one way to stay out of jail

8/6/2019 One Way to Stay Out of Jail

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One Way to Stay Out of Jail

A Tale of A Pius Man

The (relatively) Recent Past. LA, California

“Weapons?” asked the bored LAPD desk sergeant.

Officer Shubitz smiled as he lifted a small crate and placed it on the counter. The desk sergeant

blinked and straightened. This was about to get interesting. He looked through the crates and started to read

out the inventory.

“Two tactical batons, diamond grip. Three .45-caliber handguns, one with sound suppressor. One—”

At one object he pulled out, he hesitated. He couldn't tell what that thing in the evidence bag was. “Is this a

pen, or a knife?

The prisoner shrugged. “A pen.”

The sergeant looked at the prisoner, a shorter fellow,. He was, maybe, 5'6”. “Why is it covered in

blood?”

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There was only the merest flicker of a smile. “Long story.”

“Uh huh.” The sergeant reached for the tactical batons, and paused, staring at the handle on one of

them. “And what is this button on the baton here?”

The prisoner looked at the patrolman who held him. Officer Bussey unlocked the cuffs, and the

prisoner made a show of slowly – very, very slowly – reaching for the baton.

The sergeant's brows rose at the exaggerated movements. Most guys brought through the station were

so confident, they would think nothing of grabbing weapons. But then, the patrolmen watched this prisoner

with undue caution. Usually, the officers were big and macho, and they ate Aryan Brotherhood steroid cases

for lunch. Yet Bussey and Shubitz treated this one prisoner like unstable explosives, and he wasn't that

impressive. He was short, compact; his raven-black hair was combed into a nice, neat business cut, and his

attire was business casual.

The eyes were something else, though … the color of lightning. Literally.

With two fingers, the prisoner dragged both batons toward him. Using only the thumb and forefinger

of each hand, he touched the tactical batons pommel to pommel, and twisted them, interlocking them. “The

one with the button has a CO2 cartridge for instant extension.”

“Into what?” the sergeant asked.

The prisoner rolled his electric-blue eyes. “Into a quarterstaff, duh.” He gave another hint of a smile.

“Maybe a three-eighths staff.”

“Uh huh.” He looked over the spread of weapons, and said, “Any more?”

Officer Bussey laughed as he re-cuffed the prisoner. “Isn't that enough?”

The prisoner cleared his throat. “You forgot the stick with the two golf balls.”

Officer Shubitz looked into the crate, and nodded. It was yet another bloody mess. “What was this

for, anyway?”

“Yawara stick,” the prisoner answered. “Also known as a kongo. Look it up.”

The prisoner was led to the nearest holding cell. The cell was filled with the refuse typical for LA,

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and fairly crowded. The only seat was a spot on the center bench, next to another prisoner. Unlike the short

Caucasian they were throwing in, the other prisoner was big, black, and uncuffed.

The prisoner stepped inside. “You're not going to unlock me?”

Shubitz smiled. “Do you need to be?”

He laughed. “Probably not. Thanks.”

The prisoner sat down next to the black fellow, and ignored the other guests of the LAPD. He looked

around, as though the cell was merely a waiting room with bars, and he wondered where the out-of-date

magazines were.

The electric-blue eyes drifted, and locked onto the biggest biker in the room. The prisoner smiled at

his bench mate, said, “Excuse me, I'll be right back,” and wandered over to the biker.

The biker, Jay Ross, arrested for distribution of crystal meth, looked down at the shorter man through

his dark sunglasses. He leaned against the prison bars and sneered. “What do you want?”

The cuffed prisoner smiled genially. “I would like you to stop being a bad biker stereotype, get a

shave, lose the headband, and wear something not made of leather. But I'll settle for your sunglasses.”

Ross growled, flexed his hands, and started to push away from the bars.

The shorter fellow started with a right roundhouse kick to the biker's knee. Ross's leg gave out and

he twisted. The other man did not recoil the kick, but set it down just outside the biker's foot. Ross's face

was in a perfect position for a left knee to his face, which bounced Ross's head off of the prison bars.

After the disturbance settled down, and the police heard the story of how the short, handcuffed

prisoner dropped Ross, the cops looked at each other, rolled their eyes, and moved on.

