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

by Declan Finn

  Sean laughed. “So you've never had a case with an irrational motive for murder?”

  The detective laughed. “Yeah. I may have had one or two.”

  “But, yeah, without a motive, I can't narrow down A suspect. That's why I have three possible suspects, but not one person.”

  “I thought you had one? This Fred Moshevsky?”

  Sean vacillated for a moment. “I need more data on him. Right now, he's the only one without an alibi that I know of. The rest of my primary suspects are in the banquet hall right now, and she was clearly alive when they went in, and they haven't come out yet.”

  Bellmore nodded, and ran down the list. “That's a Patrick and Terry Smith-Smythe-Smits … really?”

  Sean nodded. “Can't make this stuff up.”

  The detective continued. “They're on one side of the victim's room. On the other side is an S. Typhoon Teacup, and a Madam Daalman. That's right?”

  Sean nodded. “So you have an idea of what I'm going for.”

  “No kidding. Now, are you sure there are no major events going on?”

  “Major events? Not really.” Sean frowned, looked over to the collection of one-sheet WyvernCon “newsletters” that announced changes and corrections to the schedule. “There are some room parties.”

  Chapter 18: Death of an Idiot

  The person in the Stormtrooper outfit moved into position. He walked with a bit of a limp, and he had a pounding headache since the first day of the convention. That was probably because Jesse James' children had knocked out some of his teeth as well as hit him in the head with a chair. And whatever Omar Gunderson had hit him with only made the problem worse. And his hip hurt, and everything pretty much sucked.

  The truly annoying thing was he hadn't accomplished any of his goals. At first, he thought that he could have taken out Gary Castelo with a razor blade, but he was too formidable, and the last thing he wanted to do was try for a second shot at him, especially in the same costume. Matthew Kovach had been a sure thing, and then he had gone all dark and creepy. That was followed by the chase with the stupid bow-and-arrow guy. After that, it just made more sense to start with the teenagers and work his way up—a mistake, with two on one. Omar Gunderson had looked so harmless, but he had turned right into the knife at the wrong angle, then hit him, hard, in the helmet.

  But tonight, tonight was going to be the moment of victory. This was what he had been building up to the entire convention. He had been building toward all of it since the first day. His one true target.

  He waited at the hallway offshoot from the outer ring. No matter how the target got off of the elevator, or circled around the building, he would be in the perfect position to kill the target.

  He leaned up against the wall, just waiting. He gave the appearance of having had a long, long day, and hoping not to fall asleep.

  But he was so wired, he was happy he wasn't shaking. He had the G11 pressed against his chest, pointed down at the ground, as he had seen everyone else holding them. His finger on the trigger, so he dared not shudder.

  After an hour of waiting, the elevator finally opened, and the target stepped out. He had been there since 10:15 pm, fifteen minutes before the banquet was supposed to let out. He was almost afraid that he had arrived too late. But no, there was the target and the two bodyguards.

  The three of them came closer, and they showed no signs of slowing, or hesitating. At all. It was surprising.

  They were a twenty feet away when he gingerly angled himself towards them. They took only two more steps when one bodyguard came to a sudden stop, grabbing the target and putting himself between him and the target.

  He couldn't wait anymore, and stepped forward as he hefted the gun, spraying on full, automatic fire, from less than ten feet away.

  The bullets slammed into both bodyguards, ripping apart the plastic armor that was the trademark of their costumes. They staggered backwards under the impact, but they did not fall. The plastic blew away, revealing black metal underneath.

  “Why won't you just die?” he shrieked.

  The guards finally fell, and there was, at long last, nothing between him and his target.

  “Cryomancer,” he whispered.

  The tiny Chinese Australian narrowed her eyes. “Crabs.”

  The stalker Yama Marshman, best known by his highly appropriate Internet handle “Crabs,” smiled behind the helmet. “You guessed it was me. I'm touched.”

  He looked her up and down. Cryomancer was as hideous and as amoral as he always knew she'd be. The slutty Japanese schoolgirl outfit, the sexy librarian glasses. The tight little body …

  He pressed the trigger on his gun before he even knew he had done it.

