It Was Only on Stun!

by Declan Finn

  Ryan looked at his watch, but not at the time. He didn’t know when the shootout had started, nor how long it took, so he couldn’t have known for how long he had blacked out. His eyes scanned the room, looking for his fallen gun. He reached down and grabbed it by the time he heard a thump, followed by a soft groan.

  Ryan slowly turned around. Vasnic was still alive, as he had expected, and he had moved to the other side of the gym, stepping over the bodies of his fallen comrades, and made it to the wall. His right arm was against the bricks, and his body rose and fell with each breath. He had slammed his dislocated shoulder back into place.

  Ryan lifted the Firestar and croaked loudly, “Come quietly, and I won’t have to harm you.”

  A soft chuckle came from the other side of the room as Dragan bent down, as though he was about to be sick, and rose swiftly—his beating had slowed him down to the speed of normal people—the final, half-empty Stechkin in his grasp.

  He looked at Sean’s gun pointed at him from across the room, and smiled at the Firestar’s full clip on the floor, twenty feet away from Ryan. “Now who can’t count?”

  Ryan smiled, and fired the bullet he had left in the chamber.

  Pain flared again in Dragan’s arm, and his finger contracted around the trigger. The weapon, still on automatic, emptied itself into the floor, walls, and ceiling. Ryan calmly limped toward his fallen ammunition and reloaded. He moved toward Dragan, the Serb was on the floor, back against the wall, beaten down by the recoil of his own gun.

  Ryan looked at the gutted assassin as he passed, leisurely taking in the damage done. He briefly stopped by the still body of Francis O’Riordan. He crossed himself. Rest in peace, you poor bastard. One of the large assassins—Alexi Beider—stirred slightly. It was nice to know there would be more than one assassin going to jail today.

  He slowly lowered himself to a crouch at the killer’s side. “You know my name. What’s yours?”

  The hood fell back as the Serb turned his head to look at him. “Dragan Vasnic.”

  He nodded, smiling. “You fired Mira from the theater in Zagreb? I remember from her letter. You have some fancy moves, but I doubt Frenki’s Boys taught you.”

  Vasnic smiled. “I used to be a stunt man.”

  Sean almost laughed. That explained the Axe Murderer acrobatics down in the zocalo room. He reached forward and slid the TenchnoCop helmet off Vasnic’s head.

  “Well, it’s been a pleasure fighting you, Dragan. Oh, by the way, enjoy your trip to Camp X-ray. That’s where we send terrorists nowadays; say hello to all of your Muslim friends—that’s who you killed in Kosovo, right? CNN called them Ethnic Albanians, but we know what they were, don’t we? When the prisoners there are done with you, you’ll curse my name for not having killed you, and your screams will echo down the halls of Hell.”

  Dragan was about to start cursing him then, but Sean smashed the gun barrel upside his head. Dragan stayed down this time.

  After a moment, Ryan gingerly rose, and kicked the empty Stechkin away. He followed, kicking it again towards Mira. He was the only one awake, and...

  A set of hands grabbed his shoulders, thrusting him against the wall. A knee slammed into his kidneys, and a metal-covered hand chopped down on his shoulder, just missing the nerve. He was then thrown over the stage, landing on his ribs next to Mira.

  Alexi Beider grabbed the Firestar from the floor and strode over to the prone quartet, leveling the weapon on Ryan’s forehead.

  God I’m heartily sorry I ever pissed Thee off, what I have done and what I failed to do, not because I fear going to Hell, because I’ve offended Thee, who’s saved my ass—

  A stream of bullets interrupted his prayer. He blinked, and looked up to see the Serb knocked backwards by a hail of bullets. He looked toward his rescuer, expecting to find Detective McGauren, the blasted author or his wife, possibly even Inna.

  Instead, there was a particularly startled Klingon holding what looked like a phaser. Ryan didn’t recognize him until the shocked words fell from the gunman’s lips. “But, but…it was only on stun.”

  Sean smiled, remembering that Detective McGauren had told him there was an Uzi missing from the shootout of the Mexican mafia that morning.

  He laughed himself unconscious.

  ***

  Sean Ryan awoke on his back outside of the sports center. He blinked and felt the familiar sensation of being on a stretcher. Here I go again.

