Coyote Christmas A Christmas Tale of A Pius Man

Sean A.P. Ryan walked through the gated community humming Angels We Have Heard On High, mostly to keep himself from killing something. He didn't like the area already, and he had only been there thirty seconds. Then again, there was a lot about gated communities that he didn't like. Entitlement. Spoiled children. So many of those people had mistaken him for an errand boy, or hired muscle, or a rent-a-cop; calling him a rent-a-cop was like calling a mushroom cloud a really neat special effect. Most of the homes were pretentious. They were big, and trimmed in silver, and had columns in front of their front doors And God, is it as tacky as drug lords who saw too many reruns of Miami Vice while shooting up their own product. All that's missing are the flamingos. However, the neighborhood didn't really require flamingos, they had a tree. A great, big, honking tree that was strung with enough LEDs to qualify as a fire hazard. Someone had obviously decided to try and go into competition with the tree in Rockefeller Center, and they had placed it in the dead center of the gated community, right in front of the client's house. In the middle of freaking California. God, I love LA or is it mostly an Orange County disease? Sean sighed, slid out his tactical baton and touched it to the gate. As he figured, nothing. No electrical shock, not even motion sensors. If these people think they're in the sort of trouble that requires my expertise, they need to up their system. Sean caught some motion to his left. He turned his whole body, sliding into a fighting

stance and saw a four-legged animal padding its way across the street, tongue hanging out like a dog, loping along like it was on the way to a playdate with a playground and a rubber ball. Only it can't be a dog, can it? Sean thought. Its face is too narrow, and the body too wiry, and that's a coyote, isn't it? The coyote made it to Sean's side of the street, and paused, looking at him. The tongue withdrew and the mouth closed. Sean Ryan gave the animal a slow smile. His tactical baton was still open, and he was already contemplating the various and sundry ways to break the coyote's legs, jaw, ribs, and work from there The coyote gave Sean a once over, bobbed its head, and resumed the dog-like expression from before, walking away, into the bushes. I'm glad we understand each other. *** Sean turned back to the tacky, silver-wire fence. He backed up, then leapt up, grabbing the gate just enough to swing himself over it. He landed with cat-like grace, and more glided than walked up to the front door. He pressed the doorbell with the tip of his baton, and slid it away. The door chime was more of a full orchestral rendition of the Chorus of the Bells. He sighed and rolled his eyes. Oh look, it's Christmas time, and we have to show off who has the most toys. God save me. A butler answered the door. He stared down at Sean Ryan, with his black shirt and his commando pants and his sneakers, and said, I do not know how you got into the community, but we do not accept solicitations, and I will be calling the community police immediately. Sean smiled. Oh, please do, Jeeves. It'll be amusing when I tell your boss that you tried

to chase away the security expert. He offered his hand. Sean A.P. Ryan, head of Sean A.P. Ryan and Associates, here to see Tiffany Stacker. You want to let me in? The help frowned, and moved off. Maybe I should downgrade him from Jeeves to Bozo the Clown. After a moment of studying the dcor, Sean decided that this family had more dollars than sense. The carpet in the foyer was too expensive to be near a door where people came in with their muddy boots, and there wasn't a neat line of shoes by the side of the door. He knew they were in LA, but it rained, despite the TV shows appearing to say otherwise. How did you infiltrate the community? the butler asked. You're kidding, right? Sean rolled his eyes. I once infiltrated a supermax prison to have a chat with an MS-13 leader who was in solitary confinement. This place is easy. I think I sleepwalked through the infiltration. The butler gave him a look that said he wanted to grab a can of Raid and spray Sean like the pest he was, but decided that would be uncouth, and strode out to fetch his masters. His masters, Sean thought. I would be better off if I cut back on the PG Wodehouse. The butler didn't come back, but a blonde did: a botoxed, augmented, peroxide blonde that had passed her expiration date sometime when Clinton was President. If the body work on her was any indication, she had as many original parts in her as the original Pirates of the Caribbean animatronics at Disney. I like this job already. Not. So, Madam Stacker, how many I be of help? She smiled he thought, it was hard to tell with the botox and said, You see, Mr. Ryan, we have some issues in the neighborhood with some of the other people here. Sean almost smirked. Gee, issues? Really? Who'da thunk it? What sort of issues?

