Set to Kill: A Sean AP Ryan Novel (Convention Killings Book 2)

by Declan Finn

  “Give me a moment.”

  Sean heard Athena tapping at some keys as he walked into the Westin. He walked past the small lobby (about the size of a decent living room), and found himself on a marble catwalk. The elevators were in the middle of the catwalk, and there was a floor that went around the walls, but Sean could see straight down to the bottom floor, and up another six floors.

  Oh, this is going to make for a great three-dimensional shootout. Remind me not to take any VIPs through here if I can avoid it. Find out if there's a basement. Just not the kitchen. I at least remember RFK.

  “Oh for the love of God, Sean,” Athena finally growled. “Really?”

  Sean had to smile as he walked back out of the Westin, and turned back for the Hyatt. “I guess you saw it, huh?”

  “Who have you pissed off now?”

  “Great question. I've kept my head down in Rome for … how many months? The only people who might want a grudge are the same people who've held a grudge ever since then.”

  “Right,” Athena scoffed. “So about half the known world, then. Are you going to have ISIS suicide bombers chasing you down?”

  Sean thought it over a moment, then shook his head, even though she couldn't see it. He was shaking the thought away like a dog would shake off the damp. “Nah. The guys who tried for me today were slicker than that. They weren't the usual AQ or ISIS type. Their FBI creds were pretty good, and I'm not 100% certain that ISIS knows what the Dark Net is, to heck with how to get to specific pages on it. No, I think we're going to have bounty hunter problems.”

  Athena paused for a long moment. Sean could almost hear the wheels turning in her brain, lessons drilled into her by the Secret Service. She was considering what to do with Sean during the convention, probably if he should even be in the city during the job. But that was her part of the institution. She had always been a good fit for the company since day one. Her by-the-book temperament was perfect, and she was flexible enough to ignore the book when needed. It balanced out perfectly with Sean's inability to follow the book after he tossed it into a paper shredder and used the book's remains for confetti.

  “You'll be sitting this one out?” she asked.

  That's what he had been expecting. But he had also decided on the answer before he had even gotten to the meeting with Yvonne Wicklund. “No. Those guys are my problem. I can't see bounty hunters taking on an entire convention full of people to get to me. Especially since this convention will be armed.”

  “I wouldn't be so sure about that,” she warned. “Remember the cartel hitters that wanted you dead? They went after you at C-Con without a second's thought.”

  “Yes, in New York. At a small convention on a college campus where no one was armed except for us. Things are a little different in this neck of the world. Trust me on this one.”

  Sean slowed down as he approached the Hyatt, and he looked down the hill at the corner. The main entrance of each hotel was higher up the hill, and the back door was down the hill.

  I guess I should stay in the Hyatt at all times, that way I can either run down the hill, or just run on level ground? Or maybe the Marriott as a midway point?

  He shrugged, and headed for the front door. The main entrance was open, almost like a plaza, before it got to the wide doors. The lobby looked straightforward enough. Check-in was on the left, concierge office on the right, escalators going down were straight ahead, elevators at one o'clock, a patio right beyond them …

  Then Sean looked up to see every level of the hotel, the rooms wrapped around the wall of the building, with every level a sniper shot to almost every other level. “Oh crap.”

  “What is it?”

  “I need more Kevlar. A lot more Kevlar. Also, I think I have a bad feeling about this … give me a moment.”

  Sean darted forward and shot down the escalator, sliding down the bannister, shooting past the few passengers on the stairs. He hit the floor running, past the ballrooms, out onto the patio, and down the long set of stone stairs. He shot across the street and into the shadow of the Marriott's grand entrance, which had a sweeping driveway that was more like a traffic circle, built around a water fountain. He ran through the doors, and then …

  Sean looked up. Straight up. In fact, he looked all the way up to the ceiling. While the lobby had a ceiling, it opened up around the elevators. Through that gap, he could see the floor above, with the open atrium, and from there, he could see all the way up to the ceiling, and all the floors in between.

  One of the things that made Sean so good at his job was his imagination. The number of ways someone could execute an operation. Three tall buildings with sight lines on dozens of levels made Sean's brain go wild with possibilities.