The prisoner took the fallen sunglasses, broke off the arm, and again sat next to the large black

gentleman.

“So,” the bigger one began. “What, exactly, are we in for?”

“You, for being a good Samaritan.” He paused as he worked the broken arm of the glasses into the

cuff lock. “Me, for being very good at what I do.”

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“Random acts of destruction?” the other asked with a smile.

“Nah. None of them were random.”

“Just who the hell are you?”

He paused a moment, then smiled, offering the other prisoner his (now) free hand. “Sean Ryan, of

Sean A.P. Ryan & Associates.”

His bench mate arched a brow. “You have associates?” he rumbled. “Where were they?”

Sean smiled. “You're here with me, aren't you?”

The other laughed. “Hey, man, I just heard automatic fire and thought that there might be people in

trouble.”

“Oh, there were.”

The eyes went flat. “I didn't think the guys with assault rifles were the ones that needed help.”

Sean gave him a smile. “Hey, you should talk, SpecOps boy. You weren't exactly frowning when

you needed to beat one of them … repeatedly, with a crowbar.”

“He had just tried to castrate me, beating him felt good … ” The bigger man paused a moment, and

lowered his voice. “And what do you mean, SpecOps?”

Sean sighed, leaning in, keeping his voice down. “You disarmed one of them, beat him with his own

rifle, and dismantled said rifle so fast, I didn't even see it. You were doing things that impress me, and I

know how to kill people twenty ways with a ballpoint. So, what were you? Snake Eater? Ranger? SEAL?

Recon?”

He sighed, looked away, and sagged back, relaxing. “No one you heard of. Back end of nowhere.”

Sean arched a brow. “Really? And you can do all that? Uh huh, right. So … Delta.”

There was a long silence, when Sean shrugged. “Right. Hush hush, won't tell a soul.”

After a long moment, the larger fellow still did not look at Sean, but said, “Edward Murphy. Call me

Eddie, and you die.”

Sean didn't even smile, but nodded with great solemnity. “Understood.”

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“So,” Edward said, “what were we doing at that building?”

Sean started unlocking the other handcuff with the broken arm of the sunglasses. He didn't even look

down at his work, doing it all by feel. “A very bad man who worked there stalked one of my clients in his

free time. I thought I could reason with the stalker's boss. When I saw that the stalker's fellow employees all

carried Mac-10s and AK-47s, I knew that they were all Very Bad Men. And, I knew if the boss caught wind

that one of his men was a stalker, and jeopardizing his operation, the boss wouldn't take it well, and execute

the little bugger for me.”

Edward frowned. “And in order to do that, you had to start blowing up his industrial-grade

equipment?”

“Nah … I started by taking out his men with a sound-suppressed handgun so I could get close enough

to blow up his equipment. As a distraction.”

The former Delta Force operator shook his head. “You thought blowing up all of that stuff was just a

distraction?”

Sean grinned. “It caught your attention, didn't it?”

Edward studied Sean Ryan a moment. He had grown up listening to his neighbors talk of “crazy

white people.” The way Sean's eyes glowed with merriment made Edward want to go back to the old

neighborhood, and redefine their stereotypes.

“So,” Sean continued, “what made you leave They Who Must Not Be Named??”

“What makes you think I left them?” Edward countered.

Sean gave him a “are you kidding me?” glare. “You ran into a building filled with armed men, just

because you thought someone needed help against 'men wielding assault rifles.' ” Sean gave a deep sigh.

“Somehow, I don't think guys like that are dishonorably discharged.”

Edward shook his head. “The moment Washington even discussed postponing the war against the

Taliban for Ramadan, I turned in my papers.”

“That was a while ago,” Sean noted.

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He sighed. “I know. You'd be surprised how long someone can string out 'just one more mission.' But

I was done.”

Sean nodded. “Understood.” He looked off through the bars, and slipped the handcuffs into a pocket.

“Have you ever considered changing your name?”

“Every day. Why?”

“Brian Levine,” Sean muttered. “I've always liked that name.” He glanced in Edward's direction.

“You could do worse.”

