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

by Declan Finn

  Galadren heard the voice of their tiny sorceress in their ear. “He must have slipped it off camera. I have like six groups of costumed people walking through. Half a dozen Green Lanterns, another half-dozen Ninja Turtles, and nine Sailor Scouts dressed like Japanese school girls, and I'm not sure that they're all women. You come down here and sort through this.”

  “Yes,” Galadren answered, “I, too, saw the shelled ones. I did not count them, though.”

  The familiar blond man asked, “Turtles? Ninja Turtles? How many were there?”

  “Six,” Sean answered.

  “One of them is the guy,” he answered. “The most the ninja turtles ever topped out at were five, and that's if you go for an unpopular female addition.”

  Sean said, “Did you hear that, Overwatch?”

  “I did. Tell the nerd you're talking to is that one of the turtles has spikes on his back.”

  Sean echoed that assessment, and the blond frowned. “Nuts. Didn't think they'd incorporate bad guys. Never mind.”

  Sean sighed. “I'm surrounded by nerds, and they can't even get their fandoms straight. Wonderful. For the record, I preferred Donatello.”

  The other man looked at the closed tactical baton in Sean's hand and said, “I never would have guessed.”

  “Shut it, Kovach.”

  Galadren blinked. “Ah, friend Kovach! I now recall you. Have you been well since our last encounter?”

  The author shrugged. “No one's shot at me in months, that's always an improvement. Though now people are trying to kill me again, so … honestly? It's starting to feel like I'm finally back to normal.”

  “I understand this.”

  Sean held up a hand. “Stop. Galadren, lead the way to the costume.” Sean followed, and kept speaking as they went down the stairs. “Overwatch? Call the cops, tell them to send a forensic team, we got someone running around with sharp objects. I want the costume dusted for prints, and maybe DNA. Yes, it takes two days, but the con is four. If this nutjob kills somebody, we can have a head start on suspects.

  “And this is why I hate cons.”

  Chapter 10: SWATting Shiva

  That evening, before the opening ceremony, Sean Ryan sat outside the Hyatt's main door, waiting for the big entrances of several of the guests. Apparently, they were going to be making it some sort of big deal, with many of the guests showing up to be brought in like they were at the Oscars.

  Plenty of people were already there. There were people dressed like noir private detectives, only they were carrying sticks (walking sticks, hockey sticks, wizard's staffs and staves). And there were even stranger T-shirts: “Schrodinger's Cat is Dead, I killed it,” “I-D-10-T Error,” shirts that appeared to be made out of stained glass, and a man with bright blue contact lenses, with a shirt that read “I am not a #, I am a Fremen!”

  I wonder if they purposely referenced Dune, Sean thought.

  It wasn't just for people who could easily walk, either. There was at least one man in a wheelchair, only it looked like it had been designed for a Mad Max movie, and built entirely of out of Lego bricks (he was also wearing a yellow Flash costume, which confused Sean to no end).

  He pulled out his iPad and frowned. Maybe he should give Kovach's thing another read. It had helped identify Fred Moshevsky, didn't it?

  * * * *

  SWATting Jesse “Shiva” James

  March

  SWAT pulled up to the bunker deep in the backwoods of Tennessee. Their entry through the open path was swift and professional. After the first five turns, they realized that they were in a strangely intricate maze created by The Great and Powerful Barbara, Queen of all things Goth.

  When they finally made it to the door, SWAT took a moment to take a breath and do a headcount to make sure no one got lost. Again.

  The SWAT leader turned to the door with the battering ram.

  Two figures in camo gear darted out and smacked right into the SWAT team, with cries of "Tag, you're it!"

  SWAT swiveled around, trying to find out what just happened. They tried, once again, for the door, only to be hit again; this time, one of the figures was definitely wielding a Halligan tool.

  The SWAT team leader blinked. “What the hell…?”

  The door opened. The Great and Powerful Barbara, Mistress of all things Goth, stood in the doorway, dressed in solid black, her hair freshly dyed bluish/purple, looking so stunning, Elvira looked pale in comparison … paler, anyway.

  “Kids!” she called out. “Don't play so rough with the nice SWAT guys! They're not as tough as you are.” She beamed at the SWAT leader. “Can I help you nice gentlemen?”

