by Declan Finn
“Really?”
“Okay, fine. I was there to teach them to survive in the event of a terrorist attack. Not many people like the new Pope, remember? He has friends in Sudan who want his head—or other parts of his anatomy. He figured one good suicide bomber would take out everyone around him. And he wanted everyone around him to be ready for that sort of thing. Obviously, it was a different situation than we thought we'd end up with, but it worked anyway.”
Wicklund nodded. Everything had jived with what she had read, or what she had been told. “Do you know who recommended you for this job?”
“David Peters?” he asked, remembering the popular science fiction author from his last convention job. “Or was it Lee Kristoff? I worked with him in one or two of his films as a stuntman, and he liked me well enough. Or was it—”
“Matthew Kovach.”
Sean stopped dead, and had a sinking feeling in his stomach. That was one author he hadn't expected to hear from ever again. The last time the two of them had spoken, Sean had thrown a 100-year-old marble statuette at him after Kovach said he'd be writing that trilogy.
“Oh. Joy.”
“That won't be a problem, will it?”
“It shouldn't be,” Sean grumbled. “Next question.”
Wicklund looked at her checklist. “Is there any blowback from all of that?”
Sean raised an eyebrow at the term. He didn't know many civilians who'd use it. “Blowback? Really?”
“We get a lot of servicemen at this Con, Mister Ryan. Given the size of your last operation, I can only imagine there would be some residual resentment, at the very least.”
Sean thought back to the six bodies he'd left behind at his hotel, and the crime scene guys he had to talk to, not to mention the Atlanta PD, and said, “Not that I've seen. Short of the legal action.”
Wicklund looked dubious, but she moved on. “Now, I see that you have some people in your organization here and there? Your number two operators are a Miss Marcowitz and Mister Levine?”
“Yes.”
Wicklund studied her photos. Athena Marcowitz was a slender, over six-foot tall woman of mixed-race ancestry, and she could technically have been a mix of anything. Her skin tone was a shade that could have been Sicilian, Hispanic, African, or Middle Eastern.
And funny, Wicklund thought, she didn't look Jewish.
Neither did the other member of Sean's team, Brian Levine. He was a solid six-feet tall, could have been a quarterback, was certainly black, and had a calm, pleasant demeanor about him that felt very grounded. He could have been carved from stone, he had just that much gravitas.
“Why is he Levine now?” she asked. “I asked around, and found out that his real name is Murphy? Edward Murphy?”
Sean leaned forward, and his eyes narrowed. “Who exactly did you ask?”
“Remember when I said we have servicemen in the convention?” she answered. “They have jobs that they can't talk about.” She tapped “Levine's” photo. “From what I can tell, he can't talk about his job, either.”
“Of course he can,” Sean said darkly. “He works for me now. He changed his name because he didn't want it to be 'Edward call-me-Eddie-and-you-die Murphy.' It got on his nerves, and so I suggested he change it.”
“Good call. And Miss Marcowitz was Secret Service?”
“Correct,” he said flatly, still unhappy about Levine's cover being blown.
“Is that also an alias?” she asked, smiling.
He shook his head, still annoyed.
“And neither one of them was involved in the Rome incident?”
He had to laugh at that one. “Yeah. Sure. An incident. That's certainly one way to put it. The short answer is no. I didn't want them to be in town in case I had to pull the cord for the emergency contingency.”
Wicklund nodded slowly. Her people at the convention had provided a great network of information, and that was one point that they only knew whispers about. During the Rome thing, there had been threats that, if the UN forces had come in to take the Vatican, and looked like they were going to be victorious, and kill everyone in the Vatican, then whoever was left would have detonated an atomic device to level all of Vatican Hill, as well as any forces in the vicinity. Every last one of the people she talked to suspected that it had not been a bluff. Part of the rumor mill suggested that the Pope had been bluffing about it during his time at the Hague, but most of them agreed that the Israelis had then sent one of their bombs to the Vatican in order to make the bluff a full house.
She looked at Sean, and decided that it was one question she did not want to know the answer to. Because she didn't know if the answer would reassure her, or scare her—or which answer would have what effect.
“From what I know, there are two other members of your operation? They're not listed on your website?”
Sean frowned, and wondered if any of her convention goers were also involved in the FBI or Interpol. Probably. “Yes. A Terrence Boyle and a Galahad Wren.”
“Don't you mean Galadren?” Wicklund asked.
Sean winced. He usually didn't like to talk about Galadren, preferring him as a secret weapon—or as a strange cousin locked in the basement, depending on the mission. Sometimes, it didn't hurt to have a six-foot nutcase who believed he was a Middle Earth elf running loose on the battlefield, he made a good distraction. However, Galadren was hard to explain, other than in clinical terms. And there was never any way to make “schizophrenic break from reality, with paranoid tendencies and delusions of grandeur” sound like a positive spin.
“Galadren is harmless,” Sean insisted, assuming that Wicklund knew at least the rumors. “Yes, he believes he's an Elf. He doesn't think he's Legolas or anything, but he thinks he's a holdover from the great evacuation of Middle Earth to the Gray Havens, just doing some cleanup until all the orcs are gone. However, in his case, he labels all evil human beings as orcs, and thus he can never go home. Most days, he interprets things in his own vocabulary. At worst … he speaks Elvish, and presumes that I can too.”
Wicklund waved it away. “Oh, don't worry, everyone knows about Middle Earth's Most Wanted Elven Assassin. Galadren isn't a problem. In fact, I'm sure he'll fit in perfectly. Mister Boyle, however…”
Sean sighed. Yeah. That was a problem. On paper, Boyle's history was IRA splinter group. Known associate is a deceased drug dealer. Attempted murder of an actor in LA until said drug dealer overdosed. Wanted by Interpol, and chased to the United States by Interpol agent and Irish cop Maureen McGrail. Oh, yeah, and I had to kick his ass a few times.
“Look, Boyle's little IRA cell was … three people? One of them became an actor. The other one became a 'freedom fighter' because he had been run out of the drug business by the cops. Boyle isn't really a bad guy, just desperately misguided. And now I'm giving him guidance. Whether he wants it or not.”
“And you're going to have him here?”
“It helps to have muscle around.”
Wicklund nodded slowly. “I understand. But you're not going to be using him too much, I hope?”
“Again, he's useful. And I believe in redemption.”
“Understandable.” She looked at her notes again. “Have you taken on any jobs since the Vatican skirmish?”
Sean laughed, thinking about just how inane that question sounded. As though he could have gone anywhere without being noted by the press. “Um, no. I've spent much of my time in Rome, hiding from prosecution in the United States, and watching most of the world's leaders demand that I be labeled a war criminal, put before the Hague, then shot.”
Wicklund furrowed her brows. “I didn't know they still shot people in the EU.”
“For me, they'd make an exception.”
Wicklund scoffed, “I can see that, I guess. Though it was never entirely clear. What did the United States want you for?”
“President Barry really wanted the other team to win.”
Wicklund nodded. That had been an understatement. When President Barr
y backed the UN's play against the Vatican, virtually giving carte blanche to every random group with an agenda to go after the Catholic Church, the world had gone insane. When the UN declared that the Vatican had been guilty of human rights violations because they didn't believe in birth control or abortion, and declared that the Vatican's holdings around the world should be confiscated, President Barry was all for it. There had been Green groups that had gone after churches, Islamic groups who claimed reparations for the Crusades, feminist groups who wanted money on the grounds the UN cited. San Francisco went insane because, well, it was San Francisco, and the list went on.
“Heck,” Sean continued. “I'm surprised there weren't a lot of problems here in Atlanta during that entire mess.”
Wicklund smiled. “Much of the South was only quiet because of the very open-minded views on gun control—being that gun control is that you hit what you aimed for.”
“True.”
Wicklund glanced at the sheet of paper, with her handwritten notes. “I've been told from people who were at your last science fiction convention that you would never do another one ever again.”
“Who told you that?” Sean asked. “David Peters? Or Kovach?”
“And a few others. Was it not true?”
“No, I said it. But bullets are expensive. And when you're waging a war against the combined might of North Korea, Sudan, Al Qaeda, with some French and Russian SpecOps thrown in for fun, it's easy to go broke. And I did. I used all of my personal wealth on that operation. I'd like to be able to make a living again. I'm a mercenary. I follow the money.”
Wicklund gave a small, sly smile. “I thought you preferred 'Cleanser of the Gene Pool.' A line you stole from Deadpool?”
Sean laughed. “Caught me. Any more questions?”
Chapter 2: More Questions
Yvonne Wicklund straightened in her chair in the Hilton's lobby. It was time to make certain that Sean Ryan knew exactly what he was getting into. “Let's start with what you know about WyvernCon.”
Sean leaned back in the chair, steepled his fingers, and recalled what he could. “WyvernCon, five convention hotels large, possibly the largest Sci-Fi/fantasy convention on the planet. Averaging around seventy thousand people every year, and the ceiling gets higher every year. You guys are one step short of being San Diego Comic Con, who gets the A-list celebrities, while you folks mostly get heavy hitters on TV, maybe B-plus film stars, and A-plus science fiction authors. Is that a good start?”
“Passable. You at least have a general idea of how big our operation is.”
“I think the term is 'great big sprawling mess',” Sean summed up. “I have no idea what you actually want me to do. Last time I worked one of these, I had one mission, guarding one person, Mira Gaijic.”
“Yes, we know. She has some glowing things to say about you.”
Sean rolled his eyes. “I saved her newborn son and her husband, as well as herself. I think she might have one or two nice things to say. Here and there. Can I at least have some idea of what you all want me to do at the con? At least some idea of what resources I'll have.”
"Stormtroopers."
Sean didn't even blink. “Star Wars or World War II?”
“Star Wars. They're all marines or cops. It's the only reason they can march in file. And hit what they aim at.”
Sean laughed. “Exxxcellent. I have an army!”
“We have a Hulk,” Wicklund muttered automatically.
“What?”
“Never mind.” She put everything down and took a slow, deep breath. “This might take a while.”
“I'm so used to that.”
“You know what SWATting is?”
He cocked his head to one side. “Basically? Calling 9-1-1 in the hopes of siccing a SWAT team on someone you really don't like. And hoping the target gets shot in the process. It's an Internet form of harassment, and / or attempted murder, depending on your POV.”
Yvonne grimaced, obviously not wanting to go into it. “We've had a few problems in recent months of one group using that on several guests here at the convention. There have been some concerns.”
Sean scoffed, and grinned. Such an understatement. “I can imagine.”
Yvonne raised a finger. “First, we have the Tearful Puppies Save the Orphans campaign—”
He started. “The what?"
“Long story on the name. Anyway, we have Gary, Intergalactic Lord of Rage—”
“Who?"
Yvonne sighed, turned on her iPad, and handed it to him. “Him? In the middle.”
Sean studied the group photo for a moment. Bald, Emperor Ming 'stash, bear … “The seven-foot tall teddy bear? Hey, I think I bought a few guns from him.”
"Probably. Anyway, you have the Stunning Yet Vile Fairy Princess and her umbrella of Death—”
Sean held up a hand. “Wait, is there a Darth Leia?”
“Not quite. The Portuguese female next to Gary. The White Mormon Male with a great rack,” she said wryly.
He blinked. Hard. He stared at the woman in the photo. “… Um … Dude ... She's clearly a woman.”
“Long story.”
“There are a lot of those, aren't there?”
It was Wicklund's turn to roll her eyes. “You have no idea.”
I hate Cons. “Okay.”
“And you have Jesse James.”
Sean's right eyebrow shot up. “That's an alias, right? Pseudonym?”
“Nope, it's his real name. Don't bring up the Old West outlaw. Just don't. Anyway, that's him over there. At the end, with his family.”
Sean squinted at the photo. “Is that man wearing a kilt?”
“Yup.”
“Is that common?”
“Yup.”
He sighed. "Lemme guess, long story?”