  All he heard was the click.

  Marshman looked down at his gun, and wondered how he could have gone through so many bullets at one clip. “No,” he objected. Reality couldn't have done this to him. Guns never ran out of bullets. He knew that.

  As Crabs meditated on the general unfairness of the universe, Cryomancer swept up one of the fallen G11s.

  Crabs lunged for her, tripped over the men he had shot, crashed into her and the G11, and knocked it from her hands. She pushed off of him, getting some breathing room.

  Crabs smiled. He was bigger and stronger. He could take her.

  Then the first kick came straight into his chest, like a firefighter smashing down a door. The impact crumpled his plastic armor, and sent him sprawling backwards.

  Cryomancer leaped over the fallen guards, coming straight for him.

  Crabs swung his G11, and she ducked, springing up to clamp both of her hands down on the empty weapon. She roared several unprintable curses, and stomped down on his foot like it was a cockroach she was really fed up with. Crabs could almost enumerate the number of bones in his foot being crushed under her heel.

  Cryomancer yanked back on the rifle and jabbed it into Crabs' face, twisting the helmet around so he couldn't see. He only needed to feel what happened next, especially when his right knee was kicked from the side. Joints popped, ligaments and cartilage tore, and Crabs' world consisted of darkness and pain. He screamed, but only two people heard him, and one had broken his knee.

  What came next felt impossible, but was easy to explain. What he felt was the sensation of two people batting his head back and forth. But instead was merely Cryomancer smacking the empty rifle across his face, it was like a tennis ball being batted around the court.

  When the beating subsided, Crabs thought the nightmare was over. He was only allowed to think this because Cryomancer had been busy winding up for a full golf swing. The barrel was the handle, the butt was the impact point, and the balls she was aiming for were attached to him.

  Cryomancer kept swinging. There were busted ribs, dislocated body parts, and his face wasn't much to write home about in the first place—but less so after the helmet shattered.

  Cryomancer tired of swinging the rifle and dropped it behind her. She reached down, grabbed him by the armor plate, and hauled him to his feet—well, his foot, since the busted knee couldn't hold his weight. She slammed him up against the rail.

  Then a bullet whizzed by her left ear.

  Cryomancer ducked, dropping to a crouch behind the barrier below the rail. She looked at Crabs, expecting him to do another insane stunt. But he hovered there, dazed.

  Then she saw a little red light on the side of his head.

  The next bullet passed Crab's head, landing in the wall near the last one.

  He blinked, then looked out past the elevators.

  Cryomancer saw a red dot on Crabs' face, right between the eyes.

  The next bullet finally found Crabs. The bullet slammed into his chest, just below his throat, severing his airway.

  The stalker fell back, still gripping the rail. He pulled himself back to the rail out of reflex, keeping upright, even as he aspirated blood.

  Then Crabs turned to Cryomancer. His left eye narrowed—the other had swelled shut—and what remained
of his blood-covered face tightened into a mask of rage. He desperately grabbed for some rail, and tried to drag himself towards her.

  Cryomancer growled as she scrambled backwards, then bounded to her feet. With one perfect move that looked more like a pirouette from a ballet dancer than an attack, she delivered a perfect roundhouse kick to his head.

  Yama “Crabs” Marshman, at that moment, knew what it was like to fly as he fell, head first, over the rail, and off the catwalk.

  He stayed alive through it all, still choking on his last breath, when he came to a sudden stop on the marble floor of the lobby below.

  * * * *

  “Luckily for all concerned,” Athena Marcowitz commented, “what was left of his body was mostly contained by the Stormtrooper armor.”

  Sean frowned as he looked over the mess. While “Crabs” Marshman was mostly contained in his shell, the head had been unprotected when it hit the floor. It looked like what would happen if a sledgehammer slammed into a meaty, blood red and gray watermelon. Only with a lot more spatter all over the place.

  Sean shook his head. “Such a mess.”