  The SWAT leader, dazzled and confused, said, “Um, we were told that there was a maniac at this address waving a gun around, making death threats. Jesse James?”

  Barbara waved them in. “Come on, have a seat. I'll get Jesse. He's napping. He wrote three books last night, and then ran out of caffeine.”

  SWAT slowly moved in behind her, wary, guns in hand … and staring at Barbara's nicely shaped behind.

  Barbara waved them in. “Have a seat on the coffin. Jesse! Some nice SWAT guys to see you!”

  Jesse “Shiva” James, Depopulator and Destroyer of Worlds came down the steps, looking hungover, wearing a kilt. “The Daystar! It burns! Buuuuuurrrrrnnnnnssss!”

  Barbara handed Jesse a Red Bull. It was consumed in seconds. “Oh, that's much better! How are you guys doing? Sorry, I finished a book for Gary, a book for Dave, and one for Eric last night, with a few short stories, and I kinda crashed. Did you know—”

  The SWAT guys all stared, open mouthed, as Jesse James continued for the next hour on the intricacies of zombies, government bureaucracy, and how they tied in with New Orleans politics and Hurricane Katrina. “—and then they shoot the gnome by accident. And—”

  Barbara wandered in and absently handed him another Red Bull.

  “Thank you, dear.”

  At that moment, a very tall, very young teenager tackled the SWAT leader, and they start wrestling. The girl quickly got the upper hand.

  Jesse James finished the last drop of Red Bull, then turned to the teenager. “Don't roughhouse with the SWAT team, they're fragile, you know.”

  His daughter Faith looked up and smiled. “Okay, Dad.”

  Faith wandered away, and James smiled. “Anyway, so the thing about the gnome is…”

  Jesse James continued to talk for another six hours, until the SWAT team fell asleep. Jesse glanced at his watch. “Great! Sun's down. Back to work. I have to pump out another book by morning. Nice talk, everybody.”

  Rejuvenated by the darkness and caffeine, he bounded back upstairs, and started pounding away for only a minute. “Darn it! I broke another keyboard!”

  Meanwhile, Barbara and the kids disarmed the SWAT team and threw bomb-proof blankets over them.

  Faith smiled. “Can we play with their toys?”

  Barbara shook her head. “You know your father doesn't want you playing with anything the city would issue to their local cops. He only wants you to work with quality toys.”

  * * * *

  Sean sighed and shook his head. You have so got to be kidding me. At least I hope they are. A labyrinth? I'm surprised he didn't throw in David Bowe. Teenagers tackling a SWAT team? A real SWAT team would have shot them. So I at least know that's inaccurate. But dear lord, I hope the rest is also made up. I'm not sure I'd want to know.

  Sean frowned at the iPad, looking up when the wall he leaned up against started to vibrate. He peered around. Does anyone else feel that?

  The glass in the doors started to rattle. The ground shook.

  Atlanta doesn't get earthquakes, does it?

  Sean took two steps forward, and stopped dead as he saw the next vehicle round the corner.

  It was a tank.

  The tank swung in, pulling to a stop before the doors of the Hyatt. The brakes squealed, and Sean wondered if he needed to go to war with a freaking tank.

  The tank's hatch
popped open, and the driver bounded out. He was a well-built fellow with a brown mustache and a goatee, and only the slightest bit of a gut.

  “We're here, everybody,” he said in a deep voice, tinged with the South.

  Sean blinked when he saw Gary Castelo pull himself out of the tank. He wore a button that read “Intergalactic Lord Of Rage,” on his MOLLE vest; it was the only spot not covered with ammo. He fairly bristled with guns—handguns in hip, thigh, ankle, and shoulder holsters, a bazooka and two automatic rifles on his back, and a light machine-gun cradled in his arms like a baby.

  He looks like a heavily-armed mountain.

  “Thanks for the ride, Tom,” Castelo told the driver.

  “Not a problem.”

  Rachel Hartley, the “Vile Yet Glamorous Fairy Princess”, stepped onto the sidewalk next. Sean cocked his head and studied her outfit. She looked like something out of Buck Rodgers, wrapped in tin foil, with a bubble helmet. The effect was interesting with her curvy form.

  “I'm just glad that there wasn't a stop for gas,” she said. “These things have terrible mileage.”

  The driver named Tom shrugged. “Sorry. Could have been worse—”

  A belch of flame came out of the top of the tank, and Sean restrained himself from pulling his gun. Omar Gunderson bounded out like a kid with a toy. “Whhhheeeee!”

  Tom sighed. “We could have left the flamethrower with Omar on the way here.”

  Gunderson sprayed the air with the flamethrower for a bit, then stopped and saw that everyone in the area was looking at him. Like a kid with a cookie jar, he put the flame on "cigarette lighter" and lowered it. “Sorry.”

  Rachel patted him on the head. “It's okay. Nothing important is on fire.”

  Sean stepped up and offered his hand. “Hi. Sean A.P. Ryan, Sean A.P. Ryan and associates. Can I help you?”

  The tank driver shook it. “Tom Knighton.”

  “His Tankness,” Gary Castelo said.

  Sean started. “His What-Now?”

  Knighton laughed. “I took one of those online tests, and it told me that I sexually identify as a tank.”

  “Uh huh. Well, Your Tankness, good to meet you.”

  Knighton smiled and looked around. “Wow, nice place. Way more crowded than Ohio ComicCon. Or UniversalCon.”

  Gary Castelo shrugged, and his arsenal moved with him. “Exactly part of the problem with the Hubbles. For years, UniversalCon has had fewer and fewer attendants, and thus the Hubbles only represent an incredible small, incredibly cliquish circle of fans—”

  “No!” sneered a voice from the hotel door.

  Sean groaned. Already?

  “The Hubbles represent allllll of science fiction!” Johnny Noah Prada roared. “It is the most prestigious award in all of science fiction.”

  I gotta get that tweed-jacketed jerk a muzzle.

  Castelo sighed. “Hi, John. Everyone, you remember Johnny Prada.”

  Rachel Hartley rolled her eyes. “Doesn't he get enough of a beating every time you two go a few rounds on Twitter?”

  Prada waved her away. “No! He never addresses any of my points! He started Tearful Puppies because he just wants a Hubble! Admit it, Castelo! Admit it!”

  Gunderson held up a finger. “But he’s turned down his nomination for the past two years.”

  Prada sneered. “Oh, shut up, Omar!”

  Gunderson pouted, and hugged his flamethrower like a teddy bear. Rachel Hartley tilted her head forward, as though she was about to charge—her fishbowl helmet fell in front of her face. “Hey, stop picking on Omar! And hell, you couldn't even get on the Hubble ballot!”

  Prada sneered. “That doesn't even touch on the issue!”

  Knighton started, as though the stupid struck him. “It blows you out of the water. You have no leg to stand on. Now stand aside!”

  Prada: “Ha! You didn't even touch me!”

  Hartley rolled her eyes. “Your argument is in pieces on the floor.”

  “It was just a scratch! I've had worse! Come on, ya pansy!”

  Whap!

  Prada staggered off to one side. Behind him was Colonel George Bradley, in his full Patton regalia. He held his swagger stick up and at the ready, and looked at Prada as though he hadn't seen him. “You should know better than to get in the way of my stick when I'm in full swing.”

  Bradley slapped Castelo on a patch of skin not covered by guns or ammo. “Gary, you magnificent bastard! What are we all waiting around here for! Let's go in!”

  Castelo: “We're waiting on a few more people.”

  “Anyone I know?” Jesse James asked as he walked around the tank. The author, as usual, wore a kilt and a button-down shirt.

  After him came a fairly attractive woman … with dyed blue hair, curvy build, wearing solid black.

  I suppose that this one is Barbara, Queen of All Things Goth.

  Alongside them were two kids – early teens, at most – wearing full battle dress fatigues, carrying almost enough weapons to make Gary Castelo happy.

  I'm really hoping that Kovach made up the kids tackling the SWAT team. I really am.

  “At least it's night,” Jesse James said. “Cursed daystar.”

  Knighton smiled at Sean. “Welcome to my world.”

  “But a tank? Really?”

  Knighton shrugged. “It fit the parody. And it's for the parade on Sunday.”

  Barbara handed James a coffee, and it was quickly downed like a shot of vodka. He blinked, whipped out his iPhone, and started typing.

  Colonel Bradley looked around, doing a headcount. “We waiting on anyone else?”

  “Halt!”

  Jerry Friedman, looking like the Cryptkeeper with bad sartorial choices, lurched up to them. He glared at all of them. “I think all of you should just stay out! The Hubbles, the precious, they belong to real, true fans! Not outsiders!”

  Castelo sighed. “You mean the people of UniversalCon? That's what I said before this started.” He pointed to Johnny Noah Prada, still sprawled out on the ground. “Tell that to him.”

  Jerry Friedman stared at them all a moment, glaring and steaming. He suddenly roared. “Racists!”

  Castelo frowned. “I'm Portuguese.”

  Hartley nodded. “Ditto.”

  “Misogynists!”

  Hartley stamped her foot. “Hello? Woman! Otherwise, I'm a guy with a great rack!”

  Rachel Hartley posed prettily. Sean nearly laughed at the idea that traffic stopped for the surrounding mile.

  Barbara James nodded. “Ditto!” She posed next to Hartley.

  At that point, Sean swore he heard at least one set of brakes squealing.

  Omar Gunderson laughed. “You're just lucky Poppy isn't here, too. She's a redhead. Your brain would probably melt.”

  His Tankness Tom Knighton drawled, “You sure it hasn't already?”

  Jerry Friedman ground his teeth, and inexplicably bellowed. “Agnes O'Day! Homophobes! White men!”

  Everyone exchanged a look and shrugged.

  Colonel Bradley stepped up to Friedman in a perfect parade ground march. “Listen, you ignoble bastard, insult my people any more, I will call you out to a duel, and my ivory-handled pistols will probably hit you before your hand can clear leather!”

  Friedman sneered right back at him. “Don't you know who I am? I made the hairballs! I'll unfriend you on Facebook! I'll unfriend allll of you on Facebook!”

  Friedman was suddenly tackled to the ground by Jesse James' children, and they started to wrestle with him.

  Barbara laughed, then cried out, “Kids! No roughhousing with the creepy old man! You don't know where he's been!”

  Hartley nodded sagely. “Not enough disinfectant.”

  Jesse James finally looked up from his iPhone. “Done! Gary, you'll have another book to edit when you check your mail.”

  Castelo groaned. “Another? I'm still two behind.”

  The “Tearful Puppies” walked into the front of the Hyatt as a united front. Jerry Friedman
pulled himself off the ground, and Johnny Noah Prada was still sprawled against the tarmac. “Had enough?” he slurred. “I'm invincible! I'll bite your legs off! Hello! Hello! All right, we'll call it a draw! Hello?”

  Sean shook his head, and bent down to pick Prada off the ground.

  He just narrowly missed the bullet aimed for his head.

  Chapter 11: Target Practice

  Sean dropped into a roll, letting his momentum carry him behind one of the giant stone pillars around the walkway of the Hyatt's front promenade.

  He came to his feet, drawing his gun in one smooth motion, looking for a target.

  Sean stuck his head out around the pillar, and caught only a flicker of movement before he pulled back. And that's when a fresh stream of bullets sprayed concrete dust all over the place.

  Oh, come on. Are we kidding? Automatic weapons in plain sight, in a public place? The things people do for a few million dollars. Maybe if I go around –

  That thought was cut off by more bullets. This time from the other side of the pillar.

  Lord, I'm well and truly screwed.

  “This is Ryan,” he whispered into his earwig. “Are you all done taking your sweet time?”

  “Hold,” came the voice of Athena Marcowitz.

  Um … no.

  * * * *

  Maria Daniela looked across the tank to her partner, Tully Roberts. They nodded as one, and swept in. The entire time, they kept their eyes locked over the sights, their sub-machineguns straight and level, and there was no way in hell anyone in their sights was going to get away from them. The fact that this man even avoided them for this long was a surprise in itself. Their specialty was to get close to the target, then blow it away before anyone caught on.

  This was a little different.

  Tully pulled a pin out of a flash-bang, counted a few seconds, then hurled it behind the pillar. It went off right before it touched the ground. At that range, the light was so intense, and the noise was so loud, it could cause eyes and ears to bleed.

  Easy pickings would be all that was left.

  Tully and Maria moved in for the kill. He came around the left of the pillar, as she came around the right.