Well, you see, some of the people outside of the community have been picking on my poor little boy. Sean arched a brow. Little boy? Either you spawned late in life, or you're hiding a middle-age loser in your basement. Picking on him? You mean death threats? Oh, no, not yet, but they've threatened to call the police on him for some of his lighthearted fun. I want you to protect him from them. Sean wanted to charge this botoxed creature for the gas mileage. Considering he basically drove an armored Hummer, that would teach her. Uh huh well, let me explain to you the difference between a bodyguard and private security. Bodyguards are generally over-muscled or overweight morons who stand around and try to generate crowd control, and provide the babysitting you're asking for. Private security means that I protect you against actual threats; threats that I can touch and get my hands on preferably around their throats. Right now, you make it sound like you need pest control. Mostly to fumigate your own son. Goodbye. I'll show myself out.

*** Sean Ryan was outside the house and halfway down the block before he could calm down. Few people had ever heard O Come, All Ye Faithful hummed angry. Ask me to play pest control, will you? Fumigate your own bloody children. There was a sharp, loud noise next to him, and he whirled, feeling a sudden interest in killing something. Sean sighed. It was one of those little yappy dogs. The kind that thought they were Dobermans despite that they may barely outweigh the average squirrel. Sean knew New York

street rats that could take out this little ball of fluff and fury. He blinked, and a streak of light brown shot out from the bushes, snapping up the little rodent without a hesitation. It shot off down the street, and Sean smiled as it disappeared around a corner. He laughed. I knew I liked that coyote for a reason. Sean got down to his car, and slowed from his usual brisk pace to investigate another car, one with its windows smashed in. It hadn't been when he arrived, he would have noticed it would have been a sign to park his car someplace else. The odd thing was, it was an older car possibly a '90s Japanese piece of fiberglass that Sean wouldn't be caught dead in. It would be crap against bullets. He turned to his own car, and was about to unlock it, when he paused, turned, and moved to inspect the car a little more closely. Hey, don't I know you? Hey, don't I know that voice? Low, good diction, slightest trace of local Californian. Sean turned. There was a 5'6 brunette with sharp, intelligent green eyes, silver wire-framed glasses. We met once, he answered. Not too long ago. The woman looked at him, then nodded. You know, they're still cleaning up that block after your visit. Sean smiled. Not my fault some people just leave their explosives lying around. He jerked his thumb towards the wrecked car. This happen often? She sighed, walking up to survey the damage. Every once in a while, yes. Oh, look, he even left his screwdriver behind. Again. He? 'He' who? Charlie Stacker, one of the kids from the community up the hill. I guess his mother cut

off his marijuana allowance. Again. And he went after this car last time, too. And he does all of this, and still, he leaves the car radio. Sean blinked. Stacker. The same name as the bleached, botoxed, augmented creature who'd just tried to hire him. Wouldn't it just be smarter for the druggie to rip off mommy? You'd think so, wouldn't you? she said, with a hint of a smile that did nothing to dull the sardonic edge. And the cops don't know how to catch him? She glanced at the screwdriver. How do you think I know that's his? Or that I know any of this? One of my friendly neighborhood cops told me. Sean took in a slow breath, and let it out as a deep sigh. Entitled, spoiled rich kids. I hate 'em I'm half surprised you haven't joined up and beat this sucker so hard, they find him detoxing in the gutter where you leave him. The author shook her head. Nah. My soul would get all sticky. Sean arched a brow. If that were a problem for me, my soul would look more like something from the Ghostbusters films. She sighed. If it were that easy, he wouldn't be a problem. This is my friend's car. She's an immigrant, and if anything happens to Mommy's Precious Little Boy, my friend will be deported because she'll be a suspect. Sean arched a brow. He ran through the possibilities; he had run into more illegal aliens who were also Coyotes, or in the Mexican cartels, or some variety of gang... Why? She illegal? No, she told him. Legal from Norway. But it doesn't matter. Sean grimaced. He didn't think Stacker had that much influence. Are these people big fish, or is this a small pond?