  “No kidding.” Athena sighed. “Luckily, you're paranoid.”

  Sean arched a brow. “How so?”

  “You had our Stormtrooper armor lined with armor plating. Lucky, Marshman would have needed a cannon to blast through what they had on. I'm just glad they didn't have broken ribs.”

  He shrugged as he crouched by the body. “They must have been tough bastards to absorb every round in the magazine. Those things have what, fifty rounds? And they stayed up during a full auto burst? Not bad.”

  Athena nodded, even though Sean wasn't looking at her. “One was an Adam Gaffen, cop. The other was a Moses Lambert? Former navy guy.”

  That got his attention. “Really? Good guy. We should give him a couple of bucks. He's gone above and beyond, and that's only been for the last few hours. He was the one who kept the last crime scene clear of people. I sent him over to Cryomancer after the cops were done because I figured he'd want some downtime after talking with the cops. I guess I didn't do him any favors. Glad he lived though.” He studied the armor of the corpse. “There's a bullet hole in the victim's chest. Maybe lower neck. Above the sternum? A forty-five? Maybe? That what Cryomancer talked about?”

  Athena nodded, reaching into her back pocket. “Yeah. I want you to take a look at something.” She pulled out her phone, and called up her photos.

  Sean took it, and flipped through the pictures. His eyes narrowed, and said, “Did you ask her about this?”

  Athena shook her head. “I thought you'd want to do that.”

  “Oh, I do. I do very much.”

  Athena crooked her finger to bring him forward. They went from the Marriott into the Hyatt lobby, into an offshoot that led into the International Tower. From there, they went downstairs, all the way into the basement level, where they had smaller conference rooms, as well as the “armory.”

  As she walked to the display room of disarmed weapons, Athena said, “Since the armory closed hours ago, we figured this would be the safest place for her.”

  Sean nodded, and grunted a little. He was getting more and more annoyed as the night grew on. On the one hand, he had three murders to deal with, all of which happened on his watch. On the other, if he hadn't been there, how many more might have been attacked or killed?

  And do I really want to know? he thought. Then again, considering this psycho got his hands on a freaking automatic rifle, do I even want to consider what he would have done if there hadn't been guards all over the place?

  Sean and Athena entered the armory, and those two had men in full SpecOps gear in front of the door, with M4 rifles at the ready.

  At least the people who deal with this area don't fool around.

  The small, delicate-looking Cryomancer was seated with the only other small, delicate-looking person Sean knew—Wilhelmina Goldberg. He'd know that lousy dye job anywhere.

  Sean walked up to Cryomancer, and was about to put out a hand to comfort her, when she spotted him, sprang to her feet, and said, “What the—” she went on for a while, using a string of four-letter words in English, Mandarin, and Cantonese “—is going on here? That little … creep tried to kill me and … him for trying to … with me.”

  Sean had to grin. He didn't quite expect all the swearing, but appreciated the attitude. He was half afraid she was traumatized, or feeling guilty about what had happened. Angry was better.

  “I just need to ask you a few questions,” Sean explained. “I'm sure the cops would like to ask you some more as time goes on. Now, from what I'm told, you said you saw a laser dot on Crabs' head before he was shot.” She nodded. Sean raised the phone. “These two bullets, on this wall, didn't go through Crabs. In fact, from what little I've seen of the spatter in these photos, most of it is castoff from you beating on him.”

  She nodded. “So?”

  “So that means the bullets missed.”

  She nodded. “The first one went past my head.”

  Sean raised one eyebrow. “On what side?”

  “The left.”

  Sean nodded and looked at the phone again. “And the second bullet is close to the first, so I presume they came at the same angle. First bullet was over your left shoulder, so it would have been the right side from the shooter's POV. So the shooter missed high and to the right.”

  Cryomancer paused, nodded slowly, and smiled. “Yes, that would be a typical noob mistake.”

  Sean didn't try to reconcile the gentle Chinese accent with the gamer terminology. “And it was the same with the second bullet.”

