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

by Declan Finn

  The only ones there were Tully and Maria.

  Had they looked, up, they would have seen their target pressing himself between the pillar and the wall of the hotel, hanging there less like a spider, and more like a spider web.

  Sean had one arm free, the one with the gun in it.

  Tully and Maria were dispatched with one bullet each, coming down, straight through the crowns of their skulls.

  Sean tucked his gun away, and worked his way down. Well, that sucked.

  Sean poked his head out from around the pillar, and found himself with two more gunmen ready to drill him, only this time with fully automatic rifles at both ends of the courtyard.

  * * * *

  Faith and Sophia James burst into the hotel, charging through the Hyatt with all the exuberance of children.

  They knew exactly where their group was going, they knew exactly where they were going to be, so the two teens darted straight for it, knowing full well that their parents, and the entourage they came with, would be swamped with fans for a while now.

  So when they were attacked by a Ninja Turtle with a four-foot staff, they were all alone.

  The first swing came from relatively nowhere. First they were dashing down the stairs, and then, the staff came at them, shoulder-high.

  Sophia dropped and rolled under the swing, and Faith burst back, narrowly missing the attack.

  This left the attacker with Sophia behind, Faith in front, and the Turtle in the middle.

  Faith burst in, slamming her shoulder into the Turtle's chest padding, checking his arm with hers, so he couldn't swing back.

  Sophia grabbed a chair and smashed it over the Turtle's head. Faith took the staff away, then thrust it into the attacker’s face. Blood and teeth went flying. Faith swung the other end of the staff into the Turtle's leg, just missing the knee.

  “Kids! Stop attacking that man!”

  Faith and Sophia stopped, and looked up the stairs as the turtle wandered away. Barbara James stood at the top of the stairs, hands on black, leather-clad hips, looking like Blue Sonja.

  “But Mom!” they cried. “He started it!”

  Barbara's eyes narrowed. “Oh did he?”

  She charged down the stairs, looking like nothing so much as a goth Valkyrie in full swing.

  They looked around, but Turtle-man was already gone.

  Stormtroopers came down the stairs, “blasters” at the ready. “Is there a problem, ma'am?”

  Barbara looked at them. “Yes. A man in a Turtle costume went after my children.”

  The Stormtroopers looked at the staff, then each other, nodded, and sent out a BOLO order for Donatello.

  * * * *

  Sean threw himself forward in a roll, desperately seeking cover behind the tank before he was gunned to pieces by the two automatic rifles.

  Sean waited for a moment, listening for the new onslaught to begin. When nothing came, he peeked out around the tank tread, seeing what happened.

  There was Athena Marcowitz standing behind one shooter, her K-bar knife rammed into his brain.

  Sean stood, and walked around the tank's other side, confident that the other shooter would be similarly dispatched. He was, only this one had a knitting needle jammed into his temple by Brian Levine. “Now I know why you guys were busy,” Sean said.

  There were two screams from across the street, and all three of them turned. Two men with guns fell into traffic, arrows sticking out of their backs. “And that,” Sean said, “is why I put Galadren in a sniper's position.”

  From behind, someone called “Gun!”

  All three whirled around, only to see a group of gunmen being beaten over the head by a group of men, all wearing wide-brimmed hats, long leather coats, and carrying heavy staffs.

  Sean blinked. “What the…?”

  “Henry Berlin, wizard PI,” Athena said, watching the gunmen receive a thorough beating. “A Tim Banker creation. Hence the hats and the Gandalf staffs.”

  Sean shrugged. “Gotta love fandom.”

  “How did you get away from the flash bang, anyway?” Brian asked. “You were like ten feet away when it went off.”

  Sean pulled out his earwig. “It doubles as a hunter's ear. I looked away, closed my eyes tight, and this filtered out the noise. I usually carry them when I'm going to go into any situation where I'm going to be shooting a lot. Can't exactly wear earmuffs the way I run in a shooting gallery.”

  Brian nodded. Sean's idea of a shooting gallery was one where he was being shoved, punched, kicked, and tripped, all at a dead run.

  Sean popped the earwig back in. He took a step, and wobbled, prompting Athena and Brian to catch him. “Okay, maybe I should be checked for a concussion.”

  “Sean,” Wilhelmina Goldberg said from her position in the security office. “We have a problem.”

  Sean frowned. “Of course we do. What now?”

  “There was an assault on the James girls. A Ninja Turtle.”

  Sean frowned. “Damnit. I guess Kovach was right.”

  “I don't think so,” Goldberg explained. “The costume worn by this guy is different from the ones this afternoon. Full rubber mask. Could have been made by Jim Henson. It's the sort of thing you use when you want to have another, smaller costume underneath it. Then again, the size of the head could have been from Super Sentai.”

  Sean blinked. “Super what-now?

  Goldberg sighed, frustrated. “A Power Ranger.”

  “Let me guess, he ditched the costume somewhere out of sight of the cameras, and disappeared into a crowd.”

  “Close. Not sure about the crowd. He disappeared into a stairwell. He could have come out on any number of floors. I have about four different places that might be him, and a few that aren't covered by cameras. The Stormtroopers are already swarming, trying to find the guy.”

  “Are the girls all right?” he asked.

  “Better than the attacker. He didn't touch them. They broke a plastic chair over him, knocked out some teeth, and he might be walking with a limp.”

  “Good for them. I presume you've called the cops already and told them not to shoot us?”

  “The cops are already converging on you, and have your descriptions.”

  Sean slumped deliberately against the tank. “I think I'm just going to chill here for a moment.” He sighed, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. His eyes shot open. “Oh crap. Those were four different groups of people who tried to kill me just now.”

  Athena and Brian exchanged a glance. “How so?” she asked.

  “If they were working together, they would have mixed it up, attacked all at once. I wouldn't have had a chance. We'd probably be in the midst of a massive shootout right now.”

  Brian shook his head. “Okay. So your problem is?”

  “These guys don't exactly play well with others outside their own little cadre,” Sean explained. “Do they?”

  Athena blinked. “Oh crap.” She looked to Brian. “They all learned that Sean was here.” She tapped her own earwig. “Villie. Do you still have the dark net bounty on Sean's head?”

  Goldberg took a moment, but answered, “Yep. I've got it. And yes, you're right, the bounty was changed early this morning. It has Sean's present location on it. They also added five million dollars to it. He's now worth fifteen million dead.”

  “At least someone's starting to appreciate my value,” Sean muttered. “I can't leave, can I? Whoever runs the dark net page waited until they were sure I was running convention security in person.”

  Brian shrugged. “So we get you the hell out of here.”

  Sean smiled. Held up one finger so he could get a moment of time. “Villie, use my credit card. I want tickets out of town. Plane, bus, rental car, train, taxi if they'd take me.”

  Brian: “What—”

  “Wow,” Goldberg said. “Everything has been flagged. Somebody's tracking your card.”

  Sean nodded. “That's what I thought.” He looked to Brian. “And the reason that I
can't leave is simple. What's the best way to get my attention?”

  Brian winced. “Blow something up.”

  “Bingo. I leave, someone doesn't see me around, they start wrecking stuff in order to make sure I pop out of the woodwork.” He closed his eyes. His head fell back against the tank. “Villie, talk to me about the attack. How did he get to the kids? We had Stormtroopers follow the group of Puppies every step of the way, and a ring of them inside the ballroom.”

  “The kids broke away,” Goldberg told him. “They were attacked at the bottom of the stairs.”

  “Damn it,” Sean whispered. “Should've considered that. It was a hole, but one I didn't think would matter. I'm just glad those kids seem tougher than average.”

  “We're figuring this is the same guy?” Goldberg asked.

  “No doubt. And if he's got a costume under the costume—again—then I can't see any reason why we're going to have any fingerprints. DNA will only help by Sunday, at best, and that's either if he becomes a corpse, or if he's already in the system.”

  “Smart,” Athena said. “Or someone behind him is smart.”

  A smile flickered across Sean's face. “Yeah, you thought of that too, huh?” Sean's phone chimed. He frowned as he dug around in his pocket for the phone. “Odd, people generally don't text me aside from you people.” He clicked to the text menu. He blinked. “Oh Hell.”

  “What's the matter now?” Brian asked.

  Sean raised the phone so they could see. Athena took it and raised it to a level that they could actually read.

  The text was simple, from an “unknown” caller, and read, Why is every known mercenary not already on active cases heading towards Atlanta? You're not in Atlanta, are you, Mr. Ryan?

  “Who the heck is this?” Athena asked.

  “I have some friends in the intelligence business after the Rome business.”

  Brian arched a brow. “You don't have Director Weaver on speed dial now, do you?”

  “The Director of Central Intelligence? Nope. He's way above my pay grade. I just hit people.”

  Athena tossed Sean the phone. “The President of the United States probably wants your head on the wall. Trust me, the DCI isn't that far above your pay grade.”

  Sean shrugged. “Either way, I have a few friends now. I'm allowed one or two.” He held up the phone. “But this? This means we're going to have a very busy weekend. With any luck, we can clean up with the cops, and be able to go to bed before Hell freezes over.”

  At that point, Jerry Friedman came around the tank and screamed, “How dare you! You were supposed to protect us!”

  Sean's eyes popped open, and he staggered to his feet. “What? What? Who died?”

  “Me!” Friedman cried. He grabbed Sean by the lapels and shook him. Athena and Brian flinched, waiting for Sean to hurt the old author, but Sean did nothing as Friedman kept going. “They called me a washed-up old hack! They said I was still riding on the coattails of Hairballs! They called me an old homosexual pushing a gay agenda!”

  Sean squeezed his eyes shut, then looked at Friedman, his clothing, his gay pride pin, and asked, “So, which part was untrue?”

  “It doesn't matter if it's true!” Friedman shrieked. “You're supposed to protect us from the Puppies!”

  “You're still alive, aren't you?”

  Jerry Friedman shook Sean like a rag doll—or at least tried. “Did you just threaten me?”

  “I don't threaten. Now back away before you get caught in the crossfire. Or did you not notice the dozen dead people you had to pass just to get to me?”

  Friedman glowered. “What are you going to do about the Puppies? We need safe spaces from them!”

  “Here's an idea,” Sean suggested, “go hide in your hotel room until the con is over. Now get off of me before I embarrass you on camera.”

  Sean jerked his head towards the sidewalk, where a small legion of fans with iPhones were recording their entire exchange.

  “Now go cool off and accept defeat.”

  Jerry Friedman sneered at him. “Over my dead body.”

  Chapter 12: His Dead Body

  Saturday (Day Two of the convention)

  Jerry Friedman's head was smashed in. Because irony likes to follow me around.

  And, of course, it had been smashed in by a tetsubo, the personal “weapon” of Gary Castelo. Because subtlety isn't anyone's strong suit around here. This can't even be a subtle frame job.

  Johnny Prada had found the body. And had trampled the crime scene.

  Instead of calling 911 first, he had summoned his fellow Puppy-Punters. Who showed up, and they promptly trampled the crime scene.

  When Sean Ryan heard about the murder, he was running the halls of the Marriott, doing as much as he could to keep up his morning parkour runs. When he was summoned, he was in the middle of running along the rails of the walkways from the elevators, and jumping from one walkway to another. This was on the 20th floor of the open atrium, of course, because being sane wasn't on his to-do list.

  Sean arrived at the crime scene in his jogging suit. He looked at the mess of footprints in the carpet, growled, he said, “Everyone out, now.”

  “But we didn't touch the body,” Prada sneered in his pseudo-academic tone, “and we didn't go near any of the blood.”

  Sean looked at the gathering in the hallway. Both of the gender-neutral Smith-Smythe-Smits were there, dressed in their leather jackets and jeans. Their hunchbacked minion, Fred Moshevsky, stood behind them, a lab coat, of all things, draped over his form, barely covering the hunch over his left arm. “All four of you went in.”

  The married couple nodded. The hunchback's version was a full body-dip.

  “You've already screwed up any hope of footprints. I just hope you didn't touch anything.”

  Moshevsky limped towards the open hotel room door, reached inside the doorway, and pulled out the tetsubo. “Just syss.”

  “Yes,” one of the publishers nearly whispered. “We wanted to make sure everyone knew that we saw it. It's evidence that Gary Castelo did it!”

  Sean's eyes flared. “Get the hell out of here! Every last one of you! And hope the cops don't arrest you for tampering with a crime scene.”

  The second of the two publishers, the one with the booming voice, said, “Come, Igor!”

  Moshevsky did another nod-bow and said, “Yeth, mythtress.”

  Sean's right eyebrow shot up. The loud boisterous one is the woman? And the light soft-spoken one is the guy? Of course. Because up is down, black is white, lies are truth, and freedom is oppression. Another few days of hanging out with these people, I might as well be in Orwell's 1984.

  Sean watched the three of them walk away. Moshevsky limped away for a bit, before he started walking perfectly normally. Sean cocked his head. I wonder if he's just getting used to new orthotics.

  Sean turned back to the room, and pondered what he should do for a moment. He sighed, and walked in.

  “Are you going to screw with the crime scene?” Athena asked.

  Sean jumped at the door's threshold. He whirled. She was right behind him. “Where did you come from?”

  Athena shrugged. “You're not the only one who can play Batman. If you're going to go in, go in. I passed the legion of Puppy-Punters on the way here. I presume they've already trashed the place?”

  Sean nodded as he walked in. The body was lying parallel to the bed. Sean crouched at its feet and studied it.

  Jerry Friedman was well and truly dead. Thoroughly dead, really. There was a great big bloody gash across his jaw, splitting open his ear, almost straight through to the bone, if Sean looked at it correctly. The button-down shirt was half-open, revealing several great big welts on his chest. The face was gone, reduced to a great bloody pulp.

  “Someone took the tetsubo and cracked him across the face with it,” Athena deduced. “That's the blow to the side of the head. The rest of them were after he was down. Someone decided they were chopping wood with a blunt object. The
tetsubo is a blatant attempt to frame a Puppy. And, of course, he knew the attacker.”

  Sean nodded. “Partially undressed, but didn't have any problem with the company. Also? The belt's loosened. See how it fits around the waist? This is a man who never even got to bed. He came in, unwound a little. Could have been with the killer, could have been a few minutes.”

  Athena considered this a moment, looking over the bloody mess of the room. The bed was covered with streaks of blood, dragged along it in an arc. “Is there any way this could have been perpetrated by someone who wasn't his friend?”

  Sean nodded. “Right now, the only person that I've excluded is Gary Castelo.” He nodded towards the streaks on the bed. “See those? That's the tetsubo being dragged along the bed after each strike.” He looked up and pointed at the ceiling. “There's relatively little cast-off. Maybe some spatter here and there, but I'd expect gray matter on the floors walls and ceiling. This is mostly the floor.”

  “The killer wiped the blood on the sheets between swings?”

  “That's not really a wipe, more like a drag.” Sean stood, and looked around. The area had been well and truly trampled, including the spot where Sean suspected the killer stood. He took that spot, and put his hands together like he held a baseball bat. “I have the tetsubo.” He pulled the imaginary weapon over his shoulder. “And then, an overhead strike.” He brought it down in a wood-chopping motion. “And then, the tetsubo comes up, and drags over the bed.” He made the motion, ending with the hands back over his shoulder.

  “You think that the killer didn't have the upper body strength to lift the tetsubo,” Athena concluded.

  Sean nodded. “Bingo. So I know it's not Gary Castelo. He lugs one of these things around like a walking stick.” He nodded toward the murder weapon. “And that isn't Castelo's. It doesn't have the score from the razor it got yesterday.”

  “Can't be Calvin Y. Jefferson either,” Athena told him. “He works with swords.”

  “Which one is he?”

  “The one who looks like Freddie Mercury – mustache? Slicked-back hair? Ring any bells?”

  “A little.” Sean stared at the body another moment. Hoping something would jump out at him. Preferably somebody's name.