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Ebb Tide Ch. 01

By: FinalStand



Editing magic performed by KJ24 and Shyqash, plus contributions by the regular gang of brigands and neer-do-wells.

Ebb tide: The period between high water and the succeeding low water.

This tale is an espionage fantasy under assault by reality.

The 'hero' of this tale might be considered a Libertarian, though the label means nothing to him. He is not completely sane (by some people's definition of the term).

*****

[DISCLAIMER]

*This tale is an "exercise" with some themes that I am experimenting with in other stories. It is the start of a new, seven chapter, story line. It is posted for your entertainment; but please, do not post any "Do more" or "Oh no, don't stop story X" notes. Just skip this if you feel you might fall prey to such urges.*

Main Cast of Characters:

Vance (Vardan) 'V' Vardanyan - He has thick, black hair kept short. His skin is a dark-brownish olive complexion - Armenian-American. Medium brown eyes. Square jawed. Broad chested, with powerful arms, thick neck with more body-hair than the norm. A stocky frame (six foot tall, 240 lbs.). 33 years old.

Dabney Curtiss - She has long, wavy light-brown hair with blonde streaks and highlights. Her skin is fair and lightly tanned and feels silky to the touch. Golden-brown eyes. Heart-shaped face. 34DD sized breasts with pale, broad areolas and puffy nipples. Athletic body type, with robust buttocks, thighs and calves. 26 years old.

Georgianna 'G' Norquist - She is a natural honey/amber-blonde. Her skin tans easily and is currently darkly tanned and smooth. Oval-shaped face. Clear grey eyes. Her body is fit, tone and statuesque; a smidge on the slender side suggestively rendering her 32D-sized breasts looking bigger than they actually are. 39 years old.

{Las Vegas - September 8th, 2014}

On the north end of the Strip was the Stratosphere. As I was entering the casino around midnight, I noted a woman passing me - heading out - regarding me quizzically. She had long, wavy light-brown hair with blonde streaks and highlights - still damp. She was mildly tanned. I was willing to bet it was because she had fair skin. Otherwise, nice rack, athletic body and commendable lower chassis - butt, thighs and calves.

"Vance?" I heard from behind me. The woman I had seen exiting the building had called out to me. I turned and looked her over. She was a call girl - an escort - and by her high-quality light weight jewelry, perfect teeth and an absence of back alley tattoos, doing better than most.

"Vance, don't you remember me?" she smiled. I didn't have on a name tag and Vance is not what you call a randomly selected john. I turned fully to face her. Nothing.

"I'm afraid not," I gave her a cautious smile. She would have been more attractive to me if she wasn't advertising so much. She didn't look crestfallen which I found unusual.

"Dabney Curtiss," she informed me. Then it clicked.

"Dabney...little Dabney," I grinned. She was the baby sister of a girl I partied with in High School. Sammi, Dabney's sister, and I had not dated, but I hung out at her house a good deal. Hell, I had taught Dabney to shoot pool, ride a bike, swim and dive, plus we often partnered together in 'chicken fights' and water polo.

"I'm not so little anymore," she smirked. She posed for me provocatively then caught herself in the reality that to any natives of Las Vegas' underbelly she was clearly a whore. Her spontaneous joy was fading fast.

"Hey," I took three steps forward and hugged her. "You are right - not little anymore. Do you want to talk?"

I avoided the whole issue of how she was dressed and if she was the master of her own timetable.

"Sure, that'd be great," her smile returned. Doing what you needed to survive was also a fact of life we poor Las Vegans had grown up with. We made our way to Roxy's Diner, one of the food establishments inside the Stratosphere. "You seem to be doing well for yourself." I didn't mind her prodding.

"Eh," I shrugged. "I joined the Navy straight out of school, ended up being a corpsman - that's what they call medics in the Navy. Now, I've got a job lined up with MedicWest." That was a horrifically abbreviated history of the past few years.

"MedicWest?" Dabney asked.

"It is an ambulance service," I told her. Of course, she wasn't likely to know that.

"How in the hell did you end up being a doctor-type," she giggled. "You used to be such a bad-ass in school." I shrugged. "Does it pay well?" Hey, I wasn't insulted. We had been tight long ago.

"$33,000 starting," I answered. I could tell she wasn't overly impressed. "I'm not too much of a 'not-bad ass'," I added.

"No kidding," she reached across the table and squeezed my well-developed biceps. "I don't remember you being so...big." Another smile.

"The Navy stresses physical fitness," I lied somewhat. "I also spent some time with the Marines."

"I thought you said you were in the Navy?" she cocked her head to the side. It was odd to see such a 'womanly' move from a person I last knew as a kid.

"The Navy provides medical personnel for the US Marine Corps," I enlightened her. "What about you and Sammi?"

"Ugh...Mom and Dad finally split up ten years ago," she sighed. Her parents never fought in my presence. They never interacted at all, as far as I knew. It was a strange thing to watch.

"Sammi married Dwight Bell about... a year after you left," she continued. "They had two kids, divorced then were getting back together when Dwight ended up dead in a drug deal gone bad." I remembered Dwight. He was a year ahead of Sammi and me. He was big, black, crude, too eager to resort to violence and not all that bright.

He used to bully me until my junior year when I put his head through a car window. I was an angry, directionless troublemaker back then.

"She hooked up with this Samoan guy who I hated. I called him Shamu," she took a long pull on her soda straw. "He did 19 months for grand theft auto, violated his parole and left town afterwards. Last I heard he went down for some heavy time in Idaho.

Once she got him out of her system, she got her act together, took some online courses and now works at Well-Crest Construction Co. in Henderson," she looked me over. "Do you think you want to... you know...see her some time?"

"Sure," I agreed. "I'll give you my number. I've come off a rough stretch so I'm not looking for anything serious."

That made her happy. She had my number without having to ask for it. I could tell she was interested in something more than the ¼ pound juicy hamburger, milkshake and onion rings I was paying for. My issue was that Dabney was a hooker and that meant she already had a 'man' in her life. Speaking of which, her phone rang.

I knew that look. She was debating doing something she knew was wrong (not answering the phone) and deciding to do what she knew was wrong anyway. She sent the call to voice mail before forcing a smile back on her face and looking at me.

"How come we never hooked up, Vance?" she let her golden-brown eyes get all big and innocent.

"Dabney, you are seven years younger than me," I pointed out. "When I left, you were eleven."

"I always liked you," she batted her eyelashes. I was somewhat her protector since Sammi and I ran with a rough crowd, did drugs (I abstained for personal reasons) and got drunk (a lot) way too early in life.

Her parents had been as cold to their children as they were to one another so for three years I sort of fell into her male role model, which probably explained our current awkward situation.

"I knew," I assured her. "I didn't want to leave, Dabney, but if I had stayed, bad shit would have happened."

'Bad' as in my best friend, Eric Uno being gunned down over pointless idiocy - macho bravado, two pistols and no common sense. If I had stuck around, I'd have gone after the people who did it and ended up either in jail, or dead.

"That was messed up," she nodded.

Eric had died over nothing and he'd left nothing but two, perpetually poor, working-class parents behind, wondering why their only child was dead and wanting me, his best friend, to make sense of it all for them. I couldn't, so I ran away...into the loving embrace of the USN. "You came around to say good-bye..."

"Hey, you were the only one not asking me what was I going to do about 'it'," I replied. "I knew you'd be alone when I left - I felt I owed you. I asked Sammi to keep an eye out for you," I tacked on lamely.

"She did...she tried. At seventeen, I lied about my age so I could land a part-time job at a phone sex place and was working my way through CSN (College of Southern Nevada - the city's main community college) working on a Hospitality degree."

She was working herself up to something that had to be bad in more ways than one. She was unloading on me - that meant she didn't have any other trusting relationships to fall back on. From my point of view, the Dabney of my youth was gone. She'd been a rather small, scrawny kid when I left fifteen years ago and now she was beautiful if a bit tawdry. That was why I hadn't recognized her.

"I started partying hard and doing drugs," she studied me while pretending to look elsewhere. "We both know how that ended up. I did finally go to rehab and got clean...but I owed the wrong kind of people some money that a minimum wage job wasn't going to fix. Now I'm here, with you, sitting at Roxy's reminiscing about old times." Money problems meant gambling.

"And not answering their calls," I cautioned her. I didn't want trouble yet we'd once been close and I was the last person to be condemning her. "Cool." That made her happier. I wasn't ragging on her about getting hooked on drugs, getting in trouble, or ending up being a prostitute. So we talked on into the wee hours. Much of downtown Las Vegas never sleeps - a 24/7 money making enterprise.

{The Back Story}

My reason for being at the Stratosphere arrived about an hour later. Georgianna 'G' Norquist was another 'blast from the past' yet from a different world, or she had been. When I was sixteen, Eric's dad got Eric and me part-time jobs at a private sports facility. It was real menial, unskilled work with lousy pay and a snobbish clientele, but we had Friday and Saturday nights off plus could use the courts, pools and other amenities when there weren't members around.

Eric was running some errand late one night when some rich spoiled brats, drunk off their privileged asses came by the main indoor pool. They did the classic strip naked and chase each other around the pool that I had been attempting to clean. To them, my irritation was worth some mockery and little else. Well, they kept drinking, pool policies be damned so I called the night manager.

He took one look at the menagerie's leader, told me to do my job somewhere else and then departed. I was putting the equipment away when said rich moron woke up and decided to take a trip off the diving board. He busted his fool-head open in the attempt and flopped face first into the pool. I was half tempted to walk away. He wasn't trying to right himself.

I may have been a thug-in-training, but I wasn't sadistic, or brain damaged. Not only didn't I plan to let the dummy drown, I knew that he was a VIP and I was the LIP (least important person) on the scene. Letting him die would have been a poor life choice. I dialed 911 as I kicked off my shoes giving the operator the bare bones, put my phone down and dove in.

I had pseudo-CPR training courtesy of TV and movies. I did manage to flip him face-up and swim us over to the pool's edge in the proper manner. By dint of good instincts, some luck and a smidge of knowledge, I got his heart going and his lungs somewhat free of water. I saved his life. I would have gladly walked away except I had failed to inform the manager of what happened before I dove in and I couldn't leave the dying kid until the real EMT's arrived.

By that time, it was too late for me to get away from the publicity I didn't desire. Two police officers were on the scene along with the ambulance. The police called the kid's parents before the night manager could save his own career. The cameras showed the whole story, including my boss letting the rich boys both drink on the premises and hang around a large body of water while they did it.

Despite my heroics (and maybe because of my juvie record), the officers kept me around until the lawyers showed up. Maybe one reason I went into the medical field was that those two paramedics laid out in no uncertain terms that I'd saved the boy's life ~ so I was ruled out as an attempted murder suspect. After six hours of investigation by a surprising number of detectives, the surveillance tapes verified my version of events. They let me go.

When we showed up the next afternoon for work, Eric was sent off on our daily routine while I was called to the manager's office. The old night manager was...no longer associated with 'our' organization so I was talking to the 'weekend' supervisor. It was now his duty to keep the facilities running until a new night manager could be hired and trained.

Later I heard something 'nasty' happened to my old boss - a hit and run resulting in a ton of injuries and no health insurance and, oh yeah, the dummy's father sued his ass. That 'dad' was Lloyd Pharris, one of Las Vegas' most powerful lawyers and chief partner of the most prestigious legal firm in the American Southwest. I had saved his only son and oldest child. He was beneficent.

I also got to meet his new trophy wife, Georgianna, and his other child, a daughter named Wynn. The boy, Ford Parrish, was my age - 16, while Wynn was 14 and Georgianna was 22. Lloyd was 39 at the time. For whatever reason, he decided that I deserved a reward. I could become his personal house boy/pool cleaner. Since the pay was three times more than I was making and a third of the work, I took it.

The assignment was really an eye-opener to how the better half lived. It turned out that Ford was an okay guy when he wasn't trying to impress his prep school crowd. I wisely put up clearly defined sexual barriers with Wynn on my second day - I liked the job that much. Georgianna - 'G' - was okay, just way too sizzling hot to be hanging around in a micro-bikini, sunbathing while I was trying to work.

No, nothing happened. No pool boy fantasies for either of us. I did note that Lloyd liked to parade her around in...ah...highly flattering clothes. Ford and I became cautious friends. I was smart enough to know that becoming a sycophant for him and his friends would only end badly for me. I took their condescension and flirting in stride. I was surprisingly self-confident at that age.

I didn't want to fly down to Cancun to be some rich girl's plaything, not matter how sexy she looked. I was getting plenty of tail in my own neighborhood and my high school. I chose another way to get in trouble. I became Ford's spine. Lloyd was the coldest, smuggest, most manipulative Bastard of all Bastards. I didn't like him from the moment he offered me the job.

It was obvious to me that he was giving me a handout and I had better be damn happy with his largesse. After watching the Pharris household dysfunction for two weeks, I hated him. Georgianna was his property and she had best not forget it. He psychologically undermined his kids whenever the mood took him. I had hoped it would never be aimed my way. I was wrong to hope.

Lloyd liked to tear people down. He liked to do it in front of an audience to impress upon that everyone he was the man in charge. At the start, I was a servant; beneath his notice. Only when Ford and I began to hang together outside of my household duties did that change. It began when Ford, a buddy of his named Kristoff Declan (a good guy) and I went to a part of town those two shouldn't have been in.

Kristoff considered himself to be a playboy and would hit on every pretty girl he set his eyes on. Normally, it was flirtatious - he wasn't a man-slut. Our problem was that the girl he was talking up that night was with someone who took offense. He and three of his home-boys decided to teach him a lesson in the parking lot. Kristoff wasn't street-smart enough to know he should have taken their insults and run for the car.

No, they threatened Kristoff and he taunted them right back - it was fun and games to him. He wasn't used to people who resolved disputes with their fists. They jumped Kristoff, Ford ran for the car and I ran to help Kristoff. In our favor, Kristoff was in pretty great shape - he loved to play tennis and squash - and I was healthy for my age and a scrapper.

None of it was fancy. It was body blows, kneeing, low kicks and wrestling. It took a dozen scrapes and bruises for us to escape, but we did it with some of our dignity intact. Ford had taken his high performance auto and left us. Initially, Kristoff was furious with Ford. That faded as he came to rationalizing Ford's response.

Ford was chicken-shit because his father openly and vocally considered him to be a weakling and a cowardly failure without Ford ever getting a chance to prove otherwise. Ford was simply living down to his father's expectations. We walked off our pain for two hours before Kristoff called his mother to pick him up. She was an aeronautics engineer at the nearby Nellis Air Force Base.

I bumped into her a few years later on another air base, but we can't talk about it for the next 43 years, assuming those records ever got declassified. Once she picked us up, Kristoff told her the whole story. First she told him that she was happy to see him alive and not in the hospital. Then she told him what a fu-bbly fu-blup (her version of cursing without cursing) he was for not walking away from the fight.