She gave him a smile. I wouldn't say we're a pond, really. None of us are very coy. Seam closed his eyes at the joke. He looked over the destroyed Toyota, then looked back up the hill. What are you going to do? the author asked him. Go all Dirty Harry on them because he wrecked a car? Sean glanced back to the car. Considering that this is your standard POS model that's older than I am, I'm going to guess that your friend isn't well off. You figured that out, did you? That it's a crappy car with a shiny radio gave me a hint. I'm all kinds of perceptive. My point is that wrecking a car in this instance might as well steal most of her food money for months. Your friend doesn't have two nickels to rub together, and he stole one of them. When I'm done, they'll wish that you and your friend had left him in a gutter somewhere. The woman's sharp green eyes flickered over him, and she tilted her head slightly. Righteous indignation? Really? Are you that bored at the office? Sean grinned. I drove all the way out here, might as well do something interesting. She arched a brow. His definition of interesting might match her definition of mass murder. You know, I looked you up on the internet after I saw your card. There are more rumors about you than, oh, let me think Branjelina? Tomkat? Kidban? She blinked. This is the first time he might have thrown her. Um yes, no, and who? Never mind. Sean looked back to the car, then turned back towards the hill, walking for the community. Give me a few minutes. I'll be back. Are you going to blow up the whole community, or just small parts of it? she said to his

retreating back. Only one part of it. * Tiffany Stacker blinked when she turned around and saw Sean Ryan in the middle of her living room. She jumped back, pressing herself flat against a wall. Don't rape me! Don't insult me, Sean muttered. I have standards. Stacker blinked a few times, and then sighed. Oh, it's you. Are you coming back to take our job? Nah. If your behavior to date is any indication, the situation may end with you needing protection from me. He smiled, both hands in front of him, one of them in a fist. He gave her a pleasant smile that was as calming as a hostage negotiator. But I've noticed that your son has a bad habit of breaking into cars, and then using it for drugs. What business is it of yours? You guarded Barbara and Stephen, and they were slandered for sealing off a stretch of their beach. Sean smiled, trying not to remember those particular discussions. One, the singer and the director were trying to seal off public property because they didn't want the 'lesser breeds' traipsing through their neighborhood. You'd think that with their noses so high in the air, that they'd be upwind. I guarded them after they gave up the beach. As for my business, I'm a 5'6 male in the land of six-foot, blond Hollywierdoes, and you somehow think that I approve of bullies? Now, I want your kid arrested, and in jail, today. Then you put him in a real rehab program, and not the Lindsay Lohan plan. Do all this, and reimburse everyone who he has inconvenienced, and I may leave you alone. Tiffany blinked. Are you threatening me?

Eye roll. Well, since I have a white noise generator that disrupts all audio recording devices, and since I cut your CCTV feed before coming in, I feel confident in saying that, yes, I am threatening you. Tiffany smiled as though she believed herself hardened to all the world could throw at her. Do your worst. Really? Sean raised his right fist. Okay. There was a mild explosion outside, like a loud backfire. Then there was a loud creaking, like a house was slowly tilting over. Then the crash. Your neighborhood should always be careful when trimming the tree, Sean told her, slipping away his remote. The can always become top heavy and tip over, destroying he closed one eye, thinking it over one side of your garden wall, and at least one, if not two, of your very expensive cars the Lexus or the Aston Martin. You will already spend more money repairing or replacing both than if you had just said yes to me in the first place. Would you like to pay more? Think it over. * Sean moved back to his car. The author was still nearby, only she was filming two other people, who appeared to be in their late teens. He shrugged, then checked his car's automatic sensors for any bombs a generally unnecessary habit, but at Sean's body count, he was always worried that someone could come back for him. Then again, my body count does start to resemble a Columbian drug lord's. Hey, you. You ruined one of my takes. Sean glanced back to the author. She closed her video camera, looked to the two teens, and said, Tacos are in the house, on the table.

Sean spared the kids a glance as they ran into the house. Tacos? I pay them in tacos. Yay bribes. He smiled. Gotcha. Now, your take? What are you filming, a movie? She shook her head. Nah. A trailer for my book. Sean blinked, and thought it over. Oh, yes, Masks, wasn't it? Something about superheroes. Sorry I haven't gone looking, I've been a little busy. Eh. It only came out in November. Don't worry. Though you can catch it for free online. Pocketcoyote. One word. Sean arched a brow and was going to ask how that worked, but he didn't think he wanted to know. His girlfriend was an agent, and she told him more about the publishing industry than he wanted to know. Now, how did I ruin your trailer filming? Well, that explosion was you, wasn't it? He chucked. Sorry, I don't self-destruct. Don't believe everything you read about me. The author arched a brow. Really? I saw it on YouTube. He blinked. Damn, now I need to threaten someone who owns YouTube. Google, isn't it? Ah, did they get my good side? Well, it was hard to tell. You were covered in ash at the time. Ah, that one. Good times. He nodded back up the hill. As for the rest, well, I simply wrapped the local Christmas tree in DetCord and dropped it on their Lexus and Aston Martin. She paused a moment, and nodded. Okay, but it's not a Christmas tree. It's a 'holiday tree.' Remember, gated communities have planning committees. Sean rolled his eyes. Listen, do you still have my card? Call me if the locals up the hill get out of line again.

She merely glanced behind him. Oh, I don't think you're going to get that far. You might want to turn around. Sean glanced over. He could see two policemen approaching him. Their patrol car was down the block, which is why he hadn't heard them coming. Of course you realize that this means war. His electric-blue eyes flickered to her. Feel free to dial the number on my business card. Tell them the situation. The cops won't have anything to hold me on, but Gotcha. Sean smiled, nodded, and turned, heading straight for the cops, arms wide open and welcoming and in plain view at all times, visibly empty. The author sighed, and didn't even wait for the cuffs to come out. She pulled out her cell phone, and the card from the back of her wallet, and dialed. After two rings, the other end picked up. Hey. Is this the place Sean Ryan works? Hi, I'm . Yes, I am. Wow, your caller ID is good. Mr. Ryan wanted me to call. He's kinda being arrested Right now Yes. The client he came out to see has upset him and Yes, there is property damage. A Christmas tree well, he said they had nothing on him Those are his exact words. How do I know him? He wanted to know about my book Masks Yes, I've met him before. Don't worry, I suspect I'll know when to run and hide. Thanks. *** Have you tried cat treats? Sean looked over his shoulder. He had been sitting atop the hood of his car since he got out of jail, and he had been contemplating proportionate retaliation against the Stacker family. He had just dismissed carpet bombing as an option when he heard the author behind him.

What about them? he asked. It's like coyote crack, the author told him. Sean smiled. I can come up with a few ideas for that and why are you helping? Because it's your friend's car? She gave a dry laugh. Because the more I help, the less property damage you'll cause. He chuckled. Yeah, keep thinking that The author blinked. Should I have an alibi? Probably. What do you know about coyotes? A lot. Narrow it down a little. What do you need to know? I saw one around here eat a puppy. It's what happens when you expand an urban environment into the living space of a nocturnal animal. Yay, adaptation! She shrugged. They've been expanding into Coyote Hills. You want to guess what lives there? The author rolled her eyes. A puppy, or one of those little yappy dogs? The latter. It wasn't one of Stacker's, was it? She only has a small herd of them. Really? Good to know. He looked at his watch and sighed. He glanced towards the author and said, You know, this time three weeks ago, I was getting ready to throw a gun runner off the Empire State Building? Sean sighed. Such a comedown. *** Charlie Stacker looked like he had come off an Occupy Wall Street rally a college age neo-hippie, his hair was shaggy, and all of his clothes were bought from Old Navy. When he woke up, Sean Ryan was whistling Silent Night, as he thumbed through