  Because every single hotel, except the Sheraton, had an open atrium configuration.

  Snipers? Check. Projectiles thrown from a height? Double check. Molotov cocktails thrown from a height? Big old check.

  Oh yay. I am so screwed.

  * * * *

  Michael DeValera, mercenary to the world's millionaires … well, anyone who could afford a few million … looked down from the rail on the top floor, right at Ryan. He had seen much of what Ryan had seen—that if someone decided to cause havoc in the hotel, there would be very little to stop it, short of a full army.

  Then DeValera had looked up the 501st Stormtrooper regiment, and decided that Sean had a full army.

  DeValera had tracked Sean at a liberal distance, deciding that he wanted to make certain that he didn't get spotted. He wasn't anywhere near prepared to take Ryan at close quarters combat.

  All DeValera had to hear was the world “WyvernCon,” and he had the exact location for Sean Ryan's execution. The only thing he had to do was scout the location. It was such a big, sprawling convention, DeValera couldn't help but see all the possibilities for staging Sean Ryan's death.

  The next step for DeValera would be to figure out how to circumvent the security arrangements. Killing Ryan was one thing, but it wasn't worth it if he couldn't get away to spend his ten million dollars.

  I have time, DeValera thought. All the time in the world.

  Chapter 4: Kick the Puppies

  Wednesday, two days before WyvernCon

  Sean A.P. Ryan sat down on the couch on the 14th floor of the Downtown Atlanta Hilton. Over his shoulder was a drop straight to the lobby; it was the only way to be sure no one could come up behind him. He wore a nice, simple dark blue button-down tactical shirt and a gray blazer—it helped to cover up the six throwing knives, seven guns, and his dual tactical batons.

  This floor had a nice little lounge area. The floor itself had been cut off from all guests who were not on the floor—their room key card had to access the floor.

  In front of him was the first group he had to deal with, known as the Puppy-Punters, those who stood against all things Puppy, both Hydrophobic and Tearful.

  It had taken him weeks, but he had finally learned and retained the knowledge that SMURFs stood for Secret Masters Underground, Running Fandom. It seemed like a bit of a stretch to Sean, but he didn't really want to know in the first place.

  Though as far as the name “Puppy-Punters” went, they were all for it.

  These were the big names, as far as he could tell, and a more motley crew he couldn't imagine, and he had a great imagination.

  Terry and Patty Smith-Smythe-Smits were publishers, and they were married. When Sean had first heard the name a few months ago, he wondered aloud, “What idiot takes on a hyphenated name like that? Either don't take on the name at all, or change a letter or two. Seriously, what the hell?”

  “It was his idea,” Yvonne Wicklund had told him. “He was a Smits, and added her last name to his.”

  Sean had spent the next few minutes slamming his head against a desk, leaving a dent in the blotter.

  As he looked at the two publishers, he had such utter difficulties trying to figure out which was which. They were introduced as a unit, just “Patty and Terry.” Unfortunat
ely, they were both androgynous enough to be easily confused for which was which. In fact, they looked like siblings—brown eyes, brown hair, pale white skin, and hair that stopped just at the nape of the neck. Even worse, they both wore brown leather jackets bulky enough to conceal any identifiers up top. They both wore black combat boots, and they even sat with their arms crossed at the chest.

  “You know, Mister Ryan,” one began, so softly that Sean couldn't tell if it was a guy or a girl, “we feel so much safer with you here.”

  The other one laughed, loud and boisterous. “Absolutely!” A hand clapped down on Sean's arm that was so rough and callused, he thought it was a carpenter's hand. “Can't imagine coming here without your security measures in place.”

  Sean crossed his fingers just over his chest, one elbows on the arm of the couch. “It's an honor, Pat, Terry.”

  “Oh, just call us PaTerry,” said the first one. “Everyone else does.”

  Sean's eyes narrowed. “I think I'll save that for Sir Terry Pratchett, thanks. Now, would you like to introduce me to some of your companions?” Not that I don't already know who they are, I just want to see what you'll give away.