She asked my opinion. I informed her I wasn't stepping into their family feud. She bitched out Ford in absentia...and ended up thanking me. She reminded Kristoff that his fight had not been my fight and I could have run off with Ford. Before Kristoff could reply, I informed Mrs. Minerva Declan that Kristoff wouldn't have left me either. At the time I didn't know if that was true, or not.

My words mediated the crisis. Kristoff shot me a grateful look. I suggested that they drop me off at the closest highway exit to my house. Mrs. Declan took me in anyway, so they got to see the rundown dump of an apartment complex I lived in. I could see the look in their eyes - they pitied me and my poverty. Mrs. Declan said they'd wait until I went inside.

I counter-offered and promised to wait on the sidewalk until I was sure they got back on the main road. Honestly, I didn't think a carjacking was in the offing, but I could tell it made them feel safer. Kristoff held off on talking to Ford until I came back to work at the Pharris household two days later. Initially, I wanted nothing to do with Kristoff's intervention.

Ford looked like he expected us to start kicking his ass over what had happened. With Kristoff in the lead, we three went over the events instead. He ran. Neither of us was happy with that, yet we jokingly said he'd done the smart thing. We did wish he'd circled back for us. Kristoff then regaled us with a vivid recounting of his dad ripping him a new asshole the next morning over the phone (his Dad was in the Philippines at the time).

Forward one month with Kristoff handling Ford in the mornings, me on the afternoons I worked and both of us on the occasional evening outing. It took some work and both of us acting 'bad' to coax Ford along. Despite what Kristoff thought, I was as influenced by TV as he was when it came to playing a 'tough guy'. I WAS a bad-ass in school; I didn't need to act like one.

So much of youthful free time revolved around shopping and malls. The lives of sixteen/seventeen year olds in Las Vegas were no different. Charli (Ford's GF) and her BFF Reagan talked Ford and Kristoff to go to some midnight sale. Reagan got in a tousle with another girl ~ it is too often women getting me in trouble. Blows were exchanged, Reagan won (she was sporty), had the girl tossed out (Reagan was a 'good girl') and they bought their stuff.


Ebb Tide Ch. 01



The other girl? She went out and rounded up some friends - nine of them, both genders. Well, those four saw an ass-whooping coming their way and ran...right past me, Eric, Sammi and Anna (my sort of date aka no sex for me that night) as we were exiting the cinema. Kristoff's and my eye's met. Any hope I had of sitting this event out went away with his holler for help. He stopped, his buddies rushed into him and the fight was on.

Eric was the kind of friend that never asked why you were being a moron even when helping guaranteed pain. He jumped in. Sammi was violently inclined, so she jumped in. Anna would have sat it out had the pursuers not gone after her. I was pretty sure Ford would have kept running if one of the other guys hadn't tackled him.

Between saving Reagan's butt from being shanked (earning me a cut to the back of my right forearm) and breaking Ford free of a wrestling hold, I got pretty banged up. That way we got to hang around for the grand melee which was ended by four of Clark County's Finest and a half-dozen security guards.

Eric, Kristoff and Reagan got tasered, as did three from the other side. We were all so engrossed in kicking each other's asses we ignored the warnings. Four of our opponents escaped as did Anna. It was a first time for all of us in the paddy wagon. The rich four insisted we poor three, and the other enemy six (who all turned out to be middle class gangster wannabes) had experienced this before.

The kids on the other side were getting RPC's (Released into Parent's Custody), as did Charli and Sammi. Due to a pending vandalism charge, Eric and I got to stick around. Kristoff, Ford and Reagan had their parents tell them to 'suck it up', so Reagan got to go play with the Junior Miss Lesbians Cotillion while we four guys got acquainted with the Las Vegas 'on the fast track to earning their prison tattoos' Youth League. 

Ford was in full-on panic attack mode. Some black gentleman misread the situation. He was under the impression that Ford was having a bad drug reaction and thought he was easy prey for a shakedown. Out of nowhere, Ford clocked the guy. His victim toppled over, catching himself from landing on his ass. It was on for the second time that night.

Ford was already scared. Faced with what he thought was a gang assault/prelude to being somebody's butt-bitch, Ford jumped on the bigger guy like a crazed animal. Kristoff, Eric and I made sure no one else was going to come to the black guy's rescue then separated them. Kristoff got Ford; Eric and I got the black kid. Had the fight gone on for ten more seconds, the black kid would have started whaling back, so we saved Ford from a second round of punishment.

In the post-skirmish phase, we kept hold of the black guy until I was sure he'd calmed down. Kristoff did the same with Ford. Then the whole common room acted like nothing had happened when the jailors showed up. Ford was barely coherent and the black guy wasn't going to tell them that some smaller, pampered rich brat had smacked him around.

When the jailors left, Ford became suddenly giddy. His fear-addled mind had altered his perceptions of the bout until he'd convinced himself he fought like a titan. In his mind, only Kristoff had stopped him from killing the creep. Kristoff saw that as progress. Next morning at court, Mr. Pharris was there representing the five of us (Reagan had done okay with the ladies).

"Hey Dad, I beat up some punk in prison," were the first, proud words out of Ford's mouth.

Lloyd wasn't happy with any of us. I had little doubt that his plan was for Ford to be traumatized by the experience, not exultant. Ford was in danger of becoming a man. From that day forth, Lloyd decided I was worth picking on. In subtle ways, he threatened my father's employment, he had law enforcement shake me down on the way home from work and would withhold my pay from time to time. That was okay; G would slip me the money later.

To top it all off, at the end of the year, he had me 'randomly' audited by the IRS.I was looking at some stiff fines and penalties ~ I was a seventeen year old (by that time) roughneck, paid in cash. Of course I didn't file any tax returns, damn it. Kristoff bailed me out all on his own initiative and Lloyd never figured out how I'd pulled it off...though I had about a dozen equally random drug screenings at school over the next two months.

{Flash forward fifteen years}

I was hanging up my shingle back in my hometown after a long absence. I was converting twelve years of military service and three years working for Certified Infrastructure Agronomics into what I hoped would be a meaningful career with less likelihood of death. I had all my certifications completed and updated. I even had a position lined up with a local ambulance company.

The pay sucked for someone living in Vegas, but money wasn't really my concern. I'd closed on a worn down, 1950's style bungalow on the edge of Vegas and North Vegas (sometimes we dropped the 'Las'). On the plus side, it was all mine, bought and paid for with carefully laundered money.

I didn't have a lawn, or a garden - I had nice, crunchy pebbles with strategically placed larger foot-stones all around - all on top of a poly-fiber cover with pressure sensors; so no yard work - ever. The back and sides had tacky, eight-foot high concrete block walls the previous owners had painted pink roughly 20 years ago.

I was finishing the process of moving in when I noticed a commotion across the street. Two of my old buddies in Khaki &Brown - LVMPD (Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department) officers - and two county privatized housing specialists were putting one of the resident of the duplex across the street out on her ass. They had been towing her car away when I arrived. She looked past caring, sitting on her former stoop, totally forlorn. She was sitting on her ass, arms folded one over the other. Her forehead was pressed down on her folded arms.

My current life plan included keeping my private life private, my social life distant, and not doing anything that involved attention from law enforcement. I didn't have any Wants, Warrants, or outstanding convictions, nor was I a bail jumper. My juvenile history was history. It was gone, gone, gone. I had a former business acquaintance do that for me. Supposedly even the hard copies had been eliminated.

I just didn't like cops. Mind you, I didn't mind the concept of law enforcement. I simply didn't enjoy people not in my chain of command telling me what to do. Over the years, I'd gotten really good at skating the law and only listening to people I trusted with my life.

I figured the guys across the street were doing their job. It was past foreclosure time and that was that. Besides, her furniture looked shitty. At least I bought the real deal - hardwood, steel and stone were my preference. Then, life threw me two curveballs at once.

The first -

"And Ma'am, we are also going to have to cite you for littering if you don't get that furniture to a storage locker, or a landfill in the next thirty minutes," Officer Black - he was a black guy - told the distraught woman. She began to sob. To add insult to injury, the two moving guys dumped her clothes unceremoniously on top of her curbside furniture.

They were being mean and the cops were being jerks. So, I tossed out my game plan and crossed the road. Officer Latino - because he was Hispanic - saw me coming and moved to intercept me on her side of street.

"Is there a problem, Officer?" I inquired. We both had sunglasses on, so no eye contact. It was September in the Southwestern desert with 5% cloud cover, bright and sunny. It was also pretty freaking warm at ten in the morning.

"Mister, you need to go back across the street," he tried to look tough. I've had a fanatic telling me that I was about to meet Allah by means of beheading. This guy needed to seriously step up his game. "This is none of your business, so move along." Fuck him.

"I'm here to help her move into my place across the street, Officer L. Hernandez (his name tag)," I lied. I also memorized his badge number and about fifty other extraneous tidbits of information.

That caught him by surprise. It took him a few seconds to counter which I used to move toward the lady in question. Hernandez looked to his partner, Officer T. Ilger (the black guy).

"Is this man with you, Ms. Norquist?" Officer Ilger asked the woman. She looked up through tear-stained eyes at me.

The second -

"V?" she gulped. When I started calling her 'G', she had retaliated by calling me 'V'. Yeah, it was ole Lloyd's wife, - most likely ex-wife as evidenced by her current circumstances - Ford's and Wynn's stepmom and a total mess. I had seen people at the end of their tether before and she qualified.

"Hey, Ms. G," I smiled. "If we wait much longer, the Sun is going to cook us. Let's get your stuff inside."

"Ummm..." Officer Ilger grumbled.

"Yes...yeah, sure V," Ms. G hurriedly ran back into her old place. "Let me get the last of my things."

If it was a yappy dog, I was going to make it 'disappear'. It wasn't. It was her CD/DVD collection. Her life was still in shambles. My prospects of remaining a hermit were bleak.

"Make it quick," Ilger harried her.

"Can I see some ID?" Hernandez asked me. I gave him the twice over.

"No," I answered then walked past him. I needed to start moving G in.

"What?" he put a hand on my elbow. It wasn't a grab, merely a 'hold up there buddy'.

"What crime do you suspect me of?" I replied. "I'm not driving a vehicle, or onboard commercial transit, so I don't have to show you my ID. It is in the law books; look it up some time."

Yeah...I had an attitude problem with police. I was a hell of a good sailor though. Military orders I could follow - no problem. I even liked NCIS and SP (Shore Patrol) people.

There was just something about civilian law enforcement...I now had Ilger's attention as well.

"Is there a problem with you identifying yourself?" Hernandez pressed.

"Nope and I'm pretty sure you can't fine someone for littering thirty minutes after evicting them either," I kept a positive outlook.

"Okay, wise guy," Hernandez got feisty. "Lie down, hands out to your sides, face on the ground then cross your ankles." I complied.

There was a huge gulf between detaining someone and suspecting them of a crime. His pat down ended up with a plain black slip of plastic in the shape of a credit card, a pair of nail clippers and my house key. I didn't like key chains. They made noise. 

"What's this?" Hernandez waved the card in front of my face. At the same time...

"V? What's going on?" G sounded worried.

"Ma'am, do you know who this man is?" Ilger turned back on her.

"Ah...yes. He's V.I knew...met him years ago. He was the friend of my stepson," she responded nervously.

"Is V part of his last name, first name, or a gang name?" Ilger pressed. As for Hernandez's question;

"It is a memento from a friend," I told him. It wasn't a complete lie. I'd liked the guy, but we weren't really friends.

"Don't worry, Ms. G," I called out. "This whole take-down is going to look great on my home security system." All three people looked over to my house. Sure enough, I had four visible cameras - one over the detached garage door, one facing to the front left, one to the front and one to the front-right. I had others on the sides and back as well.

They weren't my real security system. They were functional, but I didn't rely on them. They were just decoys for the true security system I'd installed. Call me paranoid if you wish, but I'd had a hand in killing some evil, dangerous, mean, fucking people over the past 15 years and some of their relatives, co-religionists and business partners held grudges. My identity was safeguarded by the Department of Defense.

To me, that meant some obnoxious Senator, or WikiLeaks freak, with an axe to grind over the violation of the civil rights of deceased murders, rapists, drug kingpins and thieves would eventually dredge it up then leak it to Amnesty International, or some Human Rights Commission to prove what a great humanitarian he/she was.

Then some truly brave people in some really dark places around the globe would get killed and I'd have to contemplate snuffing out the life of an elected US official. Canceling the life of a hacker/information peddler was another matter...tough to find, easy to kill, but still considered a crime by people who thought holding their guardians to high moral standards stopped evil shit from happening.

I didn't want to go down that road. My second employer, the CIA, told me they had taken care of those records...except that they were in the 'hold something back for a rainy day' business. There were also some unanswered questions about the tidy little fortune I had retired with.

If pressed, I would swear on the Bible, the Koran and the Anarchist Cook Book it had been the monetary funds of people who no longer had need of them. It wasn't like I'd dirtied the hands of the CIA by handing it over. If that happened they might have had to explain what me and a few associates were doing, receiving those bank codes, talking to the very influential / connected / protected criminal, scumbag money-men moments before their demise.

To be fair, they also gave us the information we were sent to get along with the money. We didn't murder their families because we had promised to spare them if they cooperated. We were professionals and kept our integrity, if not our word. We also wanted to make damn sure those cock-suckers paid for the sins the financial services made possible ~ and to impress upon their associates that they weren't as 'untouchable' as they'd been led to believe.

My team leader thought this alteration to our assignment would be more effective. We all agreed. I was the only one who decided to retire after that. It did impress upon me that my current career would only go downhill from that point. I was also the only one with marketable skills that didn't trace back to my former livelihood. I really was a paramedic. My official records with the US Navy showed each and every training course that elevated me to the status of official life-saver.

"I don't know. I've always called him 'V'," G had most likely forgotten my real name in the intervening years. "As I said, he was my stepson's friend." Hernandez tried something new.

"Come on, V.A little cooperation will clear this up," he pretended to be nice. I was watching this ant scurrying toward my nose as I lay on my stomach, face pointed down.

"A little of you guys getting in your patrol car and driving away would also resolve the matter," I countered. "If a crime has been committed and you have reasonable cause to suspect me, then Nevada law requires me to show you some ID and identify myself. So, what crime has been committed, or are you illegally detaining me?"

"Are you a Libertarian?" Hernandez pressed his knee to my back. I pretended it hurt.

"Is Clark County using police officials to determine the political affiliation of private citizens, or is this a voter registration drive?" I openly contemplated.

"You are a wise-ass," Hernandez observed quietly. The moving guys - job finished - drove off.

"Are you surprised that I've been told that before?" I coughed. That ant...she'd gotten close...so I ate it.

"Did you just eat an ant?" Hernandez gasped.

"Are you now suggesting I'm so starved that I can apply for Food Assistance from the county?" I snorted.

