bodyguard dropped behind the counter once more. He stepped down on the uncooked fava beans, and they acted like ball bearings. His stuntman training kept him upright as he slipped and slid over the place.
Sean rose again from behind the counter, bottle of wine in hand. Out of the neck of the bottle was a line of paper towels.
“Have some fava beans and a nice chianti!”
Sean lit one end of the towels and hurled it straight at Vasnic’s chest. The wine bottle shattered against the metal frame over his torso, and blue alcohol flames ignited against the assassin’s chest.
One side of cooked Dragan, coming up. He laughed. Let’s see Hannibal top that!
His cell rang. He sighed contentedly. “Sean Ryan, Dragan slayer.”
“About time, you schlemiel,” Mitchell Scholl answered. “Where have you been? Did you find your asbestos suit yet?”
Sean blinked. “I had one?”
“Yeah, it looked like a silver space suit from Lost in Space. I think the Serbs took it before they knocked me out.”
Sean looked with dismay at the blue flames on the assassin as they died down. The only thing set ablaze had been the fava beans at Dragan’s feet, but the assassin himself was quite unscathed. Vasnic smiled and waved at Sean with the gun.
Sean cursed and dropped to a crouch behind the counter. “I’ll have to call back.”
He hung up and looked around for another weapon. On top of the garbage can was an intact bagel. He cocked his head and smiled.
***
Dragan Vasnic ignored the crowd behind him as they threw slices of pizza, and he continued to slowly approach his cornered target. He wondered if Ryan even knew the mission was over, ending in defeat. As far as Vasnic was concerned, Mira Nikolic was no longer an issue; there would be no waiting for the bright lights, camera and action of the convention; only the pure and simple death of one annoying little American.
Sean popped up, and Dragan calmly raised his weapon.
“Feel the power of… karate bagel!” Sean threw.
The rock-hard bagel ricocheted off the wall and slammed against the inside of Vasnic’s wrist, ramming into the pressure point, deadening the fingers. The gun fell to the side and Vasnic cursed, leaping for it with his left hand. He grabbed it from the floor, and straightened, only to see something headed straight for his face. He raised his left arm to shield his eyes, and was surprised when he felt a relatively gentle impact. He snapped his arm to one side, flinging away the remains of a banana cream pie.
Vasnic failed to notice that, shortly on the heels of the pie, was Sean Ryan, throwing himself directly into the assassin. Vasnic fell backwards, his foot firmly placed on a banana peel before it slipped out from under him. He landed on his back with Sean on top of him, and the gun skittered off into the abyss of cafeteria chairs.
Vasnic slapped Sean across the face with his right, using the blade of his hand, and quickly backhanded him far enough to head-butt him. Sean was shaken enough to allow Dragan to throw him off. The two former stuntmen rolled to their feet, and Sean was not looking forward to this—he had already been beaten silly by this guy before, and he didn’t have a backup plan this time.
Sean slid his collapsible baton into his hand and opened it.
The Serb laughed. “We’ve done this before, haven’t we?”
“Yes, but this time, you don’t have a sword.”
“Didn’t need it then, don’t need it now.”
Sean paused a moment and deftly slid the baton away into the folds of his costume. “In which case, let’s do things the old fashioned way.”
He whirled, his cape flaring about him as he swept up three items from the table behind him, coming back with a plate, a plastic bowl of soup and a package of salt. The soup went directly into Vasnic’s face, blinding him, followed by the salt and the plate.
“F
ood fight!”
Sean stepped forward, launching a simple right hook across the Serb’s face, breaking his nose with the palm before whipping an elbow into his cheek.
Vasnic fired a blow into Sean’s ribs, finally breaking two fragile bones. Sean dropped to one knee, and promptly received Dragan’s knee to the face.
Sean rolled over his left ribs, onto his right knee, and sprang forward, moving at right angles to Vasnic as he performed a handstand and jackknifed onto his feet. He pivoted, snapping a foot toward where Vasnic’s face used to be. The Serb had ducked and rushed forward while Ryan’s leg was still in the air, slamming his shoulder into his crotch before wrapping his arms around his planted leg, and pulling up. The suplex sent Sean over his head, straight for the floor tiles. Sean slapped the floor and performed a quick cartwheel to his feet.
They whirled to face each other.