Stacker's iPhone he stood at the other side of an iron-rail fence. Charlie was in someone else's front yard, and he had a headache. And he was bound, hand and foot. Don't struggle, Sean told him. You're tied up with DetCord, not rope. If you pull too hard, the detonators won't like it. Charlie became as still as the grave. What are you doing? You've got some interesting contacts on this list, Charlie, Sean told him. Including one which, according to my online search, is an empty house. Charlie slowly sat up and found that he had dust and dirt all over him. What is this? Kitty treats. Apparently, coyotes love 'em, Sean said absently. Like the one that's been in the bushes for the last ten minutes, checking out the situation. Charlie squawked. What? What did I ever do to you? Sean finally looked at Charlie Stacker, his lightsaber-blue eyes crackling with malice. You go around the neighborhood trying to lift things from those you can't afford replacements, because you don't have the money for your own damn weed. This, I object to. Now, you can confess to drug use, theft, and vandalism, or, I can open the gate and walk away, and see if the coyote likes how you taste. What? You wouldn't dare, fascist! Mom'd get the federal government down on you. Sean grinned. Sorry, I just traded a bunch of information for a favor from the Israelis only a week or two back. Worse-case scenario, I'm out in time for Christmas. Last chance turn yourself over to the cops, and I don't feed you to the coyotes. Charlie blinked. Then he laughed; a high-pitched giggle that spoke of drugs heavier than weed. You'd never. Sean sighed. I knew your family was stupid; but this is qualifying you for a Darwin

award. He shrugged. Okay, chow time. He unlocked the gate and swung it open. As he started running the other direction. He heard a scream as a small brown blur darted out of the bushes. The screams died out instantly. Sean looked over his shoulder, and came to a stop. He had been mistaken about there being a coyote in the bushes. There had been four. The coyotes stood over his tied up victim, sniffing him all over. Three of them started to lick the cat treats off Charlie Stacker's clothing, but not his skin. The fourth one looked at Sean, tongue hanging out like the one he had seen snag the puppy. Sean frowned, opened up his cell, and dialed the number he had for the author. After four rings, she answered. His first words were, Why wouldn't a coyote eat a human being? Um is this a trick question? I'm looking at a guy covered in cat treats, whimpering, and the coyotes are only licking his clothing. There was a very long pause at the other end, followed by a nervous cough. I'm hanging up now. For the record, I know that coyotes don't eat the bodies of meth users. They can smell it. Sean nodded, then hung up the phone only to find that the fourth coyote has already trotted out into the street, and stared at him, with a doggie grin-- if dogs had visibly sharper teeth. Sean frowned. He still had more of the cat treats on him, but they were in sealed bags, and the gloves he used to smother Stacker like a steak in onions were in a garbage bin. He pointed at Stacker. The coyote followed the finger with his eyes, then looked back to Sean. Okay, you can tag along, but you can't eat anyone unless I tell you. Sean double-checked the location on the iPhone the empty house Charlie Stacker kept calling. It was in the middle of a large quadrant of vacant homes on the edge of the community

where it met Coyote Hills. The coyote's reaction to Charlie Stacker told Sean exactly what was in that empty house. Meth labs were notorious for three things: they smelled to high heaven, like an industrial chem lab; because of this, many meth labs were in rural areas, in a barn, somewhere other people can't take a whiff; and they could very easily be blown up. *** One hour and approximately half a million dollars in property damage later, Sean Ryan approached his Hummer, keys in hand, whistling O Come All Ye Faithful. And he found an author taking notes on his armored Hummer. You like the toy? Sean asked her. She looked up and shrugged. Sure. I might never know when I have to have my characters hide in one of these things. Or have to disable one of them. She closed the notebook. So, if I heard correctly, you blew up something else? Only a meth lab. And quite possibly the surrounding block. But I don't think I actually killed anybody. The lab will be tied back to the Stackers by phone records. And, I left a goon tied up at the crime scene. Off her incredulous arched eyebrow, he said, Yes, they have goons. That shouldn't surprise anyone I didn't think he could run a meth lab on his own. He shrugged. Though the funny thing is, I would have sworn he looked familiar. She gave a wry smile. You mean you left someone alive long enough so you could recognize him? She tapped her notebook. By the way She was cut off by the sound of a hard-breaking car skidding on the road. Sean didn't even wait to see what happened, but dove for the author, aiming to land behind the Hummer. She was also quick on her feet, and simply rolled back behind the bumper.