Finally, the officer figured out I was a hard case. He assumed I was an ex-con. I wasn't because stints in County Jail and the Juvenile Court Systems didn't count...not to me anyway. I had been in a prison before, just not as a prisoner, or a guard. I was there to make 'a withdrawal' which was my buddies' jargon for a jailbreak. I had thought saying we 'liberated' the person sounded better. Sadly 'liberating' was already the jargon for stealing stuff.

Hernandez got off me. I was smart enough to wait for his permission to stand before doing so. G and I began moving her into my house - most of her furniture went straight into the garage. I'd drag it off to the dump later. Half way through, they ticketed Georgianna anyway. It was on! Did I mention I have a really low tolerance for police abusing their authority?

I went into the house, selected the proper tool for the mission, waited until they were haranguing G so much she started to cry then confronted them. I acted more like an annoyance than a prick. Had I been a prick, they would have kept an eye on me. G bending over to pick up some spilled clothes was the distraction I was waiting for. I took the opportunity to use a clear epoxy to stick their AC in the 'Off' position and the windows up.

They got in. I kept them around long enough to epoxy their doors shut before they drove off. They left smugly arrogant in their victory. I watched them drive away educationally confident in American ingenuity. As I got the last of G's stuff into my house, I noted it was already ninety degrees outside and it wasn't even noon yet.

In my experience, they'd be tearing that AC nob off sometime around the tenth minute. Give it twenty more and they'd really begin to cook in their polyester and body armor. They'd call in, reporting their difficulty, pull over...and try to get out of their 'easy-bake oven'. Then the real fun would begin.

To be safe, I dropped the epoxy tube in a small crock pot of acid I keep around on the kitchen counter for such chores - like destroying evidence. No police cruisers showed up the rest of the day to question me about the event. Considering what G told me in the meantime, it all made sense.

Two years ago, G figured out the Mr. Pharris was having an affair with another, much younger woman. She preemptively sought out a divorce attorney. Lloyd found out about it, concocted all sorts of charges - including her sleeping with both Ford and Wynn - and, after an expensive legal battle on her part, it was 'discovered' that the legal battle had left Lloyd penniless.

She was saddled with a mountain of legal bills. All of the Pharris assets were owned by off-shore entities which charged him a pittance to rent. All very neat. I'd seen covert US black bag operations use the same tricks. Nothing belonged to anyone you could locate and the appropriate taxes were paid on time, so there was no great rush for any governmental agency to investigate.

When the divorce settlement was handed down, she tried to skip town. Before she could, two Detectives with the LVMPD showed up and told her what a bad idea that would be. No, she had to stick around, wandering from crummy job to crummy job. Whenever he felt like it, Lloyd would have her fired then open up another door - all down the road of degradation. There was no sane reason for him to do this to her.

Georgianna's first question after she'd calmed down a bit was what I'd done to my house. To start with I'd reinforced the entire structure so the building could support extra weight. I'd fortified it. I'd constructed blast resistant barriers along all the external walls.

No bars on the outside of the windows for me. I had folding ceramic mesh shutters on the inside. My windows were twin sheets of clear aluminum and ballistic glass that darkened unless an electric current passed through them. If the power 'suddenly' went out, I had one-way mirrors. When the shutters extended, there were three bars I could flip into place on each one. Fully deployed that equated to 4 inches of high-tech armor.

I had rebuilt the entirety of the door/sill area; front and back. One-eighth of an inch of false front followed by ballistic scales, ceramic plates, high-impact gel packs and a flexible yet durable polymer backing. The whole thing was 3 inches thick. I also had one-half inch steel mesh 'screen' doors. Both sets of doors had key locks. The main ones had a key code and a magnetic lock system for when I slept, or was out of the house.




Ebb Tide Ch. 01



In the internal walls and ceiling, I had removed the old, cheap insulation and replaced it with fire-retardant, shock-resistant foam. I'd elevated the entire floor two inches, filling that space in with seismic and sound absorbing material. It gave the floor a slightly springy feel. The twin purposes were to displace shockwaves against the entire building and to disguise the two spots where I'd dug two underground compartments, both entryways being18 inches deep.

One underground space (it was 4'X6'X4' - not tall enough to stand upright in) was the brain center of my wired, automated systems and back-up computers. The second spot was 6'X8'X8' and housed the majority of my arsenal. It was all legal. It was also hard to get at. I had a decoy gun locker on the house level to mollify anyone who broke in, or if I need something in a hurry.

I would have liked a 'safe room', except all my interior work had eaten up 20% of my floor space and the only room that had all interior walls was my tiny bathroom. Every piece of furniture was designed to be bullet resistant, because you can never be too safe and secure. Things were placed to minimize the concussive effect if someone did manage to blow open a door, window or wall.

I had an extra 80 gallon water supply, a deep freeze, batteries recharged by solar cells and a generator that could run for 48 hours; all inside. The roof was festooned with solar panels (it kept my power usage to a minimum) which made it harder to spot my disguised satellite hook-ups and air vents.

The roof also had its own improved layer of protection. My security, motion sensor, wireless, wired and phone systems were all filled with redundancies and deceptions.

"What have you done to your house?" G asked. She saw why her furniture wouldn't fit in my place.

"Hurricane-proofed it," I gave her a lopsided grin. A) Hurricanes happened on the East Coast. Westerners called them cyclones. B) While Vegas had a 'monsoon' season, it was hardly the thing sane people went to extremes to protect themselves from.

"I never saw you working on your house," she noted.

"I mostly worked at night. I've been warned that I may end up on nights at my new job, so I'm adjusting," I lied. I worked at night so that no one would notice me, or spot my illegal activities around the neighborhood.

"Are you expecting trouble?" she gazed at me cautiously.

"Yes G. I find that preparing for trouble is the best way to insure that trouble isn't all that troubling," I joked. Her eyes widened.

"I don't remember you being so witty," she relaxed slightly.

"You get the bedroom. I'll get the sofa tonight and get a folding bed tomorrow," I gave her the new plan. There was a flickering spark of decency still alive inside her.

"V, you don't need to do this." Her words were overflowing with depression. "You are getting involved in something you don't want any part of. If you can lend me some cash and a ride, I'll get a motel room for the night and figure something else for tomorrow."

"Tell me what the deal is," I requested. She did, though it took serious coaxing and three beers (we went out for a bottle-six pack - I didn't keep liquor on the premise) to finally know the score. Lloyd had slowly been stripping her of everything she valued - her social position, her friends, her mansion-home, her sources of income, her car and finally her dump of a duplex. She had a job at the Stratosphere in Customer Service. Lloyd hadn't been able to pry her out of that job yet.

Lloyd didn't rule this town. I had no doubt he wanted to and no doubt there were people in Vegas that didn't want him to get that powerful. Wynn was thirty-one; a college dropout, married, divorced, married, divorced, lesbian affair - broken up and living at home once more. She was jobless. She had refused to testify against Georgianna at the trial and she was being punished for that.

Ford had his law degree - both kids had always been smart - and worked at his dad's law firm. He had been engaged, but that fell apart. He was a drunk, living at home as well. Ford had even testified in court that G had molested him right after she married Lloyd. Ford's ex-fiancée? She was the latest Mrs. Pharris and all of 24 years of age; Ford had to love that. Lloyd, at 56, was popping the Viagra for sure. He was also richer and more corrupt than ever.

My old pal Kristoff Declan was now USAF Lieutenant Colonel Declan, Air Force Academy graduate with a masters degree in Aeronautics Engineering and an Air Force pilot who was working on the next generation of jet fighters, or had been two years ago. He touched base with Ford from time to time. I told her I'd been a US Naval corpsman, working at hospitals and whatnot. She was glad I'd pulled my life together.

When we finished catching up, we shared a lousy meal of frozen burritos then I drove her to work in my ageing 1987 Audi 5000 Turbo Quattro. It didn't stand out in this neighborhood, had some serious horsepower in its rebuilt engine if needed and was easily replaceable. I had another in the garage (the nice one) plus two other cars stashed in the area.

I had bought a 'distressed' property two blocks over and up in North Las Vegas (it is its own town) with a separate law enforcement department. Three blocks to the southeast, in Las Vegas proper, I was paying an eighty year old lady to stash a car in her backyard. She got some tax-free cash to help her make ends meet and I got to feed my paranoid fantasies of the unseen forces being out to get me.

On the verge of getting home from G's casino I spotted the unmarked car with two occupants down the street. I've never been diagnosed with a paranoid disorder and, trust me, I've had some Navy Psychiatrists intensely question me on the subject. What I had was an unhealthy aversion to being unexpected diversions. I had a few contingencies for unwanted questioning by the authorities.

I parked in the wrecked property, hiding my car then snuck back to my house. First I checked the cameras I had planted on various phone poles, cacti and trees in a three block radius. They were alone. I needed to dress in black, head to toe, before implementing my plan so I bagged up my current wardrobe (in case I was questioned, I would be in the clothes I'd been seen in earlier) and then 'adjusted' my internal surveillance files to show that I had not returned home.

That done, I initiated an automatic system that activated the interior house lights and TV, giving the impression someone was at home. Right on cue, the two plainclothes officers exited their vehicle and headed toward my front door. My walkway was made of nice white pebbles so I could track their progress by the sound of their footfalls.

At the appropriate moment, I set off a pre-recorded series of noises in the backyard. Their sense of entitlement took hold. One decided to come around the side of the house while the other repeatedly knocked on the door. I keyed the light-switch monitor to cut off all the illumination. The other cop walked toward the sounds emanating from near the rear door, hand on his pistol, exposing his badge.

As the detective stepped on the well-positioned tarp, leaning over to uncover the noise, I struck him with a pipe from behind. My goal was to hurt him without making him bleed. Blood meant DNA evidence that might confirm he'd gotten his ass kicked in my backyard. Thin steel pipes were great for this. Using PVC risks fracturing and imbedding fibers in the cracks.

The man's pained gasp alerted his partner that something was wrong. The partner up front called out. The guy I was crippling was in no shape to respond. On came the guy from the front door. I slunk back into the shadows. When he thought he was safe, he knelt over his unconscious partner. That was when I shot him in the left ear with a compressed air gun firing a beanbag round.

The blow stunned and staggered him, giving me plenty of time to start bludgeoning him as well. Zip ties on their hands behind their backs and around their ankles, wax in their ears plus surgical tape over their mouths and eyes followed. ID's, wallets, cell phones, badges, keys and guns all went into a plastic bag after I examined them.

Two ladders, one on my side of the back wall and one on my backdoor neighbor's yard allowed me to get them off my property. After a short jog, I picked up a slender tube with one end wrapped in gauze, a funnel, and two bottles of Jack Daniels. Next on the agenda: I took their car and drove it around the block, picked them up and off I went.

While driving to a construction site two miles away, I researched these two assholes using the police database console in their car. They were not on duty, there was nothing on the police blotter to suggest they were on official business and their access codes were pathetically easy for me to copy. I kept their badges ~ I'd need those later. The rest of their stuff I would return when I was done for the night.

When we reached our destination, I took them out of the trunk one at a time before applying the proper pressure to their carotid artery to make them pass out. Done correctly it doesn't leave a mark. Once they were helpless, I applied the tube and funnel then poured a bottle into their bellies. After giving them thirty minutes to absorb the liquor, I called the wife of one of the bastards, told her he and his partner were drunk, I didn't want to 'get him in trouble' and where she could find her husband and keep him clear of any difficulties with the rest of the LVMPD.

Mission accomplished, I jogged to the ruined house, stashed their badges changed back into my normal clothes and drove home. After bleaching the tarp, I hung around long enough to see if SWAT came knocking - they didn't. My assessment had been right ~ they were two Robbery/Homicide detectives doing some private work for Lloyd.

Those two couldn't explain why they were drunk as skunks, much less trespassing in my backyard. They couldn't describe their attacker and, except for some swelling of the second guy's ear, they had no visible injuries. Their LVMPD comrades wouldn't be asking any embarrassing questions, so they had a reason to not sic the entire 'Brown Shirt' brethren on me. I drove to the Stratosphere an hour early to pick up G from work, ran into Dabney and the rest is history.

{Current}

I was tossing a tip on the table when my well-cultivated threat precognition kicked in. He was a short ~ 5' 2", 180 lbs. (mostly from weight lifting), and bald (shaved) Hispanic guy. His glare aimed at Dabney was one of sadistic fury and he was feeling entitled (aka Dabney's pimp). He didn't scare me. It was the Universe reminding me that living beneath the radar was a desolate dream.

I didn't make eye contact. That would have warned him of my intention to intervene.

"Dabney," he seethed. She spun around.

"Pablo...I can explain," Dabney pleaded. The danger wasn't immediate. Pablo wasn't going to make a scene in the casino.

What he was promising was some pain for Dabney the moment he maneuvered her to vulnerable spot.

"Vance?" she looked over her shoulder at me.

"Hey," I greeted the guy like I was a goof-ball. "Is there a problem?"

"Vance is an old family friend," Dabney was trying to placate the dude. That spoke to the perpetual viciousness of this short placental reject.

"I don't give a crap about your old friend, or your former personal life," he grabbed her upper arm. "I care about you not answering your damn phone and missing clients."

"Well, it was nice to catch up with you, Dabney. Maybe later," I tried to sound nervous. "Come on," I took hold of G's right hand in my left.

Dabney looked crestfallen while Pablo leered ferally at her. This shithead shouldn't have taken his eyes off me. When I made my first step past him, I pivoted and drove my right hand into his kidney. As Bruce Lee proved, it isn't the distance the hand travels that matters - it is the speed. I quickly let go of G's hand, put my left hand under his right armpit and moved him into Dabney's old chair.

With the agony he was in, Pablo wasn't calling out to anyone. I switched my hold on him before he recovered. To the surveillance cameras, it looked like he'd sat down on his own. My left hand landed on his left shoulder and clamped down. My right ended upon the crux of his neck and right shoulder. I leaned in and spoke.

"Pablo, this is your first, last and only warning," I whispered. "If you ever lay a hand on Dabney again, I'm going to toss you into a pit full of scorpions and prove to you that I don't give a crap about size. I care about pain. Listen up shit-for-brains," I menaced, "I've strangled a man with his own tongue, I am well-versed in torture and I am certainly not someone you want to disappoint."

"Asshole," Pablo tried to rise. My left hand clamped down even harder as I pushed him back the two whole inches he'd managed to get up. "You don't know who you are fucking with" My left hand snapped his collarbone while my right squeezed his windpipe so that his scream wasn't vocalized. I let him ride out the first wave of suffering before releasing his throat.

I had hunched my body over him so the damage I was inflicting wasn't obvious.

"I know exactly who I am fucking with, you bastard," I said quietly. "I haven't seen, or talked to Dabney in fifteen years, so she hasn't a clue what I've been doing, or who I have become. On this Planet Earth, of all the people I've sworn to kill, only three are still alive. They are all far tougher than you."

"Now, we are going to walk away. I suggest you get to an Emergency Room and have your shoulder looked after because you are suffering from a compound fracture to your clavicle. You don't want those bone fragments working their way deeper into your muscles. Good-bye," I let go of him. Pablo was a sadist, not a sadomasochist. He proved it by not bouncing out of his chair.