“I don't look like a Levine,” Edward rumbled.

Sean arched a brow. “You look like a Murphy?”

Edward laughed. “Sure, haven't you ever heard of Black Irish?”

“Har. Har.” Sean's gaze was still past the bars of the holding cell.

Edward didn't know how to read this, or Sean's sudden silence. “So, what does Sean A.P. Ryan &

Associates do? Aside from property damage?”

Sean chuckled. “Oh, property damage isn't in the job description, it's a fringe benefit.” He glanced

Edward's way. “Protection. Private security. Some people call me a mercenary. I think I prefer 'cleanser of

the gene pool.' Don't you?”

“Depends on who's wielding the chlorine.”

“That would be me.”

Edward chuckled and shook his head. A moment later, he said, “So, where did you get the 'cleanser of

the gene pool' line?”

“Deadpool. Marvel Comic book character.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

Sean had gone back to staring out the bars again, and Edward followed his gaze. At the other end of

the hall, there was a tall woman. And by tall, he meant tall. Edward's height neared two meters, but this

woman may have had an inch or two on him. She wasn't as dark as he was; her appearance was more Mariah

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Carey / Halle Berry, if either one of them played basketball. Her hair was short, stopping at the nape of the

neck, and she was dressed in a sharp black suit.

“Oh yeah,” Sean said under his breath, “she's Secret Service.”

Edward arched a brow. “How can you tell?”

Sean smiled and looked at him. “You really were distracted by the fireworks, weren't you?”

Edward was tempted to once again roll his eyes. “I tend to be focused on the people trying to kill me.

Why?”

“You'll see.” He stood and moved over to the bars, then tapped on them with the handcuffs. “Excuse

me, I think she's here for me.”

One of the other prisoners in holding snickered. “You wish, buddy.”

The woman glanced his way, nodded, and strode over to holding. Officer Shubitz walked one step

ahead of her. Sean smiled, waved, and tossed the cop his handcuffs. “Thanks, I needed the practice.” He

glanced to the tall woman and said, “Hi.”

“Secret Service Agent Athena Marcowitz,” she said stiffly, flashing her ID.

“Sean A.P. Ryan. Pleased to meet you. Shall we talk?”

Agent Marcowitz nodded, then looked to Shubitz. “I'd like him in interrogation.”

Sean poked his thumb over his shoulder. “Him too.”

Athena's eyes followed his gesture. “Why?”

“Because Mr. Levine will not want to stay in this little cage.”

Shubitz blinked, looking from one prisoner to the other. “I thought his name was—”

“It is,” Sean told him. “But I refuse to employ anyone with a name that could be easily broken down

into 'Eddie Murphy.' So I will refer to him as Mr. Levine. He's my associate.” He looked at the officer

directly. “As of five minutes ago, he is an employee of the firm of Sean A.P. Ryan and Associates.” He

looked to Athena. “If he is tied up in red tape, someone will find themselves garroted, with the tape.”

Edward blinked. He didn't know he had agreed to being a paid member of the “firm.” But if this

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nutcase was willing to go to bat for him with the same dedication as wiping out a warehouse full of men with

assault weapons, Edward was not about to complain. He rose from the bench and walked over to stand next

to Sean.

Now that Edward was closer to the Secret Service Agent, he noticed she was sort of striking. Well-

proportioned for her size, she was feminine, and she might have been good looking, if she only smiled.

Then again, Edward, have you ever seen a Secret Service Agent smile while on duty? he thought.

Athena's gaze shot to him like a knife to the gut. “What are you staring at?”

Edward started. He hadn't noticed that his gaze had lingered. He smiled, trying to cover. “I was

trying to count and gauge all of your guns.”

Athena's eyebrow elevated just a little. “And?”

“Ankle, bra, and shoulder. A .40, a .357, and a .22 in the ankle.”

“And the knife under the shoulder holster,” Sean added casually.

The officer looked at the three of them as though they were nuts; Athena and Edward focused that

same look at Sean.

“Interview room now, I think,” Athena told them.

Once Sean and Edward were seated, Athena laid out photos taken at the scene of the incident. “We

finally saw the video tape,” she told them. Looking at Sean, she said, “You really were a stuntman, weren't

you?”