  She smiled. “See my last comment.”

  “And then the last bullet found him … but you said that the laser dot was on his head, and it caught him in the chest.” Sean looked to Athena. “I think we're going to need to look for brass. We have a first-time shooter. Which means even if he thought to police his brass, he has no idea just how far brass can go.”

  Athena nodded. “I suspect this guy is an even worse amateur. He missed the first two shots, then got dead center with the third.”

  Sean thought about it a moment, and concluded there was only one way for the shooter to have hit the mark. “He used the rail as a platform to steady himself.”

  “How much do you want to bet that there might be some scratch marks on one of those rails?”

  “No bet,” Sean muttered.

  Cryomancer looked from one to the other. “But how would he have a rifle like that?”

  Goldberg smiled. “We talked about this before you arrived. The walkway is a few hundred feet from any place that shot could have come from. Where'd they have the rifle?”

  Sean blinked, and remembered that not everyone fired guns for at least three hours a day. “Handguns have an effective range of a few hundred feet, if you have a steady hand and good aim, you can hit a target.”

  Goldberg furrowed her brow. “I thought we agreed that this guy could barely hit the broad side of a barn.”

  Sean nodded. “Correct. Notice, he missed twice, even with a laser site. Hell, he probably closed his eyes when he pulled the trigger. Both times. And he had the dot on Crabs' face, but it hit him in the chest. That amount of droppage, at that distance, means a handgun. Depending on how far out he was …” He frowned. “You said you heard the bullet.”

  Cryomancer nodded. “I did.”

  “But you didn't hear the gunshot.”

  She blinked. “No. I didn't.”

  “He even had a sound suppressor,” Athena concluded. “Far away, noisy hotel, it's possible.”

  Sean nodded, and bunched up a corner of his mouth. “My only problem left is how he could have seen the dot from that far out. The nearest places to shoot from are a few hundred feet away. How did he see the dot from that far out?”

  Athena scrunched up her face. “You're not thinking a telescopic sight? Are you?”

  Sean shrugged. “At this point, why not?”

 
“But that's advanced for a handgun. You can't exactly mount those unless you go to a specialty place. Seriously, a gunsmith must have been involved building that.”

  “I'm sure if you have more dollars than sense, you can go somewhere, throw money at a guy, and have them build a weapon with all of these bells and whistles on it.”

  “But this is stupid,” Goldberg said as she rose. The computer geek was frustrated, annoyed, and tired. This was not how she wanted to spend her weekend. “You're talking about an idiot, first-time shooter who got more advanced toys put onto a pistol than makes sense. What did he think was going to happen? That it would have gotten even better with all that crap on it? Seriously, there's no way for that to happen.”

  Sean smiled. It was very heavy with a “caught the canary” element. “You're right. This guy is a complete and total idiot who knows nothing about guns.”

  Goldberg looked from the two security professionals, to the Australian. They were all smiling, very much like Sean. “So?” she asked.

  “There's no way that any of the Tearful Puppies did it,” Cryomancer told her. “They know more about guns than anyone outside of a gunsmith.”

  “So?” Goldberg asked. “How does that narrow it down?”

  Sean handed Athena back her phone, and pulled out his own. “Because from what I gathered, the shooter only took a shot at our little stalker friend. Cryomancer here was standing, beating down on him for at least a few swings. Parts of her were stationary relative to the shooter. He didn't take the shot. But he waited for Marshman—”

  “Crabs,” Cryomancer corrected.

  “—to come up, then shot. The shooter wanted to aim for Crabs, not her. Crabs was the target. By the time the shots were fired, Marshman was already finished. He couldn't harm her anymore.”

  Goldberg frowned. “But how would the shooter know that Crabs would be there?”

  He pointed to Cryomancer. “Because she was the guest of honor at a room party. The newsletters said it. He couldn't exactly infiltrate one of those, but he could lie in wait along the way. But the presence of the shooter indicates that not only did the sniper know that Crabs was going to be there, but knew why as well. That's at the very least a nice little conspiracy charge.”