He didn't turn, or swivel because his pain was that intense. By his choking sob, I figured we were safe to leave. Only as we approached the exit, did either of the women speak.

"Vance, I'm in serious trouble now," Dabney fretted.

"What did you do to him?" G added. "He was crying like a baby."

"Dabney, why don't you crash at my place for a few days - give me your phone." I stated. "You and G can share the bed. It's big enough. Let's give Pablo a few days to calm down then we can fix this." Dabney gave up her cellular device.

"Pablo is not the problem," she mourned. Of course he wasn't...

I had managed to make enemies of an insanely rich powerbroker, four corrupt police officers and now someone in the criminal underworld all in the span of sixteen hours. To most people, this would have been enough incentive to pack some necessities and be out of Vegas before sunrise. For me...it reminded me of Basra (Iraq).

Caracas (Venezuela) was better; Kobanî (Syria) was worse. In Kobanî, everyone and their grandmother carried a Kalashnikov and were all very eager to shoot somebody. All three burghs had beautiful women. In Caracas they wore less. Being Armenian-American, I could fit into either place, though my Spanish was better than my Kurdish and Arabic. Once at the car;

"Who is the problem?" I asked Dabney. I was scanning around to see if Pablo had given somebody a heads up that we were coming out, or was recognizing my younger friend.

"I work for Circe," she groaned. Okay, Circe was a Las Vegas urban myth.Circe was the Queen of the Whores in the City and had been since I was a kid.

No one I knew had ever met this Circe; it was always the friend of a friend who knew a guy, or a girl who had...Most Vegans believed she was some phantasmal entity that the pimps used to help keep their rebellious stables in line. Pimps didn't kill hookers - Circe had hookers offed when they caused problems.

Rumor had it that she collected 'taxes' from every sex industry in Clark County too. I'd never met anyone who claimed to actually know the witch before. Dabney kept talking.

"I'm serious," Dabney said. "I met her once, by accident. I worked for a guy...well, his payments went up his nose instead of to the 'tax' collector.

"We were at a club when some big guys came around and summoned him to a meeting. He got scared and insisted I come along. We met her and she wasn't happy," That was probably a massive understatement. I motioned for G to get in the car and shut the door while Dabney and I chatted. She didn't need to be hearing this. Her life was horrible enough without walking into this mess.

"She had this sidekick. Circe told this woman and two men to take Jamar (her old pimp?) into another room," she continued in a low voice. "Half a minute later, she came back alone. Circeasked me if I would be a good girl. Of course I said 'yes'. Then she asked her sidekick for her opinion. I was so fucking scared," Dabney shuddered.

"'Reagan, what do you think?' she asked the younger woman. She studied me like I was an insect. I've never been so terrified in my life," Dabney was close to tears from the memory of that night.

"What did this side-kick look like?" I asked.

"I shouldn't..." she shivered. My granite face said it all. "She was tall, fit, dark tanned skin kind of Asian-like. Long black hair and black-rimmed glasses. Very serious." What were the odds? Was this really 'Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon'? 'Reagan' was hardly a unique name after all.

"What did Circe look like?" I kept pushing.

"No Vance, please..." her near-terror wilted her normal buoyant personality. She described the older woman. Yeah, I'd met Circe a few times at Pharris family functions ~ if there was any doubt, I was a step-and-fetch-it; not a server, or a party-goer. I could usually bring Eric along and we both got paid, so all was good.

The woman Dabney described was Reagan's mom, Sandra Cho. I recalled that she was a widow. Sandra was an Anglo with a sweet English accent. Reagan was half-Chinese. Her father had been some big wheel in Hong Kong before the English handed it over to the PRC. Small, small, small fucking world. I wondered if Lloyd knew. I sure as hell wasn't going to tell him.

"You know who Circe is?" Dabney's eyes grew wide. In both our minds, this was not a good thing.

"I got this," I comforted her. I formulated a plan. "We go by your place and we cancel all your credit cards and then we stop by a bus terminal."

You shut down the accounts because normally their pimps carried them, not the prostitute. It was a means of control. I knew a credit agency that handled mass cancelations quickly, efficiently and for a reasonable fee. I also wanted to back trace these cards to see how they were being paid off. High-end escorts took electronic money all the time. It usually got shuffled around, but there as always an umbrella corporation that made those minimum payments.

My first stop was at her place where I forced her to pack light. Next was the Greyhound bus terminal. Dabney purchased a ticket to Los Angeles with cash while I deposited her phone on the bus in the luggage section where it wasn't likely to be found anytime soon. These were merely precautions on the off-chance anyone came looking for Dabney in the next few 24 hours.

My home which I had designed to be a comfortable, close-quarters hermitage was now hosting three, two of which were women. I had one bathroom designed to be a snug fit for one. My kitchen was big enough, I'd devoured my dining room to make one large common area - privacy was at a premium.

I called a friend I knew in Amsterdam. She was a hacker who owed me a few so I had her run down the credit cards so I could get a better feel for what I was up against. I barely had those two settled in before I headed off for my first day on the job.




Ebb Tide Ch. 01



{MedicWest}

Monday wasn't my first time at MedicWest Ambulance service. I'd done the initial interview, second interview, the background checks, on-site certifications (proving I knew what my resume said I knew) and their three day orientation process. I was a solid guy, considered bright and perpetually calm. They said I'd fit right in. My trainer/partner's name was Lorenzo Torrent; a five year veteran of MedicWest.

He was twenty-six, a graduate of the CSN, married with a two year old son. He was shorter than me (5' 6" and 160 lbs.), swarthy and uncertain what to make of me. For the next six weeks, he was to make sure I belonged to the MedicWest family. After that, I could be reassigned to another ambulance - first, second, or third shift), but I was guaranteed a paramedic slot. I hadn't trained so hard just so I could work in an office.

"So, they tell me you were in the Navy," Lorenzo asked once we rolled out on our first call.

"Yep."

"What was it like?"

"Going full speed ahead, aiming high, being all I could be while being one of the few and the proud and part of the action."

"What?" Lorenzo momentarily took his eyes off the road to gauge my mood.

"Those are the five catchphrases of the armed forces. The Coast Guard's is 'be part of the action'," I explained.

"So...you don't want to talk about it," he nodded.

"Basically, yes," I grinned. We took care of the first emergency - a kid took a header off an overpass. Rumor had it he was running away from some other kids. Why they weren't all in school was unclear.

"So, have you ever killed somebody?" Lorenzo asked out of the blue.

"Are you seriously asking a medical specialist if he's killed anyone?" I chuckled.

"Oh..." 

"Ask me at the end of the day," I joked. "I'll rate your performance as well."

"Do you ever answer a question truthfully?" Lorenzo mused.

"No."

"How do you and your girlfriend communicate?"

"Non-verbal clues...Taiko if she is in another room," I answered. I was not pouring out any part of my private life to some person I'd known less than two hours.

"Taiko?"

"A Japanese drums style," I informed him. It took him a few seconds.

"That's the first honest thing you've said today - outside of your job. I see that you know your stuff," he rambled.

"The first? Don't count on it - thanks for the compliment about my work," I responded.

"I'm still not sure if I like you, or find you annoying," he noted.

"I've been referred to as 'The Green Stool Sample'," I teased. "As long as you've drunk the Kool Aid, I'm okay." It took him a moment to figure it out. Green poo was an indicator of IG, or liver issues...unless you ingested food dyes, which normally, and harmlessly, turned your crap green as well.

Lorenzo laughed for a whole minute. It was medical humor. We continued to bond over the quirks and oddities of our profession. By the end of the shift, I was pretty sure he was going to give me a glowing review. It helped that I handled every crisis with unflappable poise. To pay me back for my good deeds, saving lives and doubling down on the White Knight gig, I walked into my house with a just-bought folding bed to find G doing aerobics.

Because, you know, when you are living in close proximity to women you want to recycle out of your life as quickly as possible, you want to envision them as eminently fuckable - or not.

"Hey, V," she greeted me. Okay, for a millisecond, I believed she was playing with me. Then repercussions rolled around. Had Ms. G gotten close to somebody, Lloyd would have found out about it and punished them both - dipshit.

While I was going over the 101 best ways to forget about G's heaving, sweaty bosom and sensual curves all wrapped up in a painfully thin, white leotard, she clued into my difficulties. She sidled over to the sofa and grabbed her rather ineffective hand towel. I went into the kitchen. Half a bottle of water and some supplements later, G showed up.

"Ummm...Dabney and I were talking..." she stammered and wouldn't make eye contact. "You said you had cameras in all the rooms...yes?"

"Yes."

"Does that mean you are recording us in the shower?" she blurted out.

"Yes, it does and mine is a closed system. No one can hack the control center," I stated. "No, I'm not going to disconnect the cameras, or show you were they are located. That would defeat their effectiveness in monitoring my home."

"But why?" she gazed at me with those deep, sexy grey eyes.

Ms. G was a natural blonde, though hers ran to a honey-amber color instead of Dabney's dyed, white-blonde locks. In hindsight, I could tell that she was all real too - no enhancements necessary. I also know that being 39 did not render her into a sexual tundra. The confusion her body was projecting confirmed that.

"If something happens in the house, I want a record of it. Say you let someone in and they plant some drugs in the toilet tank so the cops can bust in and put me away for 5~10 years," I enlightened her. "We both know someone who would do that to me...and you. So I keep the around the clock surveillance."

"I'm not trying to creep you both out, or make you move out. I understand your feelings and concerns. That doesn't translate over to me changing the way I live for either of you," I laid down the law. "Is Dabney still asleep?"

"No. She called her sister to see if she was okay," G said. "She sounded concerned so Dabney borrowed your other car (my 2014 black corvette!). She said she might spend a few days there." Why the fuck do I bother? I had stressed to both of them to NOT call anyone, or go anywhere until I got back. I had left them $200 as an emergency fund and the car keys - for a FUCKING emergency! Working with 'normal' people was turning out to be more complicated than I recalled.

I had faith in two things at that moment. My plan to lead Circe hounds away would have worked. Any competent network would have still watched the normal places Dabney might show up - places like her sister's. To put the second thing in context, you had to understand the nature of the vice trade in Vegas.

50% of the sex workers in the city were 'cast-offs'; runaways, druggies, failed dreamers and those of questionable hygiene. They usually had pimps, but those pimps were losers. The only 'ass' they would kick was their girl's. They were too cowardly to mess up tourists and the local population knew the score. They were the bleakest, darkest corner of the profession and the turnover rate was high.

The next 40% were your real working girls. They 'earned' for pimps who ran more than two girls, they had a modicum of healthcare and protection. Their life expectancy and longevity were better. That didn't mean they'd exit their career with that much more money. The whore striking it rich was a fallacy, best kept to movies. Odds were if they married an out-of-towner, it was a scam.

You could also lump in the strippers who made some on the side in this group. Someone in the clubs - the manager, or a connected bouncer - ran them and took their cut. They walked a fine line between being exotic dancers and true whores. The lucky performers went in another direction as soon as possible. Technically, anyone in this group could work for 'escort services', but they weren't escorts.

In the top 10% were the call-girls; what people thought escorts should be. Their pimps had muscle plus good legal back-up, cops on the take, or both. Their time started at $150/hour for the basic package and escalated rapidly from there. For your money, you got a good time. These ladies were the real pros. You were paying for something better than a simple fuck. You were paying for companionship.

You were paying for the illusion that she cared and liked what you did for her. When they lied, you wanted to believe it. Dabney was one of those. Like G, she had an overabundance of erotic sex appeal which made her a good earner. She had five or six more years in her and then she'd quit, or tumble off the roster down to the second tier.

Dabney must have panicked after I left for work. The truth of the matter took hold. The boy she knew fifteen years ago was a reckless brawler. She had no idea what I was actually like, or capable of. She wanted me to be the protector from her youth yet the past eight years of her life told her that men would let you down, or hurt you. Pimps weren't inclined to let their high-earning escorts just walk away, or go independent.

That is why they kept several credit cards in their names as well as high-interest loans. Hanging onto their social security cards, copies of ID's and a list of your closest contacts was also normal. Even if their bitch did manage to get away, the next seven years of her life would be hell as her credit rating went to crap and her creditors foisted off her debts to a collection agency.

I'd put a stop to that last night. Every bank loan taken out in her name would under investigation for the next few weeks. We could have made good use of that time... but no, she had to go to her sister's. The urgency of the matter from her pimp's perspective was based on the fact that Dabney knew what Circe looked like.

True, the word of a woman with a host of prostitution convictions versus a pillar of high society was relatively worthless. Circe had gambled once by letting Dabney live. It had been a business decision, a lesson in resource management for Reagan, plus Dabney was a 'nobody'. Sadly, last night another 'nobody' had put a hurting on Pablo and then vanished with the girl. Circe didn't need the worry wrinkles.

I looked up Sammi's name in the Henderson directory and made the call following my standard paranoid sequence. I linked my phone call to a cell tower fifty miles outside of Vegas then dialed Sammi's number. If they had Dabney, there was already a hiccup in their plan if they wanted to snare me as well.

The blithely ignorant who made up the human masses had phone numbers that could be linked to a physical location, or a billing address. That way, when one of Pablo's associates grabbed Dabney, they would ask her if she had my number. She did. It didn't matter. Due to this nutjob's persecution fantasies, my phone number led to a Pet Shop a good ways away from my domicile.

Breaking into a small, struggling business and creating a phone tap was insanely easy. I'd done it to several different locations. I sent the burn code to that communication cut out, the battery fried the chip and that became another dead end in case they did go looking in that direction. Dabney could inform them of my new job. I wasn't terribly worried about them cracking MedicWest's database.

Even if they did, my contact information was...misleading. I'd gone to UNLV, hung around the campus advertising boards until I spotted the properly desperate individual. I wasn't looking for someone looking for a service. I was looking for someone posting their poverty to the world by offering to tutor something inane.

The promise of a constant trickle of dollars convinced him to cover my upfront contacts. He didn't know me and I didn't know him. If something bad happened to him, there was no leverage to use against me. Going after G wasn't likely.

As a rule, rousting casino personnel wasn't good for business as those institutions were well-heeled and politically connected. The Stratosphere had no loyalty to G; this was standard practical policy to not let outsiders influence their employees.

Anyone thinking my car's registration led back to my home hadn't been paying attention to my 'cautious' nature. Even my GPS device didn't cut on until it was half a mile away from my location. I doubted Dabney would have recalled the precise route - panicky decisions affect recall like you wouldn't believe.

"Hey Sammi," I spoke into the phone. "This is Vance Vardanyan." Yeah, I got teased about the 'double V' growing up, thus my kick-ass predilections. To make matters more confusing, my given name was Vardan, not Vance. That was a bit complicated. "I know; long time, no see. Is Dabney there?"

