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

by Declan Finn

  “None.”

  Sean smiled as he ran around a contingent of Boba Fetts posing with con goers. “Okay, tell everyone to follow the Chow contingency.”

  “Who?”

  “It's a program. Honest. All of the guests and staff have been trained and updated on it.” Sean darted down the skywalk between the Marriott and the Hyatt. The 10am panel was still ongoing, so a few people were wandering the hall. Though by “few,” that mean the walkway wasn't a total traffic jam.

  The Chow contingency was created twenty minutes after Colonel Bradley talked to him about the Puppy-Punter Artie Chow.

  “Artie is famous for being on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire,” Yvonne Wicklund had told him. “…Chow is with the SMURFs and the Anti-GamerGate crowd.”

  Colonel Bradley chuckled. “And when Artie stamps his feet, people get bomb threats.”

  The contingency itself was simple: evacuate the building, and continue the event in the largest, nearest parking lot. There had been a GamerGate panel in Washington DC that had been broken up by a bomb threat, and it was turned into a tailgate party. Sean only formalized it and made it part of the convention.

  By the time that Sean got within sight of the Westin, only Athena Marcowitz was on the corner, easily spotted. “Everyone out?” Sean called.

  Athena made a show of nodding, so he could see it clearly. She tapped her earbud, speaking instead of screaming across the street. “It's going pretty much as we figured.”

  “How much do you think it'll go like we planned?”

  “Depends on how fast the reaction time—”

  Sean fell backward into the street. Several cars screeched to a halt to avoid hitting him.

  The sound of the rifle crack came a second later.

  * * * *

  Mercenary and part-time assassin Michael DeValera looked through his telescopic sight at the body of Sean A.P. Ryan. The target was down, one solid impact to the chest. Cracked sternum? Check. The bullet should have punched a hole in him big enough to see from there, with enough blood to look like a mosaic, but the traffic swarmed around Ryan, blocking DeValera's view.

  Everything was according to plan.

  Obviously, it was far earlier than he had expected. He had spent hours last night putting up the arrangements, killing the right guards, cutting the hole in the window. Ryan had to come to the Westin sooner or later, and the decided lack of traffic comparative to the other hotels, together with its one good main entrance, made it inevitable that the target would wander into his sights sooner or later. Though he had expected it later, in the evening.

  A door smashed in behind DeValera, and he smiled.

  “Release your weapon, fiend, or die.”

  DeValera looked over his shoulder. It was the Elf, swathed in black silk, ninja-like. That would at least explain how he got there so fast. The blond freak seemed to appear and disappear at will.

  DeValera dropped his rifle in the extended windowsill flower planter at his feet, then stood, turning to face the thing calling itself an Elf. DeValera looked the blond up and down. “What are you?” he asked in his perfect diction. “Dressed for Halloween?”

  The Elf's eyes narrowed. “You shall pay for what you have done, villain.”

  DeValera smiled. “Come and get me, little man.”

  The Elf took one step forward, and stopped when he heard the click of a landmine under the carpet.

  DeValera raised a perfectly black eyebrow. “Really? You caught that? Oh well, better luck next time.”

  The Elf's mouth tightened. He reached behind his back and flicked a knife right at DeValera's head. It bounced off of the sheet of bulletproof glass cutting them off from each other.

  “I did my homework on you people,” DeValera gloated. “I don't get caught.” He pulled a Zippo from his pocket, lit it, and dropped it in the ledge flower pot with the sniper rifle. The thermite in the pot burned bright and hot in an instant, reducing the weapon to slag. “Ciao.”

  DeValera started for the wall, tapped a button in his pocket, and the breaching explosives he put on the wall blew up, creating an easy opening for him to step through, leaving the elf to die.

  After all, his mines came with a 30-second timer delay. The Elf would either step off and die, or stand there and die.

  He was three floors away when the mine finally exploded.

  At least Ryan stayed in one piece when I killed him. This one won't be so lucky.

  * * * *

  Omar Gunderson wandered down the aisles of the vendors' area, trying to figure out where the heck he was going. The aisles were narrow and claustrophobic, and the aisles that went across the hall were inconsistent and broken. It wasn't the grid pattern of a major city, and even the wandering roads of suburbia made more sense.

  He passed a booth of “Sexy Cosplayers,” with their models posing for photos, hung a right at them, and nearly ran into a wall halfway down the aisle, with no outlet. He turned around, and felt someone hit him on his right side. He grabbed for his side, and ended up grabbing the hilt of a knife, and the hand wielding it.

  Omar looked down at the blade sticking out of his side, the angle coming side on, running through the right side of his waist and coming out the other. His hand locked on the knife handle as he looked up. His eyes narrowed, his teeth bared, and he stared into the face mask of an Iron Man Cosplayer.

  The attacker tried to pull the knife out, but Omar held fast. “You stabbed me,” he said slowly and carefully, “in a love handle.”

  Omar reached over to the table next to him as the Iron Man struggled in vain to pull back the knife. The author grabbed the first thing he touched, then rammed it into the side of Iron Man's head. The helmet dented at the impact point, and crushed like a car being hit in a head on collision with a truck.

  Iron Man abandoned the knife, and stumbled away. Omar considered chasing, but didn't want a knife jangling around in his guts as he ran.

  “Freaking moron.” He looked down at what he grabbed. It was a tactical pen.

  He turned towards the vendor. “One, I would like it if you could call the hotel doctor for the Westin, I guess? Maybe the Hyatt? I think I'll need some stitches. And second, could I buy this?” he asked, holding up the pen.

  * * * *

  Former Secret Service Agent Athena Marcowitz had one simple gut reaction upon hearing that there was a bounty out on Sean's head: Sean was the “package,” the target, and the only thing that should be protected, because that was the only certain threat to anyone at the convention.

  She saw him go down, and screamed, “Wrecking Ball is down!” into her communications unit.

  Athena charged into traffic, leaping over the hood of at least one car to get to Sean. One car was about to run him over when she fired a round into the windshield. That stopped them.

  She dropped to Sean's side, and touched his chest. She didn't feel anything. She slipped a finger through the hole in his shirt, and felt the bullet.

  Sean's Dragon Skin body armor had stopped it cold.

  “See?” Sean whispered. “My plan worked. Someone took a shot at me.”

  Athena frowned as she scanned the rooftops. Sean had known that someone might call in a bomb threat (like Artie Chow and his anti-GamerGate people)—or pull a fire alarm, or fire off some rounds to cause a ruckus that would draw his attention (like any random assassin who wanted fifteen million dollars). Even if an assassin didn't cause the trouble, one would certainly have taken advantage of it.

  “Galadren get the sucker?”

  “Or vice versa,” Athena muttered. “This is Ka-Bar to Rivendell. Come in, Rivendell. Hello?”

  Sean turned one bleary eye towards her. “Are you the only one who uses our code names?”

  High above them, in a building across the street from the Westin, an explosion ripped through one of the windows.

  “Oh crap,” Sean groaned as he tried to rise. “I was just starting to like him.”

  * * * *

  A few fun facts abou
t explosives.

  One: every explosive force will follow the path of least resistance. This of course, only applies to concussive charges, like dynamite, TNT, or similar explosives, and not necessarily shaped charges. There's a reason that the claymore mine says clearly that one side should face the enemy.

  Two: When exploding from a low position, with nothing to obstruct it, the force of an explosion will go up. This is why Krav Maga security experts tell people to hit the floor when a grenade goes off on the floor—people are less likely to be shredded by the explosion, or the accompanying shrapnel.

  Three: When stepping off a landmine, the explosion isn't necessarily simultaneous with the maneuver. It might take a split-second. However, if the person is unaware of having stepped on a landmine in the first place, it's far too late. Even if the person is aware, most places landmines exist do not provide plentiful cover. And even then, being fast enough to get to cover is unlikely.

  When Galadren threw himself forward, the firing mechanism of the plate clicked, igniting the fuse. As Galadren's right hand and foot slammed against the wall, the fuse on the mine zipped to the booster charge—the thing that really set off the mine.

  Galadren pushed off the wall with his foot, hurling himself towards the only cover in the room. At the same time, the booster charge ignited, burning hot enough and hard enough to set off the primary explosive. The primary had enough force to scatter a person all over the room, or have the shrapnel rip a man to pieces.

  As the primary explosive ignited, causing a shockwave that ripped the air apart, blasting through drywall and floor tile, Galadren hit flat against the floor behind the only barrier in the room – the bulletproof glass the assassin had set up.

  The shockwave hit, shattering the top half of the glass, and cracking the lower half so hard, it pebbled and bent over Galadren like a blanket.

  “Rivendell, come in, damn it.”

  Galadren blinked. The audio filter in his earpiece had worked, but he was still a little vague. He said, “I am alive.”

  “Heh,” came the voice of dunedain Ryan. “He may be good, but is he lucky?”

  Galadren blinked. “Yes?”

  * * * *

  A block away, Michael DeValera smiled as Athena Marcowitz—Seriously, what sort of a name is that?—lifted Sean Ryan off the ground, and helped him to his feet.

  DeValera frowned. Oh well. Better luck next time.

  DeValera walked down the street, and slipped off into the crowds. He was quite happy about the whole thing, really. He wasn't going to have to go back to Sean's hotel room and remove all of those explosives he had left there.

  Chapter 15: Research

  Athena and Brian dropped Sean on his queen-sized bed in his individual hotel room, not the command suite. One of the two of them could have usually handled it, but Sean had so much equipment on, they didn't want to take the chance of it falling off.

  “Now stay,” Athena ordered.

  Sean opened his mouth to object, but Brian glowered. “You played bait enough for one day.”

  Sean frowned. “But—”

  Athena tossed Sean a flash drive, then handed him his iPad. “Go watch last year's Hubble Awards.”

  Sean frowned. “Do I have to?”

  “Pretend you care about the death of Jerry Freidman.”

  Sean sighed, grabbed the tablet, and said, “Fine. But I'd rather make certain that no one else gets killed.”

  “Good luck with that,” Brian Levine told him.

  Athena nodded. “If you're good, I won't tell Inna that you're being hunted down like a dog, and that you've been shot once already.”

  Brian hefted a bag and dropped it on the table next to Sean's bed. “Got you something from the Aloha Snack Bar outside. Good ribs. Enjoy.”

  Sean sighed, then started watching the last year's Hubble awards. Yay.

  Sean looked at the Hubble Award ceremony, and wasn't amused. In fact, it sucked.

  One of the annoying things he kept picking up on, for starters, was how often the emcee, Jerry Friedman, and his sidekick Johnny Prada, kept talking about “True Fans.” Or “real fans.” It was almost like there was a subsection of nerddom that was snobbish and elitist, treating anyone else like they were subhuman.

  But then again, Sean thought, that's pretty much the point of Tearful Puppies, isn't it? To point that out?

  Sean watched all of the stupidity, from beginning to end. It took over an hour for them to give out two puff-piece awards (best junior artist in pencils, or something like that, and first time achievement for blogging). Most of the hour was stuffed with interviews with SMURFs patting themselves on the back.

  There was also a comedy skit where overweight women dressed in Star Trek outfits stopped “Death” from stealing the Hubbles … and somehow, not a single Redshirt died.

  How is this even funny? Given what we've come to expect from Redshirts, how is this even possible? But oh, wait, Prada wrote a book called “Goldshirts”, who were the successors to Redshirts, so … yeah, this is just badly done Soviet Propaganda at this point.

  Then the best “fan” author went up and, before God, man, and everyone, thanked ROT editor Patty Smith-Smythe-Smits for all his help.

  You know, when half the Tearful Puppy people suggest that something screwy is going on with ROT, and their relationship to the Hubbles, the last thing I'd want is the winner for best “fan writer” thanking the professional editor (adjusted for values of professional) for all his help. This in no way smells of bias. Remind me to sign up on that boycott of ROT publishing.

  Then the fan writer shouted “black lives matter!” like some hysterical harpy from hell, making Sean almost jump from his chair.

  Yikes, the SMURFs spend all this time boasting about how wonderfully neutral they are, and then double down on the psycho-leftist front?

  Sean tried to imagine coming to this as a fan. He was a relatively neutral party already, and wondered what it would be like if he had a horse in this race. First, a casual onlooker would have wondered why it took over an hour to give out two awards. Then, this person would have seen a collection of mummies on parade and an audience who applauded the fact that no awards were given in five major categories.

  The first “no award” was granted to Best Fan Artist. Johnny Prada clapped Jerry Friedman on the shoulder, and gave it a hearty squeeze, with a big smile by both of them.

  When Best Fan site was closed out, Friedman clapped Prada on both shoulders in a pseudo-hug, and they had a good chuckle.

  Best Magazine had been celebrated by a neck squeeze between Prada and Friedman.

  Best Comic Book was a one-armed hug from the side, around the waist, between mentor and student.

  The death of Best Television Show was not heralded with anything in particular. It was the one where the Dalek introduced the categories and nominees, claiming that it was a fan of Johnny Prada. Prada visibly scowled at the machine, even though everyone else, including Friedman, laughed.

  After four hours of painfulness, it was over.

  Having grown up in Hollywood, Sean had heard of a script doctor called in to work on a play. He removed part of a scene, and was told “You can't remove that line! It gets a laugh every night.”

  The script doctor answered: “Yes, but it's the wrong kind of laugh.”

  The Hubbles were definitely the wrong kind of laugh.

  After five hours of being forced to sit still while the Hubbles played on, Sean killed the playback, and called the police, going straight for the detective in charge of the homicide investigation, a Gilbert Bellmore. “Yes?”

  “Sean Ryan here, from WyvernCon. Are there any fingerprints on that murder weapon?”

  Bellmore chuckled mirthlessly. “You want the list? There were some smudged prints, Friedman's and one or two of the victim's, but everyone else's were crystal clear—Moshevsky, the publishers with the three names, etc.”

  “Well, we can exclude Moshevsky,” Sean answered. “Even without the hunch, he'd be
too short for the tetsubo to have made those streaks on the bed. Though I could see the others being tall enough.”

  “Pretty much what we thought. We usually like the nearest and dearest on cases like this, but there aren't any.”

  “What do you mean 'like this'?” Sean asked.

  “A murder that happens at night, in someone's hotel room? We like family for that sort of thing. But the closest to that might be that shoe-fella.”

  “Johnny Prada?” Sean chuckled. “Yeah, I'd love him to get him. For anything, really. But I can't seem to get a moment yet. Hell, Prada might have been the only one to like him. At all.”

  “I know what you mean,” Bellmore said. “Sorry I can't help you more.”

  “I'll live. Talk to you later, Detective Bellmore. I'll let you know if I find anything more.”

  Sean hung up.

  Then the bomb in Sean's hotel room went off.

  * * * *

  The gathering of the Tearful Puppies sat down at a corner table of the hotel restaurant. After a long day of the convention, they were all various degrees of tired. Jesse James was tapping away at his laptop every few minutes. Rachel Hartley sat, her arms wrapped around her tactical umbrella, like she was taking a nap with a teddy bear. Gary Castelo calmly sat in the chair, leaning back, sipping his water. Colonel Bradley polished his ivory-handled pistols, looking bored.

  A groan got everyone's attention—except for Jesse James, still typing—as Sean Ryan slumped to the table.

  “What the hell happened to you?” Omar Gunderson asked. “You look worse than I do, and I got stabbed.”

  “I got shot,” Sean muttered as he slid into his chair. “I used to bounce back from this better. I swear I did.”

  “Body armor turns a dime-sized projectile going a hundred miles an hour into basically a piece of sheet metal that slams into you at ten miles an hour,” Gary Castelo explained. “You'll probably need some more Advil before the night is over.”

  “Don't vorry,” Rachel Hartley told him, her accent sounding only mildly Pottsilvanian. “It could be vorse. I heard someone's room vas blown up.”