  On his left was an EMT putting away bandages after wrapping up his chest. He glanced to his right, and looked up at Detective Kate McGauren, who appeared to be as tall as Sean had remembered.

  “Wow, boy,” she drawled, “you really do bring a party along wherever you go, don’t you?”

  Sean smiled. “I was never really popular at parties.”

  McGauren shrugged. “So far, we’re guessing there were over five hundred shells fired today alone.”

  The stuntman tried not to laugh. “More like six hundred. Listen, I need you to find a friend of mine. His name is—”

  “Mitchell Scholl, I know. He had to be dragged to the hospital to be checked for a concussion, kvetching the entire way.”

  He sighed, relaxed. “Is Mister Actress all right?”

  “As far as we can tell.”

  Sean turned to the EMT. “Will I live?”

  She glanced at him, and he noted her dark obsidian eyes twinkling in a pleasant, broad Asian face. “Only for another sixty years, less if you keep up this form of amusement. Anyone else would say you have broken ribs, but they’re just very cracked.”

  He looked down at the bandages and nodded. “How so?”

  “Ever seen a windshield filled with cracks, only it’s not missing a glass splinter?”

  He thought for a moment. “Only if you count the glass sliver in my forehead… I know what you mean.”

  “That would be four of your ribs right now. At a guess, all that’s holding them together right now is a few splinters of bone, so try not to get hit anymore, okay?”

  “Done. Thank you, madam.”

  “There was only you and Mr. Actress to work on. You couldn’t have bled more, given me more to do?”

  Sean smiled. That means Mr. Gresham and Galadren weren’t there when the cavalry arrived. Interesting. “Sorry to disappoint, but the day isn’t over yet.”

  She grinned broadly. “I look forward to patching you up again.”

  Sean watched the EMT leave, eyes wandering over the great lawn of Rockycreek, noting the barbeque tent was still up, and men in black suits dotted the field of grass.

  “I’m guessing the Feds have arrived.”

  Detective McGauren nodded. “And they’re not happy with you.”

  His eyes drifted to another stretcher, holding the still form of Dennis Boyle. “How’s my friend?”

  “He’ll live. He took it pretty bad; is he another ‘associate’?”

  “Where’s Agent McGrail?”

  “Over here, Sean,” said the light brogue as Maureen floated over, stopping at his side. He was amazed how graceful she was, like a silk scarf gently blowing in the wind.

  Sean grinned and reached out, gently squeezing her hand. “Nice to see you again, lass. Detective McGauren here was just asking about my associate, Dennis, over there.”

  Her eyes flickered. She cocked her head. “Detective McGauren, could we have a moment?”

  After she was out of earshot, Maureen asked, “What do you have in mind?”

  Sean slowly raised himself on the stretcher. “Let me have Boyle. I’ll adopt him, keep him with me. You’ve already got O’Riordan in a body bag; take him home.”

  Her mouth straightened into a line. “You’re asking me to let a felon get away.”

  He laughed. “So? You’ve got a perfect record for arrests. Letting one get away won’t hurt you. What’s the worst that could happen?”

  Maureen ignored that he had checked up on her. “I could be exiled to America.”

  He smiled and patted her
on the arm. “I could always hire you, too.”

  She smiled, and suddenly laughed. “You sure have a way with cops, don’t you?”

  “Yes, and somehow it always leads away from the slammer. Deal?”

  “Only if Boyle agrees.”

  “He will,” Sean concluded. “By the way, did you recognize Eric? He said his name’s Gresham, some sort of—”

  Maureen McGrail grabbed him and pulled him to face her squarely. “Eric Gresham?”

  “Yes, why? You know of him?”

  “Perhaps.” She released him and let out a soft string of Gaelic curses.

  Sean coughed lightly. “I’m sure you have a very nice ass.”

  She gave him a sideways glance. “Whatever.”

  He staggered to Dennis Boyle’s stretcher and tapped him on the arm. Boyle’s eyes flew open. “What happened? Did we win? Where’s Francis?”

  “You want that in any particular order?”

  Boyle thought a moment. “Well, I’m alive, so we won. Where’s O’Riordan?”

  “His neck was broken. The man who killed him is dead; McGrail took him out.”

  Boyle’s mouth hung open, but before he could speak, Ryan cut him off. “Listen, Maureen has agreed to let you go on the condition you remain in my custody, probably with a LoJack. You work for me, or Maureen and a dozen FBI agents can have you put on the first flight home, where they will convict you for inept terrorism in the first degree. So, jail or LA?”

  Dennis stared at him blankly. “LA.”

  Sean smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “Go to sleep. We’ll talk later.”

  Sean jerked his head to one side, gesturing to Maureen to follow. Once they were around the ambulance, he said, “What made you agree, might I ask?”

  “He saved your life, and O’Riordan died saving Mira. As you said—Boyle aims around civilians. Not to mention he hasn’t successfully killed anyone, and the only wounds were from ricochets. I think you’d call him the Mickey Mouse terrorist.”

  He smiled gently. “Like the LA mob…the Mickey Mouse mafia; mob guys think it’s an insult to be invited.”

  She laughed gently. “Understood. Besides, O’Riordan was who I really wanted. Where do you think they got the money?”

  He shrugged. “I wasn’t interested; if everyone who takes it winds up hurt, it doesn’t help. Why?”

  “O’Riordan was a drug dealer,” Maureen explained, “a fairly successful one. I had a bust with him in the Falls a coupl’a months back, and it turned into a firefight.”

  He winced. “Had you told me earlier, I would’ve killed him myself.”

  “Not a problem. I’ll ride with Boyle, and head to the morgue to fill out paperwork on O’Riordan. No offense, Mr. Ryan, but I hope I never need to see you again.”

  “Same here…at least, not on business, anyway. Have fun in the land of forty-thousand shades of green.” Sean offered his hand. They shook, and she disengaged, helping load Boyle into the ambulance as he limped away.

  Sean looked at his feet, and had to think in order to make them move properly. Got to take some Oxycotin for that.

  “I wanted to thank you for the fun, Mr. Ryan.”

  He looked up. Eric wasn’t in front of me a moment ago, was he? “The pleasure’s all yours, Herr Gresham. I, personally, could have been fine with a lower body count; and not knowing who you are.”

  Gresham smiled. “She told you?”

  “She confirmed you’re something dangerous, but I didn’t ask. As long as I’m not in your cross hairs, I don’t want to know, right, Eric?”

  He nodded. “I get that a lot. So, where you off to now?”

  Sean sighed. “I’m going to collect my actress, and my girlfriend, and finish this job if it’s the last thing I do. And you?”

  Eric laughed and slid a cigarette into his mouth. “I’m going home. This has been a fine day for me, but I live a ways out on the Island.”

  “Understood. Thanks for the help.”

  “Again, my pleasure. By the way, you’re not going up to Boston soon, are you?”

  “Not that I know of. Why, you going after Natalie Portman?”

  “Not quite, no. Besides, she graduated already. Ciao, Mr. Ryan.”

  Sean Ryan sighed. “I need a vacation.”

  ***

  Inna looked around the campus, wondering what life would have been like had she not seen Sean Ryan at the stunt lot all those years ago.

  Probably dull in comparison.

  She looked down at Mira, who she held gently. Mira, in turn, held her son, weeping softly as she did so. Only a few minutes ago, her husband had been carted off in an ambulance; he had told her to stay there, and Mira was too kind to argue with a wounded, bleeding man. Inna remembered professors at Berkeley who would have instructed Mira to drive her nails into his wounds, as long as she won.

  Which explains why I transferred to Stanford.

  Suddenly, Inna felt Mira pull back. Mira smiled at her. “Thank you.”

  Inna smiled knowingly. “Don’t worry, I’ve done that before.”

  “No, I mean before—”

  “So do I.”

  Mira nodded. Her eyes flicked over Inna’s left shoulder, and the agent turned, moving at a dead run without needing to look.

  Sean Ryan was barely able to brace himself for impact as Inna threw her arms around his neck, squeezing tightly. He angled his body slightly so his left side could take her weight. He finally wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her close. She nestled her head in his shoulder as the tension flowed out of her. She had been able to stand her ground and fire at people who wanted to kill him, and she had been able to run away when he needed her to. Of the two, running away was undeniably the more stressful: it produced a feeling of helplessness she didn’t want to acknowledge. But Sean knew, because he always knew more than he was supposed to.