"Oh God, Vance...yes, Dab was home when I got off work earlier today. About thirty minutes ago, two guys came looking for her. She was really scared but she left with them." Sammi hurriedly informed me. "How much trouble is she in?" We hadn't grown up in the 'are they in trouble' tax bracket. We expected trouble automatically.

"Plenty," I said with confidence. "What do you know of her situation?"

"She's a high-end call-girl in the city and works for some leech named Pablo. About a year ago she showed up, all scared about something. She wouldn't tell me what it was. Pablo came knocking on my door the next day. This guy wasn't Pablo though..." she left her desire for more information hanging.

"Don't call the cops, Sammi. I broke Pablo's collarbone last night when he threatened Dabney" I began.

"Oh damn it, Vance!" Sammi interrupted. "She's not a kid anymore. You shouldn't have gotten involved...especially after you picked up and left all those years ago."

"As I was saying, I busted him up then told Dabney to stay with me for a few days until I could figure a way to deal with this problem," I explained.

"What in the hell are you going to do?" Sammi was moving past being scared for her little sister's life to being annoyed at me for interfering where I didn't belong.

"I was planning on having a chat with Pablo and come to a jointly acceptable solution to Dabney's dilemma," I said.

"What on Earth makes you think you could do that? Have you had your head up your ass for the past twenty years?" she groused.

It was fifteen. It didn't seem relevant to correct her on at the moment.

"Dabney said you are a paramedic," she grumbled. "Did you lie to her?" About being a paramedic? Who lies about that? I guess if some schmuck was trying to polish up his sensitive side, a guy might do that...but that's not me.

Had I told her I was a twelve year armed services veteran, a former-Navy Special Amphibious Reconnaissance Corpsmen (SARC) One (Petty Officer First Class) assigned to Marine Force Recon then to a SEAL team before ending up in the DEVGRU (some of the baddest sons-of-bitches who have ever lived; trust me) Dabney would have justifiably thought I was some lying, over-compensating, pseudo-macho, wing-nut failure of a National Guardsman - at best.

To complete the fairy tale, I had spent three years in the CIA's Special Operations Group (SOG). She would have assumed I was lying. I barely believed it and I had lived through it. Expecting people who hadn't seen me once in the past fifteen years to believe me was purely delusional thinking.

"I am a paramedic."

"You?" she scoffed. Why was it so hard for everyone to believe I'd become a care-giver?

"Yes, me. The pay may suck, but the work is spiritually fulfilling," I told her. Pause.

"Please don't let anything happen to Dabney, Vance. She really liked you," Sammi turned all motherly on me - someone else's mother. "Keep me in the loop."

"I will," I replied. Maybe I would and maybe I wouldn't. I'd see how things worked out first. "We'll talk again later." I hung up. It was time for a meal followed by a nap.

"What are you going to do?" G asked me as I assembled my collapsing bed. I was too tall to sleep comfortably on the sofa.

"Getting a nap," I said.

"But what about..." she murmured.

"They have my number, G. I don't have theirs," I yawned. "They will call. That won't do them any good, so they will be waiting for us at the Stratosphere. If they call you back, tell them they can find me at the first place we met." That was Detective 101: go to the last place the guy was seen. I called my pal in the Netherlands. She gave me the skinny on Dabney's credit card trail. It wasn't good news.

It was a rotating account system that collected money from 'cells' (aka money-making schemes) that went to a series of feeder accounts. Every few hours, those accounts rolled over to another account, off-shore banks to a place that didn't like giving out information on their private clients. Instead of popping a $1million to one account, setting off all kinds of alarm bells off at too many governmental agencies, they dribbled money constantly, thus flying beneath the radar.

Her hacking in one of those shady banks to do some real damage was beyond the scope of our relationship, but she clued me into the systems' weaknesses for me to hopefully use later. I picked up a random e-mail service, created a throw-away identity in twenty minutes that would serve its limited purpose. That done, I rested my head on my pillow.

I was asleep inside of two minutes. As predicted, no one called, so they were definitely going for the intercept. There still was the first fuck-up to deal with. As I was getting ready to leave with G, two police officers came knocking at my door. I opened the interior security door while leaving the outer, steel lattice door shut and locked.

"Mr. Vardanyan?" asked the lead officer, a woman with the tag of C. Rothschild.

"Yes, Officer Rothschild?" I answered. She tried and failed to open the outer door.

"Would you open the screen door please?" she asked. Her partner, a white guy named B. Shell, looked around cautiously.

"Would you show me a warrant for my arrest, or a search warrant, please?" I parroted her.

"We are here to request your assistance with an ongoing investigation," she responded.

"Thank you for the offer. I choose to decline," I calmly informed her. "We can move right past your gentle insistence, my intransience and confront your inability to legally detain me, my clear desire to be of no assistance and my need to be somewhere else right now."

"What is your problem? Assistant Sheriff Mahaulu wants to talk with you," she informed me.

Hawaiians were a sizeable minority in Las Vegas, thus a senior police official named Mahaulu somewhere outside of the 50th state made sense.

"I reassert my willingness to be uncooperative, Officer Rothschild," I sighed. "Now, I'm leaving. I have to take a friend to work."

"You know I have an arsenal, Concealed Carry permits and work as a paramedic at MedicWest (paramedics were licensed). No surprises. We tack on that this entire encounter has been recorded, your lack of legal standing and I wish you good day," I said before shutting the door. G was thunderstruck by my blasé attitude. I winked at her before leading her out the back door.

Those two didn't hassle me further. Instead they tailed me all the way over to G's place of employment. I had to leave my pistol and knife in the car as I walked her to work. Caught sneaking a weapon into a casino was a great way to get banned for life. I had to park in a lot while they got to park in the street. It was clear to me they thought I deserved a second chance to meet with Assistant Sheriff Mahaulu.

Just outside the entry way, there was this guy looking for G to show up. Even in Vegas, she was notably more attractive than most. I didn't think there was a current picture of me to go by yet. That would change soon enough. I saw him making a call then pointing the camera phone in our direction.

"Take care, G," I patted her lightly on the back. "I'll be back to pick you up when your shift ends." She nodded, started walking away, then doubled back and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

"Stay safe and good luck," she worried. Off she went.

{Getting Dabney back}

The guy at the door was talking to somebody on the phone. I sped along the process by walking over to him. This lookout didn't know what to make of that. Interrogating him was pointless. He was a 'cut-out'; his job was something any monkey could do.

"Someone wants to talk with you," he held out the phone as if it was a cross and I was a vampire. The cellular device changed hands.




Ebb Tide Ch. 01



"It's cool," I grinned. "Have they paid you off yet?"

"Aaahhh...no," he stammered. "I only got half. I'll get the other half...after you take the call."

"Take my advice and be happy with half and your life. Your employers aren't the 'loose ends' kind of outfit," I cautioned him. By the look in his eyes, he was going to take that advice.

"Good evening," I spoke into the phone.

"Listen up, you fucker," Pablo seethed.

The slur in his words indicated he was abusing his pain-killers. The doctor had probably told him to take it easy for two weeks and allow the bone to start healing. The dumbass was going to do more damage to himself than what I had inflicted on him.

"Listening," I curtly replied.

"Start walking toward 'Bonanza' (a tourist trap to the south).A car is going to pick you up," he seethed.

"Not going to happen," I snorted in amusement.

"Dude, Dabney's not going to like that answer," he sneered. That was the point where my plan truly sucked. From the moment I found out that Pablo had Dabney, I knew that Circe's middleman was going to have the pimp kill us both. Pablo was a sadist. That meant, no matter what I did, Dabney was going to suffer before she died.

Had Dabney just waited at my house until I cornered Pablo and made him see reason...but she hadn't and we were now in this predicament. Rushing in might get me killed. Dabney was far more likely to be a casualty in the cross-fire which would make the entire drama an exercise in futility.

Following Pablo's instructions wasn't going to deliver any better probabilities as I'd be fighting entirely on his terms. The sad, anti-macho, non-White Knight Reality was that Dabney was about to go through a truckload of pain and suffering that I couldn't do anything about. I didn't blame Dabney. She'd been scared to death. I didn't blame myself.

He'd taken liberties with Dabney. I wasn't going to let him hurt her. Dabney had been my friend ~ no matter how long ago. I knew that breaking Pablo's collarbone would lead to escalating violence. I hadn't correctly predicted that Dabney's lack of trust in men who had abandon her far too often to a cruel fate would make her do this stupid thing.

Now Pablo was dead no matter what. All I could do was arrange events so that Dabney didn't join him. I had to seal my emotions away until this mission was completed.

"There isn't much I can do about that, but Pablo..." I started. I let that hang there.

"What?"

"Do you remember what I told you last night? About you touching Dabney ever again?" 

"Big words, small prick," he mocked me.

"I'm glad we are clear about my warning," I removed the emotion from my voice. "Pablo, I know what you look like. I can find you whenever I wish."

"Asshole, you don't..." 

"Here is how it is going to go down," I talked over him.

"You don't tell me to do shit, you -" and I hung up. I crossed the street at the light, multi-tasking the pedestrian traffic while I opened up the phone's innards. It rang again once I was on the other/east side of the street.

"Here is what you are -" I belted out my refrain.

"Motherfucker!" Pablo yelled. "If you hang up one more time, Dabney's dead." Pablo was the kind of low-life for which lying and self-deception over his own importance came easy. He couldn't even tell that he was lying to himself. His was an empty threat. He needed Dabney, but he was too drugged up to realize that I clearly knew he needed her to get at me.

"If you want to spend a long time dying, by all means let me know," I bantered. Let him get angry. I was configuring the device with additions of my own, to discover his general location via cell towers. Keeping him talking was exactly what I wanted.

"You are a dead man," he threatened. "When I my hands on you -"

"You mean your right hand, right?" I reminded him. "I doubt your left hand can even wrap around your tiny nub of a cock."

"Fucker, you are going to be the one who is 'a long time dying'," he yapped.

By the tone of his voice, I could tell he was aggravating the repair work the surgeon had done on his shoulder. Even more pain-killers were in his immediate future. He might even overdose before I got a hold of him.

"You can go back to your boss empty-handed if you like," I mused. "I think we both know how your operation handles failure."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" he attempted to both regain the momentum in our conversation while covering up his fear.

"Here is how it is going to go down," I began again.

"Mother-fucker, I -" and I hung up on him again. The phone rang. I had his location down to ten meters.

In most cases, a cellular signal bounced off at least two towers. In urban areas it could be as many as four. The signal bounced off the towers at different nano-seconds because of the difference in distance between the tower and the phone. It is the art of electronic triangulation. He was on the Strip, maybe three blocks south of my current location...moving northward - plenty of time for me to get back to my car.

The phone rang again.

"Fucker," he growled. "How's this." I heard Dabney scream in pain as a stun gun went off. "You want to hear that again?"

"Not really. Now here is how it is going to -" I was cut off by Dabney screaming once more.

"I can do this all night long, Fucker," Pablo taunted me.

"I'll keep this portion of our conversation in mind," I responded.

"Good," his voiced dripped with victory - idiot.

"Here is how it is going to go down -" I tried yet again. Dabney screamed. I hung up.

I had to get into my car anyway. I had the belief I was going to be needing my gun and a blade this evening. I pocketed a few extra magazines - best be prepared. Pablo was definitely not alone. The phone rang.

"Vance!" Dabney sobbed in pain. "Please Vance, do what they say." The phone changed hands.

"Fucker, you are going to -" Pablo got out.

"Put Dabney back on the phone, Pablo," I requested. Dabney screamed. I hung up. I was paying the parking fee when the phone rang again.

"Don't you fucking -" Pablo was losing it.

"Dabney," I repeated my request.

"Fucker -" and I hung up yet again. I drove past the vehicle I suspected held Pablo and company. A gold-flecked Suburban with spinning rims. That baby could hold eight people easily plus plenty of back space. I noted the license plate. At the next stoplight, I accessed the LVMPD database thanks to those two detectives inadvertently giving me their passwords last night. The phone rang yet again.

"Vance," Dabney whimpered. "They are hurting me...please..."

"You hang up again and she dies. We will get you later," Pablo assured me.

"Put Dabney back on the phone," I reiterated my request.

"Fine," he snapped. "She's dead. You are dead too, when I catch you."

I hung up. If they were going to kill Dabney, she'd be dead already. If I acceded to their demands, they'd kill us both. Someone smarter than Pablo knew they needed her around as 'proof of life' to lure me in. The license plate belonged to an entertainment group. I went over a list of various properties, picking the closest, 'Vegas Fantasies'.

Officers Rothschild and Shell turned on their lights in two short flashes to let me know they were starving for my attention. I pulled to the side of the road, stashed the evidence of my illegal endeavor and muted the phone I'd been given. They got out and walked up to both sides of my ride.

"Mr. Vardanyan, I strongly suggest you come with us to meet the Assistant Sheriff right now," Rothschild said.

"Officer, I find myself on a tight time table at the moment, so I'm going to cut to the bare bones. You are exhibiting an abuse of power I find unsettling. I do not want to talk with your superior."

"Now, are you going to trump up an excuse to put me in custody and drag me before him, or not?" I related. "As I said, I'm on a tight schedule."

"Do you mind if we search your car?" Shell said from the passenger side door.

"Yes."

"Why don't you want to cooperate?" Shell grumbled. Rothschild had taken a mental step back.

"I am not civic minded. I find people I don't know making demands on my time to be an irritant. Then there is this fact: you two in particular can't seem to get it through your skulls that I am not interested in your proposal despite my many refusals," I articulated. "Tell your superior I was never inclined to talk to him and I'm even less interested after having you follow me around."

"You are armed," Rothschild reminded me. "That is justifiable cause for a search."

"Except I have a recording less than an hour old where I stated that I was both armed and had concealed carry permits for the weapons in question."

"We'll do it the hard way," Rothschild sighed. "License, registration and proof of insurance, please."

This was a traffic stop where my ability to protect my civil rights were more complicated. Yes, Officers Rothschild and Shell were violating my rights. No judge would side with me on the matter. I did as requested. They wasted five minutes verifying my information.

"I smell marijuana," Shell remarked.

"Do you really want to go down that road?" I met his gaze.

"What does that mean?" Rothschild heated up even as she returned my papers.

"Fabricating a criminal offense, bearing false witness and violating the spirit of the law for the sake of power, Officer Rothschild," I turned her way. "We both know this is what's going on."

"Your record says you were in the Navy - some sort of hospital orderly. I would have thought that you would appreciate the necessity of authority," she countered.

"I'm on a tight schedule," I regurgitated the answer. She pulled out a card and handed it over.

"I strongly suggest you arrange an interview with Assistant Sheriff Mahaulu soon - very soon," she encouraged me. I took the card.

"Done deal," I agreed. That was that. I made sure they drove off in one direction before I chose another. I had someone's life to save. At a store off the Strip, I paid an alcoholic to get himself two bottles of scotch for himself and a pack of road flares, one set of wire clippers, one tube of caulk and a canister of propane. The booze would kill the pre-requisite number of brain cells to make him a lousy witness. The rest was for the IED I was planning to make.