  “Of course,” bellowed one—Seriously, would makeup kill one of you? he thought. “The Puppies wanted a name for themselves, so we decided to go by the Friends of Sweetness and Light.”

  “Because they're such dicks,” one of them interjected. She was a thin black woman with hair that was less an Afro and more like a thundercloud, and not nearly as symmetrical. Sean had briefly wondered if the barber had stopped halfway through and forgot to keep going. Her clothes were tan, from her business suit to her micro-miniskirt. Sean was grateful her legs were crossed, and he really hoped that she had underwear on, otherwise she would probably flash half the population every time she shifted in her chair.

  “First,” the softer Smith-Smythe-Smits said, “Nikki K. Victoria Daalman.”

  “A pleasure,” Daalman griped.

  NKVD? he thought. Sean took great effort, but didn't react to the initials of the precursor to the Soviet KGB. “Indeed. You're a writer?”

  Daalman glowered. “Of course I am. I go by N.K.V. Daalman Haven't you heard of me? Agnes O'Day has been after me for years, that ugly bitch bag. Even before we formed Friends of Sweetness and Light.”

  Friends of Sweetness and Light? Sean thought. Really? I'd hate to see what you're like when you miss some coffee. “Keep in mind, I'm not big into science fiction, and—”

  “Well, you should read me,” Daalman growled. “It'll make up for your whiteness. A little.”

  Don't, Sean thought, shoot the client. Don't shoot the client. Write it 100 times and it may stick.

  On Sean's right, a heavyset man leaned forward, holding up a hand. He was big, bulky, with a short gray beard, and wearing a gray chauffeur’s cap for reasons that Sean couldn't even guess at. He even had Santa Claus spectacles. “Now now, N.K.V., you know I've been saying for months that the steady, civil, even-handed approach will lead to our inevitable victory over the forces of—”

  “Yeah, well, screw them,” Daalman barked.

  The heavy author was taken aback. “Excuse me?”

  “Far as I'm concerned,” Daalman said, “Ryan here should withdraw all protection from them, and let whatever happens to them happen. We're the ones who need protection.”

  The quieter one of the Smith-Smythe-Smits gestured to the other author and added, “Mister Ryan, may I introduce author Charles RR Martinez.” The quiet one pronounced it Martin-ez, making it sound even more bland and white bread than the publisher himself.

  “Yeah,” Daalman griped, “you might know him from the mountains of characters he's killed off in his little Terry Brooks snuff film.”

  Charles sniffed, offended. “Come now, I'm not that bad.”

  “Your entire plots run on carnage,” Daalman scoffed. “If you had a throne made out of their bones, it would look like a high chair.”

  Off to the left, a man in overpriced tweeds laughed. “Come on, Charles. Everyone knows that Castelo started everything about the Puppies just to get himself a damned Hubble Award.”

  Martinez coughed. “Didn't Castelo turn down his last nomination?”

  “That misses the point entirely!” tweed-jacket sniffed.

  “The man's as bad as Agnes O'Day! He's a racist exercising his white privilege.”

  Sean raised a hand. “Excuse me? As I understand it, Castelo is Portuguese, and O'Day is an alias, right? She's originally from one of the Indian tribes.”

  Daalman: “That's white enough!”

  “Hold it!” Sean barked.

  Daalman and Martinez looked at him, startled. She opened her mouth to say something, and Sean said, “You, guy in the tweeds, who are you again?”

  The academic-looking snob sniffed, as though offended that anyone needed to ask who he was. He slid his wire-frame glasses up his nose and angled his head up so he could literally look down his nose at Sean. “How is it that you cannot know who I am? I am the Hubble award-winning author of Goldshirts, an in-depth look about how those in power manipulate the system in order to step on the rights of those beneath him. I am the John Noah Prada.”

  Sean smiled. He didn't even consider biting back the remark before it flew from his lips. “I thought that was just Star Trek fan fiction.”

  Prada's academic exterior darkened as he leaned forward, as though he were going to kill Sean then and there. He suddenly calmed, and dismissed it with a particularly foppish, limp-wristed wave of his hand. “But N.K.V. is right. Agnes O'Day really started all of this, and until the Tearful Puppies disavow him, we don't have to play nice. O'Day has called for the destruction of la cosa nostra.”

