by Declan Finn
After years of searching, he had finally found another elf. Better yet, he knew exactly where she was going to be: in the East, the direction of Mordor… Or was it called Montauk?
No matter. He would meet with her, talk with her, just to confirm his suspicions. At the moment, it seemed as if she had forgotten ever being an elf, or she had never been told—her parents might not have told her, in case someone might notice. If that was the case, few things would convince her that she was, indeed, an elf.
Unless, of course, he took the simple route, and simply showed her she could not be killed. Immortality was a hard thing to deny with a knife rammed into one’s chest.
Yes, that would be the way…He would stab this woman, this Mira Nikolic of…Yugoslavia, and she would see that she was, indeed, an elf queen, and he would no longer be alone.
What could go wrong?
***
Security consultant Sean AP Ryan strode into the main lecture hall of the Rockycreek University Javits Center, appreciating its capacity, not to mention that it was filled with people wearing bright orange Creative Convention monogrammed T-shirts. The security officers—placed in front, as always—had shirts that read “Uzi: Don’t Say it, Spray It.” The setup and breakdown crew had shirts reading “C-Con Corps of Engineers.” The organizers had shirts reading, “We are Vanilla, We Stand Between the Chocolate and the Strawberry,” parodying the saying of the Shadow Council from the G5 TV show.
I guess I should be grateful they didn't get lost, Sean thought. The woods on campus are so thick, I'd bet there are entire class years of students lying out there, among the trees, turning into fertilizer like some Suffolk County body farm
On the dais sat the council of four who had originally hired Sean to act as security for the science fiction convention. Rockycreek President Robert Harrington looked no less anorexic in his pinstripe suit than when Sean had seen him last, and his smile and brown eyes were still rich with the charm of Tammany Hall. The hair of Waldemar “Walter” Janowitz was still frizzy, and his beard had streaks of gray; he had, however, exchanged his horn-rimmed glasses for contacts, and his gray turtleneck for a C-Con organizers T-shirt. At the end of the table on the dais were the writers David Peters and his loudmouth cohort, Corbin Eielson—“The Great Fashla” himself— with a T-shirt that read Warning, I have a vocabulary of 75,000 words and I’m not afraid to use it. Peters looked terminally amused at everything; his hands were clasped over his stomach, which was clad in a white South Park T-shirt.
In short, nothing had changed much over the course of the meetings for C-Con—for the people in charge. As for the security neophytes among the Orange Shirts, while they were still making up the typical neologisms of the world of science fiction (how many times had he had to tell them that “vampify” was not in the OED?), they had at least improved in their skills of observation, if nothing else.
Now the screaming begins.
***
Middle Earth’s Most Wanted Elven Assassin came in just before Ryan began. He had not been at previous meetings, but everyone knew him by sight in his current disguise—a conservative blue polo shirt and black pants, in addition to a gray wig. He had noted a flyer outside the door advertising for the convention: “When the Moon hits your eye / Like a big pizza pie…. THAT’S NO MOON, IT’S A SPACE STATION.”
And now he looked at the man on stage—Sean Ryan. He was now running security for the yearly gathering. He appraised the man carefully, taking in his bearing, his walk, his weaponry. He was 5’6”, with bright, electric blue eyes, deep black hair parted to one side, a healthy tan, and he moved like an elf soldier. It all looked mysteriously familiar to him.
“Good evening, everybody. I’m going to skip most of the mundane and the nebulous and get to something I probably should have told all of you to begin with. This year is going to be a little different; for example, security volunteers will do more than point the way to the washrooms.
“I’m sure that all of you know of Mira Nikolic, since I see most of you wearing G5 Ranger pins. Does anyone here not know about her relations with her homeland?”
The Elven killer nodded, along with most of the audience. There had been some mention of the creatures called the Serbs and the Albanians, who were also called Muslims. While he didn’t understand the situation completely—they were two varieties of Orcs killing each other an ocean away—Mira had been chased off the battlefield.