Members of any organized criminal venture had three vulnerabilities: their lives, their reputations and their cash-flow. Unlike normal enterprises, running to the law when someone was picking on you was self-defeating. If you did, you could end up behind bars, your rep was blown and you risked poverty as well as the wrath of your enemies.

That was why criminal gangs had enforcers. They answered violence with violence. If an opposing organization went after your money-makers, you went after theirs. If they killed one of yours, you took out two of theirs. That was what reputation was all about. Living under those restrictions left criminals exceedingly vulnerable to someone like me; a 'lone wolf avenger'.

That wasn't pompousness. It was terminology that came about in Columbia in the 1980's and 90's.Rogue police (sick of the corruption Pablo Escobar's Medellin Cartel had inspired with their drug money and terror campaigns), and relatives of those killed by that cartel got together in a group called Los Pepes.They began attacking the Medellin Cartel, exacting summary justice against its members.

They were not 'lone' as in single individuals. 'Lone' meant a person, or small group, engaged in criminal activities solely against criminals (including corrupt officials) without concern for personal profit of any kind. Their prime motivation was vengeance, so they were referred to as 'lone wolf avengers'.

Pablo called me five times during the second cop shakedown and my shopping trip. He ranted three times to voice mail. The fourth time I picked up, he started to rant again, I asked for Dabney, didn't get her so I hung up. The fifth time...

"Vance," Dabney whimpered.

"Dabney, I know you are in pain and scared witless," I soothed her. "I want you to concentrate on my voice and my words. Can you do that?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"Pablo is a dead man. Every time you look at him, every time he hurts you, remember he is living out the last few hours of his life."

"Last few..." she muttered. Pablo took the phone.

"Okay Asshole, now I want you to listen carefully," he growled with barely contained fury.

"Listening."

"4941 Donavan Way - 25 minutes," he snarled.

"It will take me 45," I countered.

"25, or else..."

"Pablo, I've been driving south for the past fifteen minutes," I lied. "Unless you want me showing up driving like a bat out of Hell with a half-dozen cops on my ass, give me 45 minutes."

"45...46 and she's dead," he threatened.

"Pablo, I'm going to need proof of life now and right before I show up," I conditionally agreed. I wanted to make sure Dabney was around until I'd made my play. "The second time, I'm going to ask her a random question from our past, so don't start thinking you are brilliant."

"45 minutes, Asshole," he exulted in his hate. Forty-five minutes was more than enough time to enact my plan. It was sinfully easy. A masked man was about to break into a low-rent, advertises on the strip with business cards and flyerscall center. They have all kinds of computer systems which the site supervisor can disconnect from the network if the police or a competitor raided the building.

It was far less useful when a murderous psycho snuck up on her, put a gun to her head and gave her a choice: the codes, or her life. My first action was to caulk the fire door shut (so no one could escape out the back). Next came the locking of the front doors from the inside with the bike locks (the only other exit). Then I rounded up the staff, starting with the site supervisor.

I had the phone/website operators strip down to their underwear, packed them like sardines into a utility closet and got to work. I needed the system active so I could physically link it to my personal computer while accessing a certain black market website where my Dutch friend had left me something to download. This 'package' was a particularly nasty encryption virus uploading into their network.

Barring a super-computer, or a superb tech support unit working for a week, I owned that data. Last, but not least, I attached a time bomb to the virus. In a set amount of time ~ 4 hours in this case ~ the virus would hopelessly corrupt every system it was integrated with. When I uploaded this site's data to 'the Cloud', I also sent the 'raid' code, meaning this place was compromised and the data's security had a theoretical time limit before someone tracked it down.

Dutifully, someone watching the network would then transfer that information, and my virus, into the overall system; the one I suspected was physically located in a country whose laws kept their customers' secrets secret. In the physical world, Circe retained her legions of employees and tangible financial assets. In Cyberspace, she was informational-ly bankrupt. Client lists, employee lists, pay schedules and 'tax' recites were all in danger.

I wasn't going to war with Circe. I wanted to live and let live - sort of. What I wanted was a boon, a visiting peddler seeking favor from the Queen. If I had the chance, I'd hand her my codes allowing her to have everything back and all I wanted were three small favors well within her power to grant. I wanted Dabney set free, Pablo's head and for her to forget I ever existed.

In the final phase of this part of the operation, I set up my IED. I clipped off the nozzle of the caulking tube, used that to sabotage the propane canister's safety feature and set off the flare. I then encouraged ("this place is about to explode") my prisoners to follow me out the front door - I had the key to the bike lock - and we all fled for our lives. I took the bike lock with me. The building going boom in my rear-view mirror was a professionally satisfying sight.

It was no raging inferno, just enough to wreck the place for a few weeks, give Circe an immediate warning that something was wrong and allow the police to check out the place once the fire department was done ruining it with water hoses. Fires do a good job of destroying evidence. Firefighters do it better.

The only thing they could determine fully was what made up the IED and that led back to the rummy, who clearly couldn't' have done the deed. I was still heading for the rendezvous when the virus let me know it had been transferred into Circe network. My time had almost run out. I gave Pablo a call.

"Why aren't you here yet, Mother-fucker?" he snapped. He'd been doping up on pain-killers once more.

"Almost there. You might want to call your boss before you do something stupid, Pablo. I've made alternate arrangements since we last talked."

"I don't give a fuck," he slurred.

"Call the person who sent you after Dabney. Tell them you have a lead on what happened to 'Vegas Fantasies' ten minutes ago," I said. "As a token of faith, I'm still showing up. Part of the deal is that you let me talk to Dabney," I reminded him.

"Vance? Vance, are you coming?" she voiced her terror.

"Who was Ted Parker?" I was double checking. I doubted Pablo was smart enough to make a recording of her voice, but better safe than sorry.

"Ummm...aaahhh...that kid who pestered me in the fifth grade," she mumbled. "You showed me how to beat him up."

"You are the real Dabney," I tried to get her to relax. "Here I come." I stopped long enough to retrieve my ballistic vest from the trunk and put it on before rolling into the empty container yard.

There was the Golden Pimp-mobile. I parked my Audi so that the passenger side faced them. I scanned the area - no lookouts. Did the heat make people stupid? I didn't bother to hide the fact that I had an HK45 Compact Tactical pistol in my hand when I got out because a surprise at this moment would be detrimental to my plan. None of them appeared until after I did.

Pablo, left arm in a sling, got out of the rear passenger door on my side with a sawed-off double barrel shotgun in his right hand, moron. He was the guy I wanted to kill plus how did he plan to reload that scattergun?

The front passenger side door disgorged a big overweight white guy who had watched too many Godfather movies and belatedly realized I had a gun out and he didn't. The driver, coming around the front of their vehicle was tall, skinny and black - no weapon evident. The first guy around the rear of the SUV was Hispanic - Mac-11 - and the final guy was white as well.

He was dragging a terrified Dabney along with him by his left hand on her right elbow. He had the barrel of a chrome plated .357 Magnum pressed against the right side of her rib cage. Dabney looked like hell. That none of the damage to her face looked permanent was the best spin I could put on her predicament. As for the other guys...they weren't a gang, they were a crew.

Gangs tend to be racially-based. Crews are staffed by career criminals. The guy with the Mac was the leader. Pablo...they didn't work for Pablo. They worked for someone else as street-level muscle. That meant they were petty thieves, thugs and all-around bullies who weren't gifted with enough intellect to be involved in consistent money-making operations.

"Did you make that call?" I asked Pablo.

"Fuck you, Fucker," he snapped. "Put down the gun then we can talk." Like that was going to happen. "Put down the gun, or I waste the girl."

"I would take that to be a 'no'," I sighed.

"Do the rest of you know the shitload of trouble Pablo is in?" I addressed the crew. "The people upstairs are very angry with him." Oh, I knew they had no clue who the people 'upstairs' were. Here is how fear works ~ it was like swimming in crocodile-infested waters. Before long, you started seeing crocs everywhere.




Ebb Tide Ch. 02



Editing magic performed by KJ24 and Shyqash, plus contributions by the regular gang of brigands and neer-do-wells.

Low tide: The period between the ebb tide and the succeeding rising tide.

This tale is an espionage fantasy frequently under assault by reality.

The 'hero' of this tale might be considered a Libertarian, though the label means nothing to him. He is not completely sane (by some people's definition of the term).

 A List of the Principal Characters is provided at the end of the chapter.

*****

{A little taste of my un-reality, or 'Why mental health professionals avoid me'}

"I'm not paranoid. I do have a pathological hatred of surprises."

That was my well-thought out answer to a female lieutenant Naval Psychiatrist asking me to be introspective about my particular view of the world. It has since become my Motto -- my Creed. 

For that session, she had started by asking what I did when I came back to base -- what did I do when I first stepped into my personal quarters? I explained I didn't have a home; I lived "on base", which is to say that I used whatever space was temporarily assigned to me. Okay, what did I do to unwind when I entered my room? I explained to her that I prepped for the next mission. Did I relax? Why would I relax? I was on a military base; I had military stuff to do.

What was so important that it couldn't wait until I'd unwound a bit? Mostly classified stuff I wasn't sure she had the necessary clearance for me to talk to her about. What did I do when I finished these unspeakable acts? She found it hard to believe that there was always more stuff to do. But out in the field was not the place to realize I'd forgotten to make the proper preparations ahead of time. 

Did I leave the base? Not if I could help it. Why? Sigh...I repeated that I had stuff to do. Didn't I want a private life? I first made sure she was talking about having a physical relationship with a woman, not drinking with the guys, or engaging in internet masturbation. I then confirmed I had sex with a red-headed woman that I met at a cougar bar three weeks earlier. Yes, I went there specifically to engage in nameless, guilt-free intercourse before going on my latest mission.

Did I find that sort of thing fulfilling? I guessed so. I got what I wanted. What about the woman's feelings? I asked the shrink if she understood the concept behind having a 'One Night Stand'. I never felt the need to create an emotional bond with a random stranger. I could tell that frustrated the psychiatrist. 

She tried for an oblique attack on the old refrain. She wanted to know what I would do if I checked into a random hotel room. What would I do to relax and unwind there? Like any rational individual, I responded by requesting the specifics of the hotel and the room -- things like:

What time of day was it? What day was it? Was it close to any major events/holidays that would increase the capacity of the place/ increase foot and road traffic? You needed to know what sounds were out of place if you were reading, watching TV, or sleeping. Yes, I slept that lightly.

How close was my car? How close was a major thoroughfare? Was there a back alley? Did the property look out over uncultivated terrain? Was it sitting on a high point, or in a low point? How many landmarks looked down on the location? All basic tactical stuff.

What floor was I on? Only idiots took rooms on the first two floors. Anything over the fourth meant you could be trapped...by a fire, or an attacking drug gang fueled by machismo and mind-altering substances. Regulation sleeping platforms had enough sheets so you could rappel down from a third or fourth story balcony/window using only the bedding. I could tie a knot faster than she thought possible. I'd practiced. I wouldn't use towels; I might need them later. Besides, the ratio of knot to length was poor.

What was the lay out of the room? Where were the windows? How solid were they? When, if at all, did the sunlight penetrate the room? Why? Shooting into the Sun messed with your aim. Also, if the door was unusable, you needed to know how quickly you could exit an available window.

What were the walls made of? You need to know this so you could predict what kinds of rounds would penetrate and how much residual stopping power those rounds would have. Also, you might need to bash your way into a room on either side of you in case the rear window was too small, or covered.

How close was the room to a fire escape? Not only was that safety-conscious, you need to know from how many directions trouble might come.

How close was the room to an ice machine? Those things attracted people and made noise.

That was when she stopped me and asked me if I felt I was unusual. I had to explain to her that on my last assignment I had to snap a man's arm off and ram said limb into his screaming father's mouth, as the father was ALSO trying to kill me. So I caused him to choke out his last moments of life with son's arm in his throat. 

Why did I do something so extreme? My knife was half way across the room, still busy ending someone else's existence, all three of my guns were empty and I needed to kill the son anyway. I tried to explain to her that I had an unusual job that demanded unusual skills, working unusual hours and dealing with unusual enemies.

So yes, I was unusual and had no problem with that. Did I want to be normal, she asked. I 'qualified' her into a philosophical corner on what 'normal' meant. Not having spent a second inside a college didn't mean I was unread, or ignorant. The basics of psychology were just one part of the many skill-sets housed in the repertoire I felt every Hospital corpsman needed.

Did I think people were out to get me? Sure I did. I was an American -- strike one. I was in the US Armed Forces -- strike two. I had eliminated people that other people loved and missed, so personal revenge against me was a motivation I had to accept as valid -- strike three. So yes, there were people who were out to get me.

Did I believe that there was someone outside that very room ready to off me? No, I felt safe and at ease. I didn't bother telling her that two of my buddies were in the waiting room and that if there had been trouble, I would have heard about it.

Did I regret killing people? No. Why would I? I didn't care if they were bad people, or simply someone in the wrong place at the wrong time. I valued my life and the lives of my teammates far more than the life of some complete stranger. Targets deserved death. Why, she asked. Well...the Pentagon told me they deserved to die. That was a good enough for me.

Was I worried about committing acts that could be construed as War Crimes? Of course not. She wisely explained me that 'I was just following orders' was not an acceptable defense. I snorted at her naiveté. Being charged with a crime didn't bother me. I wouldn't hang around for any kangaroo court. 

The SERE (Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape) program was a required course for anyone assigned to a SEAL team. It was only logical that I'd already made contingency plans to apply that knowledge if some dick-less bureaucrat ever decided to dildo-fuck me over. I could tell that my intention to use my military training to avoid civil confinement wasn't what she wanted to hear. 

Next up: did I like killing people? No. 'Me' killing people meant something had gone wrong. I was the team's hospital corpsman. I was not the #1 choice of the team leader to kill a person. They had specialists for that. Did I have any moral qualms about taking a sentient life? None. I had moral qualms about letting any member of my team die or get hurt. 

Did I know how many people I had killed in defense of my team and in the completion of our missions? I didn't know. I never kept count and doing so wasn't part of my job description, though I was sure it was in some computer file somewhere. I could tell her that I had distributed 1,037 Ibuprofen in my career to date; because being accountable for my medication was in my job description.

Was there any type of person I wouldn't kill? Pregnant mothers, the elderly, the very young? No. I had once kicked over a solid wooden crib, replete with quilts, onto a live grenade that had been tossed into the room where I was tending to a wounded teammate. She told me that wasn't something to be ashamed of. Then I told her the baby was still in it. I knew if I removed the infant, I couldn't kick over the crib in time. 

The psychiatrist looked appalled, so I lied to her and said it had been a dud -- the baby lived. It was not a dud, the baby died, my teammate lived and that was what mattered to me. That was one of the very rare times I lied to any superior officer. She looked like she was having a terribly rough day, so I made a conscious decision to not make it worse. She could also take me off of active duty and that wouldn't do either of us any good.