“Kinda.”
He looked at the woman next to James—Black leather, nice figure … blue hair. “And the hot, blue-haired goth chick is...?”
“His wife,” she answered. “She's smarter than all of us put together, and we have some rocket scientists at this con, so don't make jokes.”
Sean blanched at that. “I'd never. People have to be schmucks first. So, we have the Sad—”
“Tearful!”
Sean: “—Puppies, and they're interested in … what?”
“Saving the Hubble Awards from their own obscurity and left-wing nutters who have control over it.”
Sean laughed aloud. “No one cares about the Academy Awards, and no one's trying to save that from left-wing nutters. Have I heard of this Hubble Award?”
“Oh, sure. Asimov won it. Heinlein won it. I think Ellison won it.”
“Two out of three ain't bad,” Sean joked. “And the Distressed Puppies are trying to … what? Make sure other people can play with the Hubble?”
Wicklund waved her hand back and forth. “Basically so that anyone can win an award based on talent, merit, that sort of thing.”
“Good luck on that. Hell, the Golden Globes have been screwed up since the start, and that's only voted on by five guys at a foreign correspondents' dinner.” Sean paused, and thought this over a bit. An award that had been taken over by a cadre of left-wingers, desperate to cling to their little clubhouse. Considering what Sean had seen in news reports of leftists turning on the Catholic Church with violence and riots, it was easy to draw conclusions of who needed his protection. “So, the people who are begging for my protection are the Bawling Puppies?”
“Tearful,” Yvonne Wicklund corrected. She calmed down and cleared her throat. “No. None of the Tearful Puppies are asking for your help.”
Sean blinked. Really? That's usually who need the help in my experience. “If not them, then who—?”
“The Puppy-Punters."
Sean shook his head, and very slowly counted to ten. “The what-now?”
“We have a few names for those who don't like the Tearful Puppies. Puppy-Punter is the obvious one.”
“Of course it is,” Sean drawled.
“Why not?”
“And there's SMURFs for one. CHUDs for another.”
"Riiiight. Sci-Fi people and their acronyms,” he grumbled. “Next you're going to try convincing me that an RPG is not a rocket propelled grenade.”
“Actually—" Yvonne began.
“Smurfs!” Sean interrupted, trying to get back on the subject at hand. “What about them? Lefty-looney nut jobs? That's it?”
She nodded. “That's it.”
“Who are those players? Anyone I know?”
“Well, you have John Noah Prada—wrote a Star Trek Fan Fic named Goldshirts, and got a Hubble for it. You can imagine why he'd want them to stay the same.”
Sean sighed, closed his eyes, and tried to concentrate. “I thought they were Red Shirts?”
“Not on the Third Generation,” Yvonne told him. “Also, you have the guy who invented the Hairballs."
Sean glared at her. “Now you're just pulling my leg, aren't you? You're kidding me, right? Something a cat coughed up?"
“No. More like the flat cats made by Heinlein. The author name is Jerry Friedman.”
Sean rolled his eyes. “Uh huh. Sure. I think I'll look them up later. And you said something about another group? A third group?"
“Yes, the Hydrophobic Puppies, but most of them won't be at this convention.”
“Seriously?” Sean asked.
“Correct. They won't be there.”
Sean nodded, trying to wrap his head around the names. “Now, I mean the name: Hydrophobic Puppies?”
Wicklund nodded. “They want the Hubbles scrapped, burned to the ground, and start over with something new.”
He thought a moment, then chuckled. “Well, if someone told me they were going to burn down the Academy Awards, I would just make sure that George Clooney was still in the building when it went up. And who's in charge of the Rabid—”
“Hydrophobic Puppies! It's a her, actually. She goes by the name Agnes O'Day.”
Sean blinked. "Riiiight. Sure. Of course.” He leaned forward with a What the heck? look on his face. “So, lemme just get this clear. You have the Hubbles, the lefties who own the Hubbles, the Hydrophobics who want to burn the Hubbles, and the Tearful Puppies who want to save the Hubbles from themselves. Is that what you're telling me?”