“We’re not getting anywhere, are we?” Sean touched his Ranger badge, and the knife ejected. He flicked his wrist, making Dragan cover his face with his hands in response. Sean smiled, and then threw the knife, driving it into the back of Vasnic’s right hand.
Dragan snapped the hand as though the knife would come out. He looked up again in time to see another pie coming at his face. This time, he couldn’t block it. Sean threw his entire weight behind the attack, breaking the plate under the pie on follow-through.
Dragan Vasnic tottered on his feet a moment, and staggered back. This time, he slipped on Inna’s thrown banana, squashing it, slipping, and landing straight on his back.
Sean strolled over to the Serb, rage evident on his face. He flipped Vasnic over, dug his knee into the man’s back, grabbed each wrist and began securing them with peace bonds. “You had the right to swing first; anything you do will be taken into account when I pound you. You have the right to a doctor or a priest. Should you not have healthcare or attend a church, one can be provided. You understand, moron?”
Dragan grunted and lay still.
Sean sighed and sat back on his haunches, relieved.
“Well,” Inna said. “It seems you don’t have as high a psychotic count as you thought.”
Sean glanced back at the entrance to the cafeteria, where Mira and the others she had taken cover with started to flow back into the room once more. “Just mildly-professional hit men.” He slowly rose to his feet. “I guess this was the one responsible for stabbing Sarantakos’ luggage.”
Inna cocked her head. “What do you mean?”
He smiled. “That’s right, you weren’t here for that. When....”—he waved his hand, like he was trying to shoo away an annoying child—“one of the Serbs tested my security by stabbing at Mira with a fake knife, someone stabbed Sarantakos’ luggage, as though using the Serb as a distraction. I guess it was just this boy serving as a distraction from my beating the other one into another lifetime. For a while, I actually believed there had been an actual, psychotic Trekkie running around loose on the campus, and—”
There was a scream from the other end of the cafeteria. Ryan looked over his shoulder, praying his ribs would keep from puncturing anything for another five minutes. Someone had picked up the Micro-Uzi, leveling it at Mira, Lee Kristoff, and the others who had been taking refuge from Vasnic.
Jarod Hughes, the suitcase stabber Eric Gresham had worked over, was a 43-year-old Trek fan of the worst kind—Trek was the lord thy TV show, thou shalt not have any TV shows before it; thou should not take the name of thy Captain, in vain; thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s costume. He had tried creating a movement called the Trek Liberation Front to save Trek spinoffs from bad writing, but he had been content to send viruses to the laptops of better writers—anyone who got better reviews than Trek.
And now, at the end of a long and rather pedantic life, Jarod Hughes, Trek fan, leveled the fallen gun at the heroine of the TV show he hated the most, praying the Great Bird of the Galaxy would guide his shot. Sean Ryan yanked the knife from Vasnic’s hand and spun, hurling it directly for the gunman. He grabbed Dragan by the shoulders, hauled him to his feet, and sidestepped between Hughes and Inna. There was a loud curse as the knife hit Hughes’s shoulder.
“Inna, behind me, now!”
Inna Petraro slid behind Sean as the bullets began to fly, impacting against Vasnic’s body armor in controlled bursts.
A large football player dressed as a Romulan wrapped his arms around the gunman, and Hughes fired a round behind him, ripping into the man’s body with ease.
Sean backed up slowly. “Everyone stay back!” he cried.
Hughes charged forward, closing the distance faster than Sean could move with broken ribs and dragging Vasnic. Sean glanced over his shoulder and smiled. Everyone had taken his advice, and departed.
Except for one. “Inna, please leave so I can handle this.”
Inna wrapped a hand around his undamaged side and whispered, “No.”
Hughes closed to less than thirty feet, and slowed himself to a walk, the gun ahead of him. Sean closed his eyes and breathed a little prayer—at full automatic fire, it was easy enough to aim around or through Dragan.
Sean felt a sting at his side as an arm snaked under his right. A hand rose, level to his face, and took aim with a Glock 28. The discharge deafened Vasnic and caught Hughes in center mass. He hovered in place for a moment before falling over.
Sean’s face broke out into a grin. He dropped Vasnic and spun, embracing Inna in a big hug. “And this is why you joined the NRA Chapter of Sisters in Arms.”