  When Mira left, she had been forced into that same position again. The actress had wanted to reclaim her husband, her bearing as relaxed as if she were about to retrieve something from the lost and found. Inna had to choose between following her, baby in hand, or staying behind, keeping Marko out of danger, while Sean faced uncertain odds.

  Sean ran his fingers gently through Inna’s hair. “It’s all right, it’s over now,” he said as soothingly as possible. She smiled. At least he knew how hard it was to stay behind and do nothing.

  “Can we go home now?” she asked.

  “Give me an hour and a half, and we can go straight home.”

  “Good, because Murphy’s Law be damned, I want to marry you.”

  Ryan’s face immediately brightened. Whenever Murphy’s Law of Mating had interrupted them, he had always told her, “We’re better off anyway. If we hadn’t been interrupted, I would’ve had to roll out of bed and ask you to marry me—it’s a Catholic thing.” It had a kind of left-handed irony; she had been born Russian Orthodox, and her parents had dismissed the Cesaro-Papist religion because the Soviets were Caesar, and when her mother got remarried to a real Papist—a Catholic—she converted, and Inna followed.

  In any event, no matter what was going to happen when they got home that evening, right now, he merely held her, trying to enjoy the moment.

  ***

  Sean Ryan, still dressed as a Ranger, cautiously walked through the immense Rockycreek cafeteria. The cafeteria had obviously been designed to feed the entire campus population simultaneously with no one ever eating outdoors. This was the perfect time for such a place, considering that over a thousand people were already dining at once, the other thousands on campus attending other activities, like sword fighting.

  It was strange to see a perfectly normal setting filled with less-than-normal clientele—filled with Klingons, Centauri, Gorn, Narn, Minbari, Vampires, and Borg.

  Inna and Mira sat with their backs to the wall and facing the door, just as he had asked them to; she was bracketed by Lee Kristoff and Erin Green. Sitting opposite them were Ester Guzman and Waldemar Janowitz. Ester and Janowitz
looked as perfectly mismatched as Laurel and Hardy, but only if “Ollie” were played by a short Harvey Fierstein in drag.

  “Mind if I join?”

  Mira looked up at Sean and smiled. “If I may ask, how…?”

  “Did I escape from the EMTs? Simple—they patched me up enough to get me through a few more hours, and then come in for a full physical later. How about Goran?”

  “Flesh wounds,” she answered. She took Marko by the hand and waved at Sean. “Can you say 'Hello Sean'?”

  Ester Guzman smiled and slapped Ryan on the back, jostling his battered ribs. “Good work, bubeleh; I’m surprised you’re able to walk straight. I heard they broke your ribs.”

  Sean Ryan grimaced. “Only four. I’ve worked with more damage, and I don’t need painkillers, trust me.” He neglected to tell a dirty little secret about the time he had accidentally worked on a movie set for several hours straight, not knowing about certain bone damage he had sustained. At the moment, he ran on adrenaline and large amounts of Advil. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to leave the dining room for the emergency room.

  Sean glanced at Inna's shirt. She had replaced the previous one; this stated “If I wanted your opinion, I’d read your entrails.”

  He smiled. “I like your shirt.” He sighed. “So, there are no other assassins, CIA agents, or some other occupation that deals with lethality?”

  Mira shook her head. “No. Why would you…?”

  “It’s been that sort of weekend.”

  Inna laughed. “It’s about to get stranger. Look at the menu.”

  Sean sighed and did as she asked. The first item was “The Borg—Pasta that sticks together; We are pasta Borghese, resistance is futile.” There were Borg Tofu Cubes, Flying Saucer “V” Pizza, as well as “Kirk Burgers, made with tired, old meat, probably with Mad Cow.”

  Sean put down the menu and said, “So, Mira, while I think about it, could you tell me about Dragan Vasnic?”

  Mira narrowed her eyes. “He was from Frenki’s Red Berets; I told you I knew one or two before they joined. Andre Dragov was one, Dragan was the other. Why?”

  “He broke my ribs in, threw bottles at you, and I think he was the one who nearly cut my head off in the dark of the zocalo. He stole my metal suit and used it to thrash me soundly. I guess he had plastic surgery so you couldn’t ID him.”