Both of them were fortunate. They landed a fraction of a second ahead of the first bullet, and were covered from the hailstorm of automatic weapon fire. Sean cleared his throat, as though at tea instead of hiding against a barrage of instant death. You know, he said as he reached into his pants, I grew up next door to Charleton Heston. He came up with a handgun and checked the chamber. This was well after he started with the NRA. I got more lectures about gun safety from him than people my mother works with at the FBI. And I can assure you that there was no one, repeat, no one, who ever had AK-47s in their homes. You said something about a goon. Could this be more? Sean thought a moment. He had a fairly good memory, and tried focusing on the person he'd left outside of the meth lab and he realized the goon had had a tattoo on his hand, one Sean had barely noticed. He winced. Crap. MS-13. Even the author winced. That's not good. Yeah, I object to playing with anyone who owns more heavy artillery than I do. He listened for another second. And by the sound of it, they have two hundred-round barrel magazines. He glanced at the author who was smart enough to hide behind the other wheel, in case someone was smart enough to shoot under the car. No offense, I wish you were my girlfriend right now. They're so hard to train. She looked at Sean with mouth agape, and said, Train? Of course. Training someone to handle a gun proficiently takes work. I could rely on her for cover fire. Sean went through the options, none of them good. He had enough weapons in the trunk of his car to level the surrounding area. But he didn't think he could talk his way out of a collateral-heavy counterstrike.

He just had to cross his fingers and hope his next trick worked. He reached into another pocket, and came up with a clear plastic bag. He pulled at the top with his teeth, ripping it open. He reared back, and hurled it around the car like it was a grenade. There was a brief hesitation as the shooters ascertained what was thrown, and they immediately opened up again. What was the point of that? Well, Sean explained, on the one side, it's a built in backup plan. Before you throw grenades, you throw rocks, to desensitize them. On the other hand, I'm hoping it's a plan A. Why? What did you throw? One of the guns cut out suddenly, and the other one stuttered a moment before going quiet as well. Sean grinned and wheeled around the car, gun up. One of the gunmen stood there, stunned, before bringing up his weapon. Sean Ryan casually fired twice, removing both kneecaps, and a third time, aiming for the ball joint in the shoulder. The gunman collapsed in a heap on the street. The other shooter was on the ground, trying to fight off a coyote. Sean quickly moved to the other shooter's side, and kicked the assault weapon away. The MS-13 member looked down the barrel of Sean's .45. Bad gangbanger, Sean said. Sit. Stay. He relaxed, and the coyote jumped off him, and trotted over to the bag of cat treats Sean had thrown. You have a coyote? the author called out from behind the Hummer. Sean smiled, then kicked the uninjured gunman over onto his stomach. No, he just sort of tagged along for the ride.

The author stuck her head out a little farther, looking at the damage done to the one man Sean had shot. She blinked. Didn't you say your mother was FBI? Sean whipped out several plastic zip-ties and restrained the other gunman. Yeah? And? I thought they taught 'shoot to kill'. Sean chuckled. That would be letting them off easy. He tucked his gun away and sighed. Oh bugger. Now I have to talk to the cops. Damnit. *** Sean leaned against the side of his Hummer and looked to the author next to him. Now, you were going to ask something before everything went strange? She blinked. She didn't expect to go from a firefight to picking up the conversation like it hadn't been interrupted. I think it went strange when you arrived, she answered. But yeah, I wanted to ask you; you said you threw someone off the Empire State Building. You mean the guy who was attached to the bungee cord? He nodded. Sure. He's just lucky I remembered to attach the bungee cord. You know, I checked your Twitter feed after the last time, she told him. I thought you were off to Rome. That? Oh, it's months away. We have to get contracts down, schedules aligned, there's months of preparation, other clients I have to protect. He glanced at his watch. I should have just enough time to get home before my girlfriend gets pissed about where I am at 2p.m. on Christmas eve. Be well. Not long after, as he treated the highways like his own personal off-road track, he turned on the radio. News reports had mentioned that a terrorist attack had gone off in Bethlehem

however, only a member of the Palestinian Authority security forces had been killed. And Sean smiled. Always nice to do a favor for someone. He changed the channel, and played Angels We Have Heard on High. He turned the volume up so he wouldn't have to listen to the pounding in the trunk from the MS-13 shooter he had left relatively unharmed. Relax, Jesus, Sean muttered to himself. When I find out who sent you, you'll be home for Christmas. In very small boxes.