“I love you, too, Sean.”
A slight groan rose up from behind them, and they turned, noting that Jarod Hughes wasn’t exactly dead, but on the ground, mortally wounded, annoyed…and still clutching the Micro-Uzi.
Sean slid Inna’s gun to his hand, and aimed for center mass. The hammer came down on an empty chamber. Sean blinked. Damn. The gun rose from the ground.
Sean spun, knocking Inna behind Dragan so his body armor would protect her, then shoved them both away as he jumped in the opposite direction.
And Sean took the only option he had—he hurled Inna's gun at Hughes's head. The stock of the gun struck his nose with full force, knocking his head back, causing his eyes to blur. He roared, and swung for Sean's position.
Hughes held down the trigger, at full automatic, until the gun was empty.
Hughes blinked, several times, until he could finally see clearly.
The only thing he saw was Inna's foot stomping down on his head. The then kicked into his side a few times. She thought a moment and gave the same treatment to between his legs, just so he couldn’t pollute the gene pool. She turned and ran to Sean.
On the other side of the room, Sean Ryan was completely prone. Bullets had riddled the floor, walls and ceilings around him.
“You know,” he mused aloud, “I suppose we should be grateful that firing a gun on full automatic means you can't hit the broad side of my back.” Sean grinned, and chuckled, but not too forcefully as Inna bent down and grabbed him by the hand to haul him up. “Inna! I think it’s time we brought Mira and Goran together. They’re married and in love! They should be together, even if he’s in the hospital!”
Inna smiled at Sean. “You need an emergency room?”
Sean limped toward the door, Inna holding him up, and the two of them walked to the exit.
At that point, a disgruntled, disheveled, and bloody Luan Mulliqi stepped into the doorway. “You… infidel, son of…a pig!”
Sean blinked at the terrorist. “Didn’t you die already?”
He chuckled evilly. “No, you cannot kill one who serves Allah.” He raised his right hand, a transmitter in it. “And now… ALLAHU AKBAR.”
He hit the detonator to the bombs scattered throughout Rockycreek campus.
Epilogue: Greenwich Village of the Damned
Luan Mulliqi blinked. He was still alive. The building still stood.
The sound of guns clicked, and Sean had to look around the terrorist to see their owners.
; “Sorry, Ryan,” Edward “Call me Eddie and you die” Murphy said, his gun leveled at Luan.
Athena nodded. “We would’ve been here sooner, but we were busy disarming the gifts Camel Boy and his associates left all over the place.”
Sean Ryan gave a pained grin at Mulliqi. “You see, a little elf whispered into my ear that someone had planted blocks of Semtex all over the university. My associates behind you? They were busy disarming all of them. Unfortunately, the signal jammer they used also blocks cell phones; otherwise, you would have been dead in the woods already. Now, time to give up like a good little psycho.”
Mulliqi narrowed his eyes, appalled at the sight of how tall Athena Marcowitz was. He clicked another button. “Then I can at least bring you the gift of death—!”
Sean’s mind clicked into place a moment too late—Luan Mulliqi was wearing a suicide vest. He needed to shield Inna, he had to—
Luan’s finger came down toward the button. “Allahu—”
The scream ended in a wet gurgle. Sean blinked. For some reason, there was an arrowhead sticking out of the man’s mouth.
Luan Mulliqi fell to the ground like a marionette with cut strings. Standing behind him was a man with long golden hair, holding a bow, its string still a quiver.
Sean smiled. “Galadren, Lothlorien’s most wanted, how nice to see you.”
Then he passed out.
***
Edward Murphy waited in the hospital waiting room, knitting another blanket.
Athena Marcowitz sighed. “So, you had Muslims, the Serbs, the cartel, and an Elf-lord running around.”
Galadren looked up from his Tolkien book. “I am not a Lord, or royalty, I am—”
Athena glared. “Enough.” She looked to Inna and Mira. “I miss anything?”
Mira’s eyes softened. “Corbin Eielson.”
“Him,” her voice dripped with hydrofluoric acid. “So, at least one psycho author, the IRA, the cartel that wouldn’t die, the Robin Hood reject, al-Qaeda, Interpol, vampires, mercenaries, an axe-murderer, and the Nazgul? Do you know how much this sounds like a comedy routine? The newspapers won’t know where to start.”