Sean sighed. “The cops have my union card.”

Athena tapped the closed file with the transcript of Sean's statement. “I don't think anyone believed

half of this stuff you told the officers on scene. It sounded like a John Woo film.”

Sean nodded. “I was in one of those.”

She looked at Edward, as if asking if Sean could be serious for a moment, then looked back to the

shorter fellow. “Yes, but your story sounded insane for even one of you folks to try.”

He grinned. “Thank you, I won awards for crazy stunts.”

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“I believe it.” She slipped out another photo, this one of Sean without a shirt on. “By the way, medics

examined you on scene, took photos. That giant scar on your body?”

“Burning Orc suit.” He shrugged. “I spent some time in New Zealand.”

“Left arm?”

“I told you I did a John Woo film.”

Athena didn't even smile. She looked to Edward. “And what about you? What is your involvement in

all this, that Mr. Ryan here would go to bat for you?”

Edward smiled and held up his hands. “Don't look at me, all I did was run towards the screaming.”

“After all,” Sean interjected, “that's the first law of super-heroics.”

Both the Secret Service Agent and the former Delta operative looked at him like he had come from

outer space. Sean glanced from one blank face to the to the other. “Masks? Rebekah Hendershot? LA

superhero fiction? Ring any bells?” He, frowned, rolled his eyes and muttered, “No one reads anymore.”

Athena's attention turned back to Sean – which was the point of his odd comment. “Okay. Let's talk

about your weaponry.”

Sean leaned back, his face slipping into a neutral, blank slate. “What about it?”

Edward shifted in his chair. From the moment he had first laid eyes on Sean, he had noticed one

thing: a constant expression of amusement. There was the glint in his eye, the constant, slight smile on his

lips. Even he could tell that Agent Athena Marcowitz had just touched a nerve. And Edward didn't want to

know which nerve endings were connected to Sean Ryan's large, shiny red button. From what he had

witnessed thus far, it was probably connected to a nuclear launch code somewhere.

When Sean spoke next, his tone was casual, and his voice softer. “Whatever could you mean?”

Marcowitz pressed the advantage. “Your tactical batons are custom made. The connecting screw-in

portion, the CO2 cartridge, and their locking mechanism.”

Sean gave a slight grin, though it didn't reassure Edward. It was almost feral. “Someone's been

playing with my toys.”

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in case someone started distributing the money on their own time. That way they could hunt down whoever

stole from the company till, and hurt them.” She looked to Sean. “The man nearest the burn button is now a

lefty.”

Sean thought a moment, and blinked. “Oh, was that what the button was for?”

Edward arched a brow. “What button?”

The Secret Service Agent answered. “They had a security tape. They also had it rigged to be burned

in the event of a raid by the police.”

Sean Ryan shrugged. “When I see someone reaching for a button instead of a gun, I assume the

worst. I decided it would be better if he didn't have use of that hand.”

She nodded, and tapped a particularly gruesome photo. “Yes, but … was that done with a fire ax?”

“Hatchet,” Sean corrected. “Thrown from a distance of forty feet.”

She tapped another photo, with someone else's head crushed in. “And a yawara stick made with golf

balls? Really? What, you read too many Modesty Blaise novels growing up?”

Sean frowned. “Of course. I couldn't exactly go by the movies, now could I? They sucked.”

“Keep on track, Mr. Ryan,” Agent Marcowitz warned. “I want you to walk me through some of this.

You told the police that a client's stalker was part of the counterfeiting operation. You discovered his day job,

and you decided to 'talk' with his boss, in an effort to see that the stalker was executed in some back alley

somewhere.”

Sean nodded. “That was the gist of it. I wandered in behind some of the guys offloading the paper. I

used my silencer to quietly put down a few who cornered me in a hallway. When I ran out of ammunition

for that gun, I resorted to some homemade weapons for silent kills. But I discovered that wouldn't be able to

get through to the boss's office unless I cleared a path.”

Athena tapped the burned out printer. “And you decided to take out their press.”