Had I considered jumping on the grenade myself? Of course not. I had a perfectly good crib right next to me. Besides, it was a Dutch V-40 mini-frag. Those bitches have a four second fuse. I was kneeling as it came through the window. I would have had to run around the crib to do so. It would have blown up before I could get to it. 

Even if I had been able to throw myself onto it, the blast would have either killed me, or wounded me to the point I was confident that I wouldn't have been capable of resuming my duties. To be fair, I had never even considered that possibility ~ the killing myself thing.

Then she thought she'd be clever and try to trick me. If I had been kneeling and tending to a wounded buddy, how had I known what kind of grenade it was? Hadn't I just heard the noise and reacted instinctively, instead of of risking myself? No. I had exceptional peripheral awareness, I had a clear view of the window it came through and the V-40 is distinctive in its size and shape.

She asked me to describe to her what was on the shelf behind me without turning around. I did so, though I wasn't sure what that had to do with peripheral awareness. She had me draw a picture of a V-40 to scale. I did, she measured it and then dropped the subject. The rest was routine ~ the same old -- same old. I knew we were both relieved when she ushered me out of her office.

The next day, my Lieutenant laughingly informed me I had barely skated by on my Psych Eval. Just like all the other times. Again, it was 'recommended I take up a hobby that didn't involve violence, or medicine. I reminded the Lt. that I had already taken up Botany ~ nature had created thousands upon thousands of flora that could fuck with the human body and I wanted to know them all. 

I didn't mind being told to do something else. But I was running out of SEAL stuff to do. I was already in line for High Threat Protection Security and Advanced Demolition training (two separate things). I was already qualified on Surreptitious Entry (B&E), Advanced Special Operations (no comment), Tactical Communications and Language School -- three times. I didn't want to be a sniper (I was trained as a spotter), a jump master, dive master, security driver, or instructor.

My teammates knew I was 'abnormal' and didn't seem to mind. I'd gladly 'seconded' every member of the group, except my Lt. and my MCPO (Master Chief Petty Officer). Not only was I not in the normal chain of command, I didn't want the responsibility. I never complained, never got wounded and didn't seem to mind being shot at.

I was always the first one to get to a wounded teammate's side, screw the shit-heads shooting at us. Being hit never entered into the equation. My guy was in danger and it was my job to make sure he got home alive -- end of story. I brought all my guys home...which has always been my proudest accomplishment. 

For simply doing my job, I was gifted with a sizable collection of medals, ribbons, badges and insignia in my 12 years. A few of the ones they gave me, they took right back -- National Security reasons, they said. They promised the tokens of my Country's esteem would be returned to me one day. I didn't care. 

I didn't do what I did for the specious metals, my Nation, my Commander-in-Chief, my Admirals, my Captains, the US Navy, or any of the families involved. I certainly didn't do it for the pay and benefits. For a dozen years, my teams, be they fellow recruits, trainees, Marines, or sailors, were the center of my life -- they were all that mattered to me.

That was probably the reason I was rootless. My only relationships were with the people in my immediate life. I made a lousy pen-pal. I really didn't care what you did when you left my life. I would remember you, but you'd been replaced on the team and my life went on. One day, a different guy came calling. I could have re-enlisted for another term -- technically I was still mentally and physically fit enough. 

He offered me a unique job opportunity -- a chance to do new and (more) unusual things. I said good-bye to the Navy and joined up with the CIA. Six months later, I was killing people -- no uniform required. For two and a half years, I took lives and I saved lives. I was a damn good combat medic. If a person dropped into my lap, about to expire, I would save them.

Once, while operating in my cover identity, I was asked to join one of those bleeding heart NGOs (Non-Governmental Organizations). I was told about how wonderful it felt to help out the less fortunate, the people truly in need (in his estimation) and all for a pittance (which was equally idiotic in my view, since I'd grown up poor and hated it). I responded with one question; "If a terrorist had a gun to a child's head, threatening to kill her (random gender generator) and he was behind the dude and had a scalpel, would he slit the man's throat?"

His hesitation was all the answer I needed. It reminded me of my oddness. I never understood people saying 'killing is wrong' and 'violence didn't solve anything'.

Violence and killing certainly solved a bunch of my issues. In the end, it made me rich too. Suddenly I had money. I was 33 years old without any biological relations I cared about, without a regular job I could talk about with...well, anybody; and I realized that from that point forward, I'd be doing the same thing over and over again until my luck ran out, or my warranty expired at age 45.

I'd never be happy as a real member of the CIA. The Special Operations Group (SOG), the unit I had been with for the last three years, were part of the CIA, but not in the same culture. An Analyst with a Master's degree in something useful went over the details and figured out that something had to happen to someone...and thousands of miles away, my little family made it happen.

I didn't know all the people who worked out that decision. I met a few from time to time, but I didn't care to know most of them. They had their jobs and their lives and I had mine. We surreptitiously intersected, which was fine by me. Then along came a Golden Opportunity ... equipped with a Golden Parachute, so I bailed. I had now found a regular job that I knew I would be good at and, after living half my life out of a suitcase, I had a physical location to call home once more.

It took all of six weeks before I was back to my old pattern. That bothered me. I couldn't tell if it was because I was subconsciously more comfortable living outside the bounds of polite society, or that I might actually have started caring for normal people...just for being people. I had no one I could talk to about this conundrum.

My Mother and Father had moved to Florida from Las Vegas six years ago. In all my years away, I had written them all of two letters and the second one was punishment duty given to me by my RDC (Recruit Division Commander -- the guy/girl who turns (wo)men into squids). My older sister was married to some schmuck living in Chicago with three kids I'd never met in person. 

My oldest brother was dead, gunned down in Mexico...trying to save another person's life. Go figure. My other brother, also older than me, was still living with Mom and Dad. That fucker was 35 years old, had never held a job for more than six months, never lived on his own and his only noteworthy accomplishment was graduating high school.

{My Current Circumstance}

What did I have? Well, what I didn't have was my desired population of ONE living in my fortified hermitage sanctuary. What had gone wrong? For starters, I found myself giving shelter to two women. I hadn't even wanted a pet, much less something that talked back, or snored. I valued my privacy, my peace and quiet. My home had one small bathroom and one queen-sized bed in my roughly 1400 sq. foot bungalow. (It had been bigger, but I had made some security-minded renovations.)

Latest mistake first: there was 26 year old Dabney Curtiss who, three days ago, had been a cherished memory of my youth. Back then, I had been her makeshift guardian, a friend of her older sister Sammi, who was my age. She'd been a quiet squirt of a girl of 11, the last time I saw her...15 years ago. She had been a short, thin tomboy who thought I was great (there-by proving how young she was). I was her first crush.

Now she was searingly hot. She was what 'wet' dreams were made of. She was a high-priced call-girl; an elite sex-trade professional...or had been, before I beat up her pimp and brought her back to the attention of the Vice Lady of Las Vegas -- Circe. 

The pimp, Pablo, was dead now. I hadn't seen him die, but I'd left him in the company of men who were equal to the task. They'd both hated Pablo and also had this crazy notion that I had influence in the Vegas criminal underworld.

Worrying about Pablo's resting place wasn't an issue for me. Before I left him, I'd also blown off his nuts, so continuing to live probably hadn't been a top priority for him...collecting his testicles had been. Sadly, the idiots I'd been temporarily allied with had been right. I did have a link to one of the Vegas Crime Lords and Ladies.

Yeah...back in High School, through no fault of my own, I had taken a knife wound meant for her chief lieutenant, her daughter - Reagan Cho. How had I ended up so unfortunate? I had stupidly saved another person's life even earlier...which folded into my OTHER God-damn problem which resulted from my first tragic deviation from my well thought out future.

That first guy I saved? His name was Ford Pharris and he was my age (now 33). I met his family: Lloyd Pharris, his monstrous, fucking-evil father (now 56), who I utterly despised; Wynn, his cute younger sister (now 31); and his step-mother- Georgianna 'G' Norquist Pharris (22 when I was 16, now 39) who was now back to being 'G' Norquist since her divorce two years ago. 

I ended up accidentally buying the house across from the duplex that G had been renting and was being evicted from. I didn't know it was G when I chose to intervene -- it was a case of my not liking civilian law enforcement and I witnessed the two cops bullying the woman. My mouth opened and I blurted out an invitation for G to move in with me for absolutely no reason I could understand.

G had been a trophy wife for ole Lloyd way, way long ago. Age had been kind. G was smart enough to know her primary asset was her looks. Nature had been exceedingly generous (Lloyd would only surround himself with the very best ~ he liked buying people, then destroying them) and she rewarded Nature by taking meticulous care of her features and physique.

G was a statuesque, natural honey/amber blonde who tanned nicely and was a bit on the slender side (for my tastes), which accentuated her D-sized breasts. Sag? Sure. She was almost forty and the only elective work I'd known her to have was getting her smile perfected nearly two decades ago. In hindsight, I decided that I liked her then because she'd accepted her role as arm ornament for a creep ~ doing what was necessary to survive. 




Ebb Tide Ch. 02



She was never flirtatious and I couldn't imagine her ever being disloyal to her husband ~ she was too smart to think she could get away with that. She was polite, even kind, yet never a false friend. She use to wear her hair straight and longer. Now she wore it cut to shoulder length with cropped bangs. It highlighted her cheekbones and grey eyes. 

I also thought the look made people respect her intellect a smidge more...if your eyes ever made it up to her face. She had that kind of cleavage that lured you in, saying 'rejoice in your woodie, Mate. Are you thinking titty fuck, motor-boating, or are you a going to fixate on my thick nipples and large, dark areolas for some in depth suckling?

I wasn't a monk. Beautiful women didn't intimidate me, nor had I ever desired any woman more than common sense allowed. I wasn't going to ravage either of my guests. I could shamelessly masturbate in the bathroom with the best of them. And outside of those two occupying more space in my home than I did as well as snoring, my life was completely on track.

Snoring...yeah...I'd bunked with men, so I was used to night-noises. In time, I'd get used to Dabney making little whimpering sounds interspersed with stuttered-meeps and G's more traditional low, steady snore which was no louder than a cat's purring. Dabney, ignorant of my predilections toward utter silence, was my current problem.

I had bought a queen-sized bed because I accepted the possibility that I'd have female companionship over on rare occasions. I had given my bed to my two female refugees and put a portable cot in my living room. The sofa wasn't made for sleeping and I wanted to be alone. Dabney hadn't figured that out, or maybe she was afraid of not being near me, her rescuer. She was soundly asleep, on my sofa, 18 inches away from me.

{The second day}

My phone vibrated; again, I didn't like noise, random or planned. It was 6 a.m. and I had a few things to do before I met Lorenzo, my mentor/trainer at my new job, MedicWest. I had an errand to perform, a strict time table to keep and Dabney was sleeping on her stomach. I'd woken up when she exited the bedroom and started coming my way. I watched her through nearly shut eyes. Feigning sleep is a useful knack to pick up.

She was very scantily clad. Her divinely-inspired ass was tightly contained in faint white bikini briefs with dozens of small smiley faces on it. Her upper-wear consisted of an UNLV (University of Nevada -- Las Vegas) "Go Runnin' Rebels!" scarlet jersey cut off between her belly button pierced with a pearl link ( pearl was her June birthstone) and the bottom of her spherical mammalian bountifulness. The name on the back of the jersey read "Care-Free". 

Ugh. I had work to do that involved keeping those two safe -- safer. My home was my fortified sanctum -- my paranoid love nest. I slipped on some gray track pants and a shirt, then double-checked my security before sneaking out the back door. I used the fading night to slip over the back wall and jog to my desolate back-up house. I retrieved my two bits of damage control material (the badges of the two Robbery/Homicide detectives I'd bludgeoned two nights ago), then returned home.

Dabney was still sound asleep on the sofa. G was curled up around one of my body-pillows on my bed, also in a blessed dream-state. I left them a few simple instructions ~ 1) Don't steal my car (again). 2) Don't call a taxi to come for you until you are two blocks away from the house, and only then if it is an emergency. 3) Don't make any personal phone calls. 4) Don't answer the door, or the phone. 5) Don't open any windows. 6) Everything you need is in the house.

After a quick, healthy breakfast, I was off on my pre-work errand. I had to meet with one Lt. T. (Trixie) Crowe Buchannan of the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department (LVMPD) at 400 South Martin Luther King Blvd. 

Once more, using my pirated police log-ons, I had researched officers' case management files (not the individual cases, just the amount of hours put in, caseloads vs. cases closed) to decide which person was both effective, relatively honest and likely to be in the office before the regular 8 a.m. start time. Access was easy. I had a badge and no sane person broke into the Internal Affairs Bureau (IAB) of the LVMPD.

It was cubicle hell. I detected only two person in the moderately-sized office space. I knew the face of the woman I was looking for. When the other detective on the floor saw me, I asked for Lt. Buchannan and the man showed me the way. Again, no one enters into this place without a damn good reason.

"Detective Lieutenant Crowe Buchannan?" I went through the formalities. She had the quick-eyed, coltish gaze of a classic over-achieving misanthrope. Her hazel eyes, set in an oval face, were dissecting me even as she answered. She brushed a stray strand of brown hair out of her face. Most of it was contained in a ponytail that dropped to the bottom of her shoulder blades.

"Yes, and who would you be?" she said. Her eyes flickered to the computer screen, most likely making sure that it was in fact 7:35 a.m.

"Vance Vardanyan," I gave a tight grin. "I want you to do something for me."

"Mr. Vardanyan," she clipped off each syllable as she stood, "Internal Affairs only investigates matters involving the LVMPD. If you have a complaint, we have a procedure..." That was when I dumped the two badges on her desk and a flash drive.

"These two drunk detectives stumbled into my yard Sunday night and dropped these before driving off to God knows where," I lied. "I was wondering if you knew why they were attempting to harass me. While you are at it, could you please find out why Assistant Sheriff Mahaulu wants to speak with me, as I am unaware of any criminal proceedings aimed my way."

"I...perhaps I should call him," she suggested sarcastically while her inquisitive mind kicked into high gear. "What is your name again?"

"Vardanyan -- Vance. That is v-a-r-d-a-n-y-a-n -- v-a..." I spelled it out.

"Vance," she interrupted. "I've got it. What is the nature of your complaint?"

At least she was allowing me to cut through most of the crappy paperwork.

"I don't like police. I don't like police showing up at my door at night. I don't like police yanking me around for no good purpose," I explained, "and threatening me with false charges to force me to meet said Assistant Sheriff. Can I count on you to investigate this, or are am I going to get another round of late night law enforcement abuse of power?"

"I need more details," she pressed.

"Good plan. Check out the flash drive. Investigate. I've got to go to work now ~ second day on the job," I grinned. "Best of luck to you, but I have to go."

"You can't drop some vague accusations in my lap and walk away," she grumbled.

"Watch me. As I said, I don't like cops and I have a job to get to. Do what you wish," I backed off. "I've done my civic duty for the week. Good-bye."