  Martinez looked confused and stroked his gray beard. “They're crushing the mafia?”

  “No, no, no, my good man,” Prada said, waving his hand all over the place. “La cosa nostra, this thing of ours. The Hubbles, man! The Hubbles!”

  Sean raised his hand. “I thought that Gary Castelo started Tearful Puppies, and O'Day started with them, then created an offshoot. I'm told that the two groups don't get along that well.”

  “Oh, pish-tosh. That hardly addresses the issue.”

  Okay, seriously, who even talks like that? Sean asked. “So you folks seem to have more problems with O'Day than with the Tearful Puppies?”

  “Screw 'em both,” Daalman growled. “One's a bitch, and the other's an ugly bastard, so who cares if it's Gary or Agnes?”

  Martinez gaped, blinked, and turned on NKVD. “Hold on a second. You're not content with having a personal vendetta and an online feud with Agnes O'Day, but you want to deliberately taunt the Dark Lord of the Fisk!? Have you no sense of self-preservation?”

  Prada frowned, and readjusted his wire-framed glasses. “I thought he was the Universal Lord of Hate or something.”

  Daalman laughed. “Anything Castelo says to me will prove that he's a racist!”

  Martinez flailed, “But he does line-by-line and point-by-point dissections of arguments—”

  “So what?”

  “—if he acknowledges you at all!”

  “Even better! Then I still win!”

  Martinez: “How does that even work?”

  “Simple, heads I win, tails he loses.”

  “But—but—”

  “ENOUGH,” Sean bellowed. He looked around at the lot of them, marking them each in turn. From now on, Daalman was simply NKVD, Martinez was “Angel of Death,” and Prada was simply “the Academic.” “The next person who interrupts will be put into their place, am I understood?”

  Daalman whirled on Sean. “You racist little sh—”

  Sean flung his arm, and a knife embedded itself in the toe of her shoe. It landed right between the large toe and the next one over. She looked down and goggled at the weapon, surprised that she wasn't in pain already.

  “If you think that I missed taking off your toes, you're wrong,” Sean explained. “Now, shut up.” He looked to the ac
ademic Prada, and the man next to him. While Prada was in his mid-40s, this one was older, maybe in his late 60s or 70s. His clothes looked as old as Sean's, and less fashionable than Prada's tweeds, with a jacket of crushed green velvet topped off with a large, bright purple bow tie that would have made Oscar Wilde blush. He had his legs crossed like the two publishers.

  “And you are?” Sean asked.

  “This is Jerry Friedman!” Smith-Smythe-Smits the louder said. “He invented the hairballs, science fiction's most popular alien creation!”

  “Indeed.” Sean looked over Jerry Friedman, and wasn't impressed. “You have something to offer?”

  “Agnes O'Day,” he repeated. “Make sure she doesn't show up here. At least keep her and her minions the hell away from us. She's responsible for everything. She wants to kill us all. She hates gays and blacks and everybody not like her.”

  Sean cocked his head to one side. “You mean not from an Indian Tribe?”

  “They're Native Americans!” NKVD bellowed. “Racist!”

  Sean felt a sudden, angry adrenaline rush shoot through him. He closed his eyes, and let his head drop, chin to his chest, taking several, slow, deep breaths to calm himself. It was either that, or go postal and kill them all. And these were the idiots who insisted that someone like him be hired in the first place.

  Then again, he thought, I'm already hired. His head snapped up, his eyes bright and blazing. “Shut the hell up, sit the hell back, or I will personally throw you over the railing.”

  Daalman leaned back like she'd be smacked. “How dare you—”

  “Listen to me, you simpering little cowards!” Sean roared, glaring at them all. “I have been hired to keep everyone at this convention alive, not to spare your feelings.” He glared at Jerry Friedman. “If Agnes O'Day and any of her people come after you, I will nail them to the wall in highly uncomfortable positions. But until then, I catch even the hint, the whisper of you or your people going after these Depressed Puppies, I swear by the good God Almighty that you will not appreciate the results. Am I perfectly, crystal, clear?”'