“Bingo. It was the one thing I knew would draw everyone's attention. And it worked. Until they saw

me moving in the opposite direction. Then they opened fire on me. The inconsiderate bastards. After that, I

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needed to get … creative.”

“And then things got messy,” Edward joked.

Athena Marcowitz nodded. “Okay. What happened to the plates?”

“What plates?” Sean answered. “There weren't any dinner plates.”

“What were you doing there, really? And what did you do with the plates? Don't play dumb, with

me, Mr. Ryan, ”

Edward leaned forward and said, “I don't know how much you've read about him, agent, but I don't

think he's playing.”

“Nah,” Sean agreed, “I prefer target shooting.”

Edward gave a short, sharp laugh. “Of course you do.”

“Back on track,” Athena Marcowitz corrected. “The plates? You know what was there, you made

your improvised bomb with the chemicals they used to print the money.”

Edward blinked, but said nothing, as little pieces starting clicking in his brain. The industrial

machines that Sean had set on fire—industrial printing presses to make counterfeit bills. Which was why

this leggy drink of water from the Secret Service was doing here; they investigated counterfeiting. But why

were the plates missing? He and Sean were the only ones to walk out of there.

Sean leaned back in his chair, the amused glint in his eye returning. “Before I answer that, I want you

to think about joining my firm.”

Agent Marcowitz blinked. “Is that a bribe?”

Sean visibly winced. “No. It's a job offer.”

“Then no,” she answered him.

He rolled his eyes. “Now really think about it.”

Athena bunched up her mouth, and said, “Why should I?”

“Because you're Secret Service, and half of my job is protection, so you'd be perfect.”

“And the other half?”

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“Indulging in a license to kill anyone dumb enough to give us a halfway legal reason to end them.”

“There are other Service agents around, Mr. Ryan, now—”

“Not only are you a Secret Service agent,” Sean interrupted, “you carry three guns and a knife, and

you're pretty enough to make even professional tough guys like Edward here phase out for a half-second—

which is twice as long as you or I would need to take out most anyone who got in our way. And you know

when to press and when to get your finger off the button. You played the weapon card very well, and you

knew to get off the subject of Mitch when you read my reaction. You're good. Besides, when was the last

time you protected someone important?”

Athena blinked. “What do you—?”

“Come on,” he said. “You're here in LA chasing down counterfeiters, and I sure as heck know I

haven't seen you running alongside a Presidential limo lately. When was the last time you protected someone

that you yourself deemed important? Or was it you and a bunch of detail fellows guarding a lazy ambassador

who you wanted to assassinate yourself?”

Athena didn't answer for a long moment. It was obvious to everyone in that room that the Secret

Service agent started to seriously consider the offer. The moment passed, and she said, “The plates, Mr.

Ryan?”

Sean smiled. “Still Mister Ryan, is it? Well, then, I think it's time for me to talk about what I want.”

She arched a brow. “Really? And what's that?”

Sean pointed to Edward over the shoulder with his thumb “I want Mr. Levine here released. Today.

He came to lend aid at risk to himself, with no prospect of reward. His employment with my company can

terminate five minutes after he's released, if he so desires, but until then, he's my people.” He looked over

his shoulder at Edward. “I'll even give you severance pay. Trust me, you earned it.”

Sean looked back to Athena. “We both know that I'm going to have more problems with the weapons

charge than anything else. A sound-suppressor is illegal unless you're in law enforcement or the military.

I'm many things, but I don't have a license to be Blackwater. Now, given the weaponry in that place, and the

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bad guys involved, few people would convict me, even in Hell-A, and I pity the prosecutor who would dare

try. The weapons charges would be … annoying. I want them to go away. I want Mr. Levine and myself to

get the heck outta this building today. Not tomorrow, not even after midnight. Today.”

The Secret Service Agent cocked her head. “After midnight? Does that mean you turn into a pumpkin

or a gremlin?”

Sean gave a little smile. “Yeah, sure, just call me Gizmo.”

Athena rolled her eyes. “Uh huh … Now, seriously, what is it? You have a hot date?”

Sean chuckled. “Yes. Her name's Inna. She's my girlfriend. I told her I wouldn't be late this time. We

have reservations.” Sean's eyes leveled with hers. “Now, cut out the games. We both know this is just

expedition of what will happen anyway. That's all I want. And then, I'll give you the plates.”

Athena looked at the two-way mirror, nodded, and the door opened. A lawyer walked in from the

District Attorney's office, papers in hand. Sean took them, and looked them over. The papers were for

complete amnesty for what had happened in the warehouse – weapons charges, assault, assault with a deadly

weapon, murders one and two, manslaughter, everything. The surprising part was that they were for both him

and Edward.

Sean blinked in surprised, then smiled. He took out a pen and started to sign the papers. “Very well

played, Agent Marcowitz. You always try to anticipate behavior?”

“I'm Secret Service,” she answered, “that's what we do. Besides, as you said, it's simple expedition.”

Sean nodded, and spent a few more minutes signing off on forms that were almost all in triplicate. “I

am definitely going to have to reiterate that job offer. I like you even more now.” He looked up. “You have

them, by the way,” Sean told her. “The plates.”

“No, we don't.”

He signed the last page and dated it, slapped the pen on the papers, and slid them over. “Tell them to

clean off the blood.”

“Blood?” Agent Marcowitz looked down at the file, and started sorting through all of it, looking for

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the photos. There, at the bottom, she found a picture. It was of the owner of the operation, or what was left

of his face. She knew there had been something wrong at the time, but she didn't know what.

In the middle of the man's forehead was the impression of the corner of a $20 bill.

“You beat him with the plates?”

“Yup. I figured they should be put to good use. They may be a little damaged. The hole in the

middle is from the acetylene torch.”

“Why did you do that?”

Sean shrugged, stood, and looked at Officer Shubitz, nonverbally asking permission to leave. After

an exchange between the lawyer and the officer, Shubitz nodded. Sean looked back to Athena. “I figured the

dollar would be safer without the plates in existence.”

Edward Murphy rose from his seat, but hung back. The room was getting crowded, with the lawyer,

Shubitz, Marcowtiz, Sean, and his own bulk. “And if my new employer pays me in cash, it would be good

to know it's not counterfeit.”

Sean Ryan gave Edward a nod. “Don't worry, Mr. Levine. My checks don't bounce. Welcome to the

firm.”

Athena rose, sweeping the photos back into a pile. “I suppose, in a way, you did us a favor. If we

had to prosecute, and we made a deal for your testimony, you and your record would have made it difficult

… to make … a case.” She blinked and stared at him a moment. “And without the plates, prosecution

would have been a problem … ”

Sean chuckled. “You mean if there was anyone left to prosecute?” he asked her. “Well, it's a good

thing they're all dead then, isn't it?”

Athena stared at him for a long moment, trying to do the math. “You said you came in with a sound-

suppressed weapon so you could get in an make a deal with the boss. You didn't expect to get caught when

you went in there, but when they spotted you, and Edward appeared, you knew the jig was up. Did you

decide to kill all of them when the plan went south? Or were you just lucky?”

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Sean's bright blue eyes crackled with amusement. “My dear Agent Marcowitz, as I told my new

associate here, I don't do random acts of destruction. The end result made everyone's life easier, and dead

people don't sue. And the plates were my get-out-of-jail-free card.” He gave a casual, easy shrug. “There are

people that the world is better off without, lass. And that's why I made you a job offer. You can help me end

those people.” Sean gave her a feline grin. “Come, join the dark side. We have cookies.”

~Fin~

Copyright J.E. Konecsni

http://apiusman.blogspot.com

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Sean A.P. Ryan: A mercenary with a penchant for casual mayhem and wanton destruction, he hassurvived thus far by being resourceful, daring, andscaring the heck out of anyone who gets in hisway. Friends say he is on the borderline of sanity.Enemies say he crossed that border without a passport. A former stuntman, anything he gets his

hands on becomes a lethal weapon.

In A Pius Man, he's brought to the Vatican … toteach nonlethal self-defense techniques to priestsand nuns.

Obviously, someone didn't read his resume.

Just how reckless is he? Who do you think isdriving the armored SUV down the Spanish Steps?