However, some people raised their hands. Sean nodded and said, “Ah, you must be Star Trek fans. Simple version: Greek Orthodox versus Muslims with a few Papists thrown in, disliking each other since the last Islamic jihad that stormed the Gates of Vienna 500 years ago. Dictator Marshall Tito kept everything in check, then the Soviet Union told everyone to be nice or die. After that, well, they had a bad breakup post-USSR.
“Mira Nikolic is a Croatian, one of the Catholics. Problem is, she managed to get everyone a little annoyed at her by talking about, oh, peace. The miscreants who ran her out intended that she never work again. As G5 fans know, the Mad Russian hired her specifically because he wanted to piss them off. I think it worked. Since G5, she's basically been under the radar. Of course, that changed last night with the international debut of Heavens Above, which even beat out Reality Island Bachelor for ratings. And now that that’s happened, it looks like some assassins are coming for her. Any questions?”
The assassin’s eyes widened. Someone was going to try and kill her? Those bastards! His hand ached to grab a weapon, but unfortunately, there was no one to use it on….yet.
After a moment, a short, squat member of the setup crew stood. He was a 5’4” Orthodox Jew of most Unorthodox appearance, wearing a yarmulke under his Dracula wig and a black cloak around his pudgy frame—claiming that it was a great way to get shiksas—best known as “Morrie, the Jewish vampire.”
Ryan nodded to him. “Morrie?”
“Will we need metal detectors?”
He blinked, obviously not expecting that. “You’re joking, right? C-Con is spread out over the entire campus—a dozen buildings, each with multiple entrances and exits. It would be impossible to have a metal detector at each one. Besides, possible detection of an assassin might be deadly, and the only life I’m willing to risk here is my own. Also, given the number of trinkets on your average Convention-goer, we’d have to strip search each person going into a building; then we’d have to ban every sword-selling boutique on the convention floor. Frankly, the last thing I want to see is you, naked. So, thanks for the question, Morrie.
“However, for the security volunteers, in the event that someone is suspicious looking, a quick pat down every once in a while sends a message that this won’t be the average Con. Now, should you actually find someone who you have a reasonable suspicion about—and by reasonable, I mean one you can give a reason for—call me. If I cannot or do not handle it immediately, you are not, repeat not, to approach the individual on your own; just because I do not appear like Gandalf doesn’t mean that I didn’t listen. Any other questions on the matter at hand?”
Sean scanned the crowd intensely, as though he expected at least one volunteer to go fleeing from the room like a rodent on the Titanic. “Now, you’ll notice I used the word ‘assassin.’ If this is a true attempt on the life of an habitually courageous woman, we’re going to find her, him or them, and we’re going to make sure that they don’t leave this convention with a scalp.”
“You mean ‘without a fresh scalp,’ don’t you?” Eielson cackled.
Eielson briefly glared at Peters and slapped a fifty-dollar bill onto the table. David Peters gleefully tucked the money into his pocket … obviously, a bet to see if Corben Eielson could keep his mouth shut..
Sean coughed. “No, I mean that we’re going to scalp them.”
The Elven assassin smiled at last. Now he knew what made the man so familiar—he was truly a dunedain, a Ranger. He had to be. He could tell by the fire in his eyes, the passion in his voice, the arsenal he carried. Only a R
anger would come to protect an Elven princess like Mira.
Sean turned back to the audience. “Now, you’re all volunteers, and you’re only being paid in free admission to the convention, food, and T-shirts. I expect all of you to act as if we received a death threat in the mail.”
After a long moment of silence, one of the Orange Shirts stood, a tall reedy black male with silver glasses. “Um, Mr. Ryan, I’m Ralph Janson. I’ve been working with…most, if not all of these people on and off for the twenty-five years of this conference. A lot of us put it together ourselves, with free time from our daily lives; my children thought Daddy worked for the Federation, because one year he brought Captain Kirk home for dinner. Now my children work here. Sometimes, this is the one time a year all of us can get in the same room together, instead of swapping emails. I hope I speak for everyone when I say that we’re not going to let any Euro-trash terrorist mess with our creation!”
Sean grinned, baring most of his bright, white teeth. “Thank you, Mr. Janson.”
Ralph nodded, and sat down, receiving mild applause from those around him.
The Elven assassin also nodded his approval. Brave fellow travelers.
“Now,” Sean continued, “I’d like to know if anyone would like to make any transfers into another area of volunteer work. For example, if there’s anyone in security who wants to swap T-shirts with the setup/breakdown crew, or anyone else, please stand.”
He looked from one side of the front row to the other. No one even twitched.
Walter Janowitz reached over and tapped Ryan on the shoulder. Sean turned and leaned close. “What?”
The frizzy-hair organizer smiled. “I told the security volunteers all about it last week via email.”
Janowitz waved him aside and stood himself. “Might there be any possible transfers desired into security?”
Half of the auditorium stood… The other half was already security.
Middle Earth’s Most Wanted Elven Assassin wanted to stand, but hesitated, not wanting to stand up and be noted… Then realized that if he didn’t stand up, he would be noticed.
And he stood, saluting the Ranger called Ryan.
***
Sean Ryan drove himself back to Inna’s house through the rain, wondering how he had let himself get bushwhacked like that. He had barely managed to keep everyone from becoming security personnel. His only selling point was that by not being dressed as security, they might be more effective as security adjuncts.
He was annoyed that Janowitz had told them behind his back, but there was no downside. The assassins desired increased security; this way, it looked like they had everything under control. In fact, the killers most likely knew already—there hadn’t been another window broken in the Nikolic household since Ryan had appeared, which meant that those four shadows in the black SUV the first night of her firing range exercises were surveillance, keeping an eye on Mira until added security finally arrived.
Then again, what about the attack on his office?
And in a city filled with SUVs, they could’ve driven by every few weeks or so just to make sure I was still around.
At least the University President is going to be busy practicing his urbanity with the tour groups on campus during the entire proceedings. Although how he’s going to explain the plastic swords, I’ll never know. Unless, of course, the slimy bastard has no intention of correcting the assumption, drawing in students who want to register thinking that it’s playtime.
A piece of trivia from one of his college courses arose unbidden from memory. In a History and Philosophy of Education course, the professor recalled that the faculty, who decided which students to teach, had run The University of Paris. The students who hired and fired the faculty had run the University of Bologna. But in the end, neither group could be bothered with the housekeeping involved, so they created administrators, so that faculty and students could join against a common enemy.
Who am I to argue with a five-hundred-year academic tradition?
Sean recalled the conversation that had gotten him this job. President Robert Harrington had told him, “In addition to your lovely woman over there, one of the reasons we’re hiring you is Rockycreek alumni in California: stories get back to me that don’t quite make it to the news. These are 2 a.m. stories after fundraisers that start ‘you didn’t hear this from me,’ like the Rabbi who tried to hurt a certain Jewish singer after she came out for Palestinians, or the gay boyfriend who tried to give a producer a vasectomy with hedge clipper. Not to mention the army of Live Action Role-Playing vampires who tried to eat John Carpenter.
“We’re a nice, quiet campus, Mr. Ryan. We meet Clark Kerrs’ 1960s definition of a perfect University—we provide sports for the alumni, parking for the faculty, and sex for the students—so all constituents are happy. An assassination wouldn’t go over well with a board of trustees accustomed only to character assassination by the faculty council. You’re a dangerous man who doesn’t look it. You’re perfect.”
Ryan’s eyes narrowed, and he smiled evilly. “Yes, and I won’t tell anyone about your girlfriend, either…how’s your wife, by the way?”
Sean smiled to himself, and glanced once more into the rear view mirror. He noticed one constant behind him. A small, Kelly-green car on the road was following him through the damp evening. It hung about ten car lengths back, always keeping him in sight. With a sigh, Ryan pulled over to the shoulder of the highway. Sean turned in the driver’s seat of the SUV and looked back through the water-dotted windshield, waiting to see if his trackers would pull over. They pulled into park on the shoulder, still ten cars behind.