"I will need to contact you later," she slowly followed me. "What is your number?"

"I'm the only V. Vardanyan in the phone book," I waved bye-bye.

Oh, I'd lied to her. My listed number went to my cut-out, my address went nowhere and our communication would be done on my time-table, not hers. Her time-table? She had two pictures on her desk -- an older photo of a man in a LVPD uniform and the same man, much older, with Lt. Buchannan on the day she graduated from the LVMPD Recruit Training Academy aka 'The Academy'.

She had a Bachelor of Arts in Criminal Justice degree and had been working on her Masters in Professional Master of Arts in Criminal Justice for three years. After graduating from the Academy eight years ago, she'd made sergeant in two years and Lieutenant two years after that. Her last two years had been spent in IAB.

I made it to MedicWest early and in time to answer a call from Lt. Buchannan, "Hello TC (Trixie Crowe ~ why would parents do that to a kid?)." I had a thing for referring to people by their initials when able. Again, paramedics are licensed.

"Lt. Buchannan," she tried to correct me. "Your public phone number is an answering service and your official address belongs to someone who claims not to know you," Crowe was steamed. She was also interested in my case, which was all I wanted.

"Okay," I responded.

"Okay?"

"Yes, I agree that my phone and address don't lead back to me," I sighed. "Will there be anything else?"

"How about a little bit of cooperation, Mr. Vardanyan?" she grumbled.

"Did you look at the flash drive?" I winked to Lorenzo. 'Girl problems', I mouthed. 

"Yes...it is a recording of six officers doing inappropriate things. Maybe if you would come down and fill out a formal complaint, I could move on this," she suggested.

"No thanks. As you have seen for yourself, I have reason to distrust the LVMPD. It is your workplace, not mine. This is your mess, I'm merely giving you a chance to do the right thing and inquire why in a forty-eight hour period I attracted so much unwarranted attention," I reiterated the case I'd dumped in her lap. "Start at the beginning and work your way up."

"I need more than this," she hedged.

"No you don't. You have two cops hassling me and a friend, searching me without cause, two more stumbling around my house after hours and finally two pleasant interactions with yet two more of your patrol officers, the ones who are inviting me to go talk with the Assistant Sheriff," I volleyed back.

"What are you trying to do?" she hrumpfed.

"I'm trying to tell Lloyd Pharris to back the fuck up, Lt. Trixie," I told her. "He sent those first two to do his dirty work. The next two were sent to intimidate me. The third two were running private errands for the Assistant Sherriff."

"I'm giving Mr. Pharris a stern reminder that he doesn't rule this city, or the whole police force...or does he?" I said.

"Lloyd Pharris?" she murmured. It wasn't fear -- it was caution I heard in her voice. "I'm going to need more than this to..."

"Do you job and I'll do mine," I looked over to Lorenzo who was indicating we needed to take off. "I've got a service call. Lives need saving. Have a nice day." I handed the phone to the equipment officer, swept up my gear and followed my new partner out the doors. We had a call. It sounded like an allergic reaction.

"You've got one messed up social life," Lorenzo nervously chuckled.

"Tell me about it," I laughed. "Tell me about it."

Lorenzo didn't stop trying to get inside my life. He was a talker and was the type of guy who wanted all his constant companions to be his friends and projected my refusal to accommodate him as a personal failing on his part.

"Hey Vance," Lorenzo called out to me as I was signing the receipt for the gear I'd returned at the end of shift. Paramedics handled all kinds of substances which were controlled and/or illegal ~ thus valuable. I'd been able to check all my supplies and fill out the paperwork blindfolded for years. Lorenzo, despite five years at this job, still took three times as long.

"Yeah?"

"Me and the wife are having some friends over Saturday for a cookout," he said. "I figured that you might not know anyone..." That was somewhat desperation on his part.

"Sure. What time and can I bring my roommates -- two of them?" I replied.

Since Lorenzo was expecting yet another rebuff, my immediate acquiescence caught him by surprise.

"Sure. Ah, my wife has a younger sister and she has a friend," he grinned. Now he was trying to hook me up. He was doing me a favor I hadn't asked for, in an arena I had shown no interest in. I decided to not burst his bubble by mentioning my roommates were both women.

I was rewarded for making the next three days riding with Lorenzo much easier by spotting a LVMPD patrol car lurking in wait for me. They thought they were being sneaky. My next gift was on my passage side door -- someone had jimmied the lock. I imagined something illegal had been put in my car. Cool. Opening the door had activated the internal surveillance system. I also had two GPS locators and a satellite phone hidden away, but that wasn't relevant at the moment.

I took my time. I had an older looking car and I lived in Las Vegas, so my starting the engine, then standing alongside it while the air conditioning blasted away at the stifling heat that all car develop, wasn't all that unusual. Making a phone call was equally innocuous. The cops were more than willing to wait for me to make it onto W. Delhi Rd. to bust me. 

"Hello?" Dabney's voice came over the phone.

"Didn't I leave instructions to not answer the phone?" I reminded her.

"Oh...sorry, yeah," she moped.

"That's cool. You need to drive G into work tonight. A bit of trouble has come up and I might be late," I said.

"Oh. Is there anything I can do to help?" she perked up.

"Yes. Figure out what you want to do for dinner," I told her. "I'm going to need to do some de-stressing and you know the downtown area far better than me." I didn't want to dine out. Giving Dabney a purpose after she'd stayed in the house all day was a concession I had to make to promote my domestic tranquility.

"Okay, I've got three or four places in mind," I could feel her warmth coming through. "Here is Georgianna." The phone switched hands.

"Hello V? Is there a problem?" she was nervous.

"Nothing I can't handle. Go to work. We'll talk when you get home tonight," I assured her. "Take care. I have to go."

"Bye," she said. Letting a woman have the last word was a useful expedient. 

"Officer Crowe Buchannan," I requested from the operator. It took me a few seconds.

"Buchannan," she grumbled. Definitely not a happy person.

"Vance Vardanyan here. Are you still looking into that matter we discussed?" I said politely.

"This has been a shitload of trouble you've dropped on me," she groused. Then, "Yes, I'm still looking into this."

"Gosh, thanks for doing your job, Lieutenant. I need to download you some more video and then establish a link because I'm about to get busted by officers Rothschild and Shell," I informed her.

"What? Why?" she flipped from pissed to attentive.

"Let's find out together," I took my seat and shut the door. I flipped my system to broadcast and cut back to the appropriate footage.

"Here it comes," I told her. While I waited, I double-checked shirt collar spy cams. They looked like onyx buttons and were very difficult to detect. From past experience, that would be enough.

It showed Officer Shell opening my passenger door -- the system hadn't activated until one of the entry points was breeched -- and looking around. At the 53 second mark, he pulled out five packets of what I believed was Meth and stashed it under the driver's seat. He had on gloves but had brushed his head along the rear-view mirror -- trace hair evidence. All of that was captured on video. I put my car in gear and started to pull out.

"Oh crap," she muttered. "When can you come in? We need to talk about this."

"As I said, I am about to get busted. I should be in Clark County Detention Center within thirty minutes. Meet me there," I suggested. She didn't say something stupid like 'are you going to let them arrest you.' I couldn't avoid them, even if I sat in the parking lot.

"My partner and I will meet you there," she grunted. "Don't do anything stupid."

"I already am," I joked. "I'm putting a single ounce of faith in a cop not being a fascist fucker. If I wasn't in a peaceful frame of mind, I would have dealt with this myself."

"Don't do that," she insisted. 

I pulled out on to W. Delhi and here came the cops, with a brief flash of lights and a siren wail. Buchannan could hear that. I pulled over, fully prepared to play my role while the video from five camera's recorded and broadcast the events for posterity and IAB's Trixie Crowe. The came at me from both sides, hands resting on the butts of their pistols. Both of my hand were on the top of the steering wheel.

"Mr. Vardanyan," Rothschild addressed. "Step out of the car carefully. We have been informed that you are transporting drugs in your vehicle." 

"I am carrying a firearm and a knife," I announced loud and clear before complying. What followed was rote. She found the usual nail clippers, phone and wallet plus my FN45 Tactical pistol. I had my Concealed Carry Permit as well. I had a service knife (licensed too).

Shell asked me if he could search my car, I acquiesced ~ in theory I thought my car was clean, right? I was already cuffed and searched by the time Officer Bart Shell made his discovery.

"What do we have here?" he gloated, waving five baggies from the far side of the car. He had searched from the passenger side while Rothschild pulled me to the back of my ride and did her thing.

Any response on my part was a waste of words so I kept quiet.

"Trying to sick Internal Affairs on us was stupid," Rothschild whispered in my ear. "What are these?" she inquired as the serious pat down began. There went my knife.

"Arm braces," I stated. "I hurt my arms a few years -- landed hard and broke the bones. If I don't wear them for a period of time and am active, they start to really hurt."

"Sucks to be you. They won't let you keep them in jail," she mocked. It would have been bad if I had told her the truth. The leg braces came next. Intelligent people called them forearm and shin guards. They gave me a serious edge in hand-to-hand combat. "You are going to lose these too." Shell was busy calling the 'bust' in and setting the ground work for my sentencing hearing.

Rothschild Mirandized me, made sure I knew my rights and I responded by invoking my Right to Council. After they got me in the back seat of their cruiser and started on the trek to the Clark County Detention Center. My blasé attitude was concerning Rothschild and angering Shell.

"So, you think you are hard-core?" Shell grumbled. What the Hell...

"I think? Let's keep to the things I know. I am a paramedic. You two are not hired killers. I know both of you are corrupt, arrogant and delusional in believing you are anything more than pawns, Officers Shell and Rothschild," I countered. "You were given a few simple jobs to do and failed to do any of them."

"I don't know," he chuckled. "You are about to go to lock-up. Putting a jailbird like you behind bars is our job."

"Stupid," I smiled at Shell, "you have failed all across the board. You failed to uphold your oaths to protect and serve, you failed to achieve competence on multiple levels, and you are about to fail to provide for you families." 

"Let it go, Bart," Rothschild cut off her partner's angry retort. The rest of the trip was made in silence. I hadn't gotten under Rothschild's skin, but Shell was letting his emotions cloud his common sense. Exiting the car was rough. With the banging up that was going on, I figured the Corrections Officer was probably part of the problem. I didn't care.

They three of them got me to booking when the shit hit the fan. I was the first one to realize that my freedom was nigh. The bookings officer was busy cataloging my stuff when she stopped parroting off my possessions as they were handed over and looked past us. Lt. Crowe Buchannan and another female cop, R. Kerr where coming our way.

Their arrival wasn't the only bad news. Silently those two had flashed their ID's to three other Corrections officers then motioned our way. My peripheral awareness was top self. Since IAB doesn't go after suspects brought in for 'sales weight' drugs charges, they knew one of the cops were about to get it. Rothschild sensed the disturbance at the last second.

"Officer Bartholomew Shell, you are under arrest," Buchannan announced. "No sudden moves." Shell almost got himself shot as he made a rapid half-turned. The two IAB officers and three other officers drew their pistols and pointed at him/us. The Corrections officer who had been my Welcome Wagon Lady slowly backed away.




Ebb Tide Ch. 02



"For what?" Shell blathered.

"Face away, place your hands spread apart on the counter and spread your legs," Trixie Crowe demanded.

"What is this about?" Rothschild asked nervously. She backed two steps away from Shell as well.

"Manning-up is about to have a whole new meaning for you, Bart," I chortled. "See, you just signed in the drugs you planted on me. Felony drug possession, evidence tampering in a felony and filing a false police report involving a felony. That amounts three serious charges you've hung on yourself, Bitch." 

I got what I wanted. Shell's anger got the better of him, he reached for his piece and Crowe shot him in shoulder from the side. That was an ugly, ugly wound. A projectile could nick a lung. 

Bart bounced off the property Plexiglas shield protecting the Property room, then collapsed -- screaming.

"Don't move!" Trixie Crowe's partner yelled at Rothschild. I was seized with an idea.

"She had nothing to do with this," I stated firmly to Crowe. "It was all Officer Shell."

Shell was momentarily incapable of defending himself. Rothschild showed me a stunned look. Crowe and two other officers rushed Shell, shoved him onto his stomach and handcuffed his arms behind his back, which had to hurt like Hell. Lt. Buchannan began reading him his Miranda -- déjà vu, you Mother-fucker.

"Officer Rothschild, care to un-cuff me?" I politely requested.

"What?" she and Trixie Crowe's partner both replied.

"I'm a licensed paramedic," I explained. "I can help." The partner, R. Kerr, looked to Trixie Crowe...TC...who nodded. Rothschild saw the gesture and put her key to my handcuffs.

I got to work. A senior corrections officer showed up as did one of their orderlies. I took their stuff without asking and proceeded to make sure that Shell would be able to put both palms on the shower stall while he was being ass-raped.

"Why in the fuck did you shoot me?" Shell gasped at TC. She smirked, pulled out her phone and replayed the evidence I'd sent her for his viewing pleasure.

"You... bastard," he seethed at me. "You set us up."

"No, you set yourself up," I calmly related. "If it hadn't been for your partner, Officer Rothschild, you might have gotten away with it too." Kerr had already removed Rothschild from the immediate vicinity, so she couldn't contradict my lie. Buchannan also decided to keep mum. 

She had already figured out what I was up to. Dividing up members of a criminal conspiracy and getting them to turn on one another was basic cop procedure. It was also the basis for tactical misinformation.

"Bitch," he gasped in pain. "I want a lawyer and my union rep."

"Play it that way if you wish, but our evidence is very compelling and I'm going for a full-court press on this matter," TC threatened.

"It gets better," I grinned at TC. "I'm going for a civil suit against Officer Shell personally. I'm going to bankrupt him and put his family out on the street."

"Mr. Vardanyan...I have no input in a civil manner," TC studied me. "I can assure you that Las Vegas' IAB will fully cooperate with you in this matter." She knew I was turning the screws. This time pain helped Shell restrained his outburst. He glared his hate. I ignored him. That was the conclusion of the first Act. 

By saving G, I had stepped into what Lloyd Pharris felt was his arena -- G's life and the destruction he planned for her. He could be clever, yet he hadn't considered me worth any effort. He had unleashed a conceited bull my way, and I had disrespected him ~ mocked him. I had predicted his reaction -- show of force, threats via proxies and finally, corruption of the law.

I'd dealt with this shit from him fifteen years ago. I hadn't been skilled enough to defend myself then. This time it was different. I had waved a red cape in front of Lloyd Pharris, he had goaded the bull and now he was looking at some embarrassing blowback. If he thought this was a warning shot, or a spasmodic reaction, he was terribly mistaken.

I wasn't teaching him a lesson. Despite his keen legal mind and convoluted thinking, he wouldn't take someone like me seriously at this point in our war. That meant I had a slim window of opportunity to cause some real damage. I already knew how. What I needed was time and that meant soaking up some of these attacks.

Oh, I had to answer some questions about what might have inspired Officer Shell's actