It was Only on Stun! Ch. 02

Enjoy.

Three days later, Sean Ryan heard why he'd been called to snow-bound New York in the midst of January away from his home in 86-degree sunny Southern California. When he had first arrived, the Creative Convention people had merely commandeered a classroom for the meeting, but the President of Rockycreek wandered in before the meeting started and transferred everyone to a real conference room.

The 5'6" former stuntman's raven black hair was trimmed neat and clean; he wore a sharp gray Armani suit and conservative tie with the stripe of the British Army Surgical Corps (aka: "the Licensed Lancers") in an effort to be professional, but felt like the effort had been wasted. His Secret Service style sunglasses tinted the flyer so that the green paper it was printed on looked even darker than the ink.

"You do realize you paid for my plane ticket regardless of whether or not I'll work for you, right?" Ryan said absentmindedly.

The President of Rockycreek, Robert Harrington, a tall, anorexic looking fellow with deep brown eyes and no hair, smiled with all the charm of a Tammany Hall politician and said, in his rich basso voice, "Mr. Ryan, what makes you think that we're not just interviewing you?"

Ryan laughed. "You're joking, yes?" he started in a light stage Yiddish. "You maybe think I'm your friendly neighborhood academic? Perhaps you believe that academics are normal, average people, and thus all should be treated as such?"

Harrington smiled. "Would you prefer I treat you as someone with a GED instead of a high school diploma?"

Ryan grinned, still not looking at them. "And sure, at least you've looked up on me," he said, moving into a bad brogue. He disdained to tell Harrington—and almost all of his other clients—that he had more college credits by night school courses than most high school teachers had over the course of their careers.

Sean glanced outside the door, and turned back to his would-be employers. "But still, I don't see much of a line outside. Ya know what I mean, sir? Now, if you're done with the pseudo-political stuff, can we get to business? If you prefer, we can keep pulling each other's legs until someone's comes off, and I guarantee it'll be yours. What's theexactnature of the problem?"

There was a moment of silence, and Ryan slid off his glasses, revealing electric blue eyes that stared down each person in turn. He noticed with interest that of the five men present, all were white—he had heard Long Island referred to as "outer Whitelandia" before, but having grown up in ethnically diverse Los Angeles, he hadn't believed it before then.

"Now, before you folks open your mouths, is this a nuisance call? If it's anything like that, I've got far better things to do back on the left coast, where every fifth actor is a client and every tenth civilian is a stalker. While I appreciate easy cash, beating up psychos and assassins is, by far, much more fun, so I'll be annoyed if you just want me to fend off a little public humiliation. So what is it?"

One of the convention men, wearing a gray turtleneck in an attempt to be chic, cocked his head with interest. His brown beard was slightly frizzy, and his hair wasn't much better. He removed his horn-rimmed brown glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Mr. Ryan, you are familiar with the situation in Serbia-Montenegro?"

Ryan nodded. "Greek Orthodox versus Muslims with a few papists thrown in, disliking each other since the last Islamic jihad that stormed the Gates of Vienna 500 years ago. Dictator Marshall Tito kept everything in check, and after he died, the Soviet Union kept the area in check with the threat of be nice or die. The totalitarian lid blew off after a bad breakup post-USSR. General Tito held them together from World War II onward, and before him, the Austro-Hungarian Empire doing the same thing as the Soviet Union."

The C-Con man nodded. "It's more complex, but you've got the basics."

Ryan shrugged. "I have a Russian girlfriend; you pick up some things, Mister...?"

"Waldemar Janowitz...just call me Walter. Mira Nikolicis a Croatian, one of the Catholics. Problem is, she managed to get everyone a little annoyed at her when she left that area. Her husband's a director, here, now, in the US, and she's become a success starring on a major television show. Anyone who wants to try again for a power play in the Balkans and wished to start with a public display—"

"—would hit her," Ryan finished. "Preferably with something so simple and effortless to make it look like they can kill anyone by thinking about them. Which leads to the obvious question: do you record the convention? Answer: you play it on Long Island TV for good publicity—I do my research too. Anyone out to get her will have as big an audience as you can afford; they could record it off the air and then broadcast it across the Balkans, or simply post it on the Internet. Hell, given the way things are bought and sold in New York, one of the volunteers could walk off with the tape that captures her murder, sell it on eBay, where the assassins would most certainly win the bidding, and they get the entire performance, from start to cleanup."

Janowitz agreed. "If you don't think you can handle the job yourself, we could always just ask you to refer us to someone who can."

Ryan smiled. "You're going to have to hear my conditions first. My minimum price is expenses. By the way, I don't itemize—counting bullets is a waste of my time."

Harrington gulped. Janowitz said, "Agreed."

"Second, Iamcampus and conference security, and shall train the volunteer convention security to know what they're doing. This includes background checks on every man, woman, mutant teenager, Role-Playing vampire, Alien Queen and Borg technician who volunteers to work for this convention."

It was Janowitz's turn to be shocked as his eyes bulged. "You can't do that! Our volunteersrunthis organization! If we tell them we're performing background checks, who knows how many will choose not to volunteer. Not even free admission, food and t-shirts will be enough to draw them in."

Ryan shrugged. "So you have more people paying to get in, so what? We can't explain the situation to the volunteers until the first attempt, so make sure to remember; whoever's coming to get her might volunteer to work in convention setup in order to do reconnaissance, so as long as they don't realize we're prepared for them, we'll be fine."

The man on Janowitz's far right looked at him strangely, unmoved by his glare. He was a little portly, not much taller than Ryan himself, totally bald on top with graying hair on the side and in his full beard. Gray eyes were hidden by thick glasses that were too thin to be considered coke bottle glasses, but they were close.

"And what exactly makes you think they won't be part of security?" he asked in a fast, clipped, slightly high-pitched voice that sounded on the edge of bursting into laughter. "Good manners?"

Sean smiled. "No sir; given the amount of time I'm going to have people train together, all members of security will know each other by sight. I'll be assigning all of the stations personally, so anyone who's out of place will stand out like he has a light saber on his head. They won't bother being in security, especially not with the bright orange t-shirts they wear."

Janowitz cocked his head. "How do you know the color scheme?"

Ryan smiled. "I was going to make them so. If they're smart, anyone who's out to get her won't go into security, and if they're dumb, I'll end them. By the way, you sir, what's your name?"

The portly gentleman smiled. "David Peters, guest author, and I'm paying a chunk of your salary." He patted the man next to him on the back. "My morose friend here has bet me two hundred bucks he could remain silent through this entire meeting."

Ryan smiled, remembering two novels of Peters—one about a person bitten by a were-puppy, and the other about King Arthur going to College. "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Peters, I enjoyedBarking MadandKnight Courses. You're one sick puppy."

He laughed. "You read much science fiction?"

Sean nodded. "Although the last time I made contact with an Elf, I held him off the edge of a New Jersey garbage scow. He was an ELF—of the Earth Liberation Front."

David doubled over with laughter. "Have you read any of my friend's material?"

Ryan paused and looked the final man in the face. It was an unpleasant, heavily lined face, with features so sharp they looked like they'd been lathed into the edge of an axe. His hair was a light blonde, and the lines around his mouth indicated that he was always talking, and the muscles showed how hard he was trying not to talk at all.

Ryan leapt back, realizing who it was. "Oh, him! Eielson! I'm surprised you didn't gag him."

The author in question nearly leapt out of his chair, but Peters held onto the shorter, older man by grabbing his shoulder and one lapel. "We've come close."

Ryan nodded. "Anyway, back to business; I'm going to need to talk with the protectee, and maybe even the other guests who will socialize with her. I'll need to make everything clear—especially the point I never leave her side...we're only assuming they want her dead on camera, but I'd rather not leave that to chance."

"I'll be sure to explain that to my clients beforehand, so you do not scare them all too badly," a calm voice with a light but distinguishable hint of a Russian accent.

At the doorway was a woman of Ryan's height with light brown hair, light olive complexion, and hazel eyes that changed between brown and green depending on the weather. She was dressed in a blouse, brown suit pants, and a light brown coat with fake fur on the rim, providing a touch more elegance to her ever-ready supply. She had a small, pleasant, heart-shaped face, perfectly sloped Slavic cheekbones, and a nose that gently curved down her face to a soft curving tip, perfectly placed to be kissed at random without too much eye-lip coordination. Her body was petite and firm, usually because she spent hours of free time at the gym.

"Inna?"

Inna Petraro smiled. "Who do you think suggested you? I represent most of the guests, and I'd like them to stay alive so I can continue to collect fifteen percent of their salaries."

Harrington chuckled, assuming that his trump card had been played, and wanted a follow up. "In addition to your lovely woman over there, one of the reasons we're hiring you is Rockycreek alumni in California: stories get back to me that don't quite make it to the news. These are 2 a.m. stories after fundraisers that start 'you didn't hear this from me,' like the Rabbi who tried to hurt a certain Jewish singer after she came out for Palestinians, or the gay boyfriend who tried to give a producer a vasectomy with hedge clipper."

Sean raised a finger. "You're forgetting the army of Live Action Role-Playing vampires who tried to eat John Carpenter."

Harrington smiled uncomfortable, shifting in his seat. "We're a nice, quiet campus, Mr. Ryan. We meet Clark Kerrs' 1960s definition of a perfect University—we provide sports for the alumni, parking for the faculty, and sex for the students—so all constituents are happy. An assassination wouldn't go over well with a board of trustees accustomed only to character assassination by the faculty council. You're a dangerous man who doesn't look it. You're perfect."

Ryan's eyes narrowed, and he smiled evilly. "Yes, and I won't tell anyone about your girlfriend, either...how's your wife, by the way?"