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Scott “Mossad” Murphy. After 9-11-01, thisstiff young Catholic from New York went toIsrael, determined to go after any terroristshe can get his hands on. Since then, he has proven to be a master of disguise, a master

planner, and a hazard to self and others if anyone lets him near a gun. Aside from aninferior ability with firearms, he is the bestMossad has ever had.

A Pius Man opens with Scott being broughtto Rome to investigate the death of an al-Qaeda leader. When the terrorist first died,no one cared who did it … until they realizethat no one knows who assassinated him.Scott has to find out who and why, before

someone else dies.

However, he's going to have company.

Manana “Mani” Shushurin is part of the GermanBND. While she is a field agent, much of her time isspent sending intelligence to Israel as part of her job.This makes her so popular with other members of theBND, they put her office in the deepest, darkesthallway the Germans can find.

But in A Pius Man, Manana has found a striking pieceof intelligence that puts her on a direct heading toRome … and Scott Murphy. While the two of themare supposed to find who killed the terrorist, their styles are so different, it's almost comical. She carriesa gun, knows hand-to-hand combat, and prefers high-speed car chases, while Scott prefers secrecy, subtleinfiltration, and would probably shoot himself with agun if he needed to use one. She is so beautiful, people stop in the street and stare. Scott couldn't getsomeone to notice him if they tripped over him in thestreet, and he prefers it that way.

They're a perfect match. And they may even fall inlove … if they can survive.



.

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Maureen McGrail is an Interpol agent based out of Ireland. Whilemost of her time is spent with local criminals, an Interpol badgeallows her to travel after those who run. She doesn't need a teamto catch fugitives; she's an expert in three combat systems.

Maureen has just picked up a case of murder in Dublin: an old priest on his way to Rome to give testimony about Pope Pius XII. Now, she's been sent to find out why anyone would kill over aWorld War II pope.

This mission couldn't be any harder than her American trip, whenshe ran into a certain mercenary named Sean Ryan … Then she'sgreeted up by an armored SUV .

Maureen is about to discover that this trip will be so much worsethan the last time.

Giovanni Figlia is Commander of the Swiss Guard. His job is to protect the Pope at any cost, no matter how many people stand in his way.

When A Pius Man opens, his day was supposed to besimple. An American Secret Service Agent has been brought in to audit security. He planned to take her, showher around, pretend to listen, and everyone would go homehappy. Everything was going to plan … until the hotel

across from the Vatican exploded, and a body was hurledonto the hood of his Jetta.

When the corpse that used his car for a landing pad turnsout to be an assassin targeting visitors to the VaticanArchives, Giovanni must investigate the secret of PopePius XII, before it destroys everything dear to him.

But what does the head of the Swiss Guard do when thePope may be the prime suspect?



Secret Origins

For those newcomers to the world of A Pius Man , I bid you welcome. I hope you have enjoyed

the Free Comic Book Day story “One Way to Stay Out of Jail.” Granted, you may have noticed

something a little odd …

To start with, A Pius Man is not a comic book, it is a novel I'm trying to sell. However, FCBD

does give me an excuse to post a new story online. After the first few people compared Sean

Ryan to comic book anti-hero Deadpool, it was his turn to have a story all to himself, and not

one where he's beating up on someone who is not Fred Phelps protesting Comic-Con (See the

story: “God Hates … Superman?”) on the website.

A Pius Man began after the first dozen variations of The Da Vinci Code irritated me. They

were bursting to the seams with bad history, colorless characters, and about as thrilling as a

documentary on drying paint. My revenge was simple: slip in the occasional historical fact

between action sequences, witty banter, and destruction of public property.

A Pius Man has all the intrigue of John le Carré, the inventiveness of Burn Notice , and all of

the action of a Vince Flynn novel.

At the very least, come join in on the fun at the website,

apiusman.blogspot.com. There are more stories, trailers, character

profiles, spy life lessons, artwork by the ever-impressive Matthew

Funtime, and Vatican Ninjas. Yes, we have ninjas.

J. Konecsni

Author of A Pius Man

19

Vatican Ninja. Artwork

by Matthew Funtime.www.Matthewfunti.me

one way to stay out of jail

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