With a mild groan, Sean made sure he was clear of the last vestiges of the G5 Ranger costume and grabbed his raincoat. He secured it tightly around his shoulders, capped his skull with a deerstalker his mother had given him for his eighteenth birthday, and swept out of the car. He kept his hand in his raincoat pocket at all times, the collapsible tactical baton securely in his left fist as he approached his prey.
I wonder if I should give him some warning…nah!
There was no motion from the passengers in the trail car until he was three yards away. The driver’s side door opened, and before the driver could get out, Ryan closed the distance, opened his tactical baton, and smashed the end into the power window, sending glass at the driver. Sean whirled on the ball of his foot, sending the tip of his weapon into the windshield, shattering the glass. He thrust his hand through the broken driver’s window, balled up the front of the driver’s shirt and pulled him forward, through the empty space. Using his peripheral vision, Ryan thrust the kendo forward, tapping the baton’s end against the passenger’s chest.
He blinked, double-checking his first impression of the driver’s image—reddish-brown hair, cheekbones protruding against the leathery skin like boulders, and deep brown eyes. “Boyle?” He glanced at the passenger—one solid eyebrow above thick horn-rimmed glasses. “O’Riordan? What the fock are you doing here?”
Boyle squinted through the rain falling on his head. “This might sound a wee bit strange, but we’d like to hire you for the cause.”
There was a moment of silence before Sean started vibrating, which built up and escaped as a roaring laugh. “Get out of here,” he said good-naturedly. He lightly shook his head. “You guys are incredible. What? Couldn’t get passports out of the country?”
“You had our forger arrested, amadon!” O’Riordan barked from inside the car.
Sean spared him a glance and lightly patted his cheek with the end of the baton. “Quiet, lad, or else I’ll start a medieval nose job on your sorry face. Besides, haven’t you people ever heard of Canada? Hell, you could do worse than to go to Gaelic Park in the Bronx and take up a collection from the Irish illegals in the area. How did you get to New York, anyway?”
“We drove,” Boyle answered, his face darkening. “You destroyed our intelligence network. You cost us everything. You owe us.”
Sean stopped laughing. “Now
you listen to me, ya’ dirty Mick; you wanted McCullough dead, and my job was to make sure he wasn’t murdered. He overdosed; you got what you want, the insurance company didn’t have to pay double indemnity, and everybody got paid. Go home and be happy.”
Boyle gawked at him. “You’re really a mercenary bastard, aren’t ya?”
Sean Ryan leaned into the baton, pressing it hard against Boyle. “No, you sumbitch, I’m the only one who cared that McCullough lived. You should know what it’s like to live with someone where you may be shot at any moment. I spent nine and a half weeks keeping McCullough alive, only to have him die very, very happy with a needle in his arm, so fock off. Now tell me how you knew I was here.”
“Francis is on a G5 newsletter,” Boyle replied. “We knew who you’ve been guarding.”
Damn. I hate Internet newsgroups. Might as well attach a GPS locator to her clothing, and post her real-time location on a website. Not to mention that C-Con notes its Tuesday board meetings on their website. Might as well put crosshairs on my own forehead to boot.
Sean growled, withdrew his baton from O’Riordan’s chest, and kicked the driver’s side door with Boyle still trapped in the window frame. He quickly shut and stowed the baton, anticipating the arrival of some local “County Mounty” state trooper, summoned by the cell phone of a passerby. He turned away from the two IRA wannabes, took out his key ring, and genuflected as he passed the front tire, trapping the air nozzle between two keys and twisting to rip the nozzle from the tire.
He straightened, walked towards Inna’s car, and pulled away, leaving both men wet, bruised, and without a front tire.
***
Sean soon arrived in the Island of Staten and quickly pulled into Inna’s driveway. Sean walked into the formerly immaculate house and marveled at what she had managed to do to the place.
There was only one small question: how many people would be coming for Mira?
Sean put away his raincoat. There were certain things in life that annoyed him, and uncertainties topped the list, along with ACLU lawyers and Baldwin brothers. Although he had managed to use that annoyance thus far to avoid acknowledging he had some real fears. He had faced all sorts of psychotic fans, enemies, and John Hinkley impersonators, few women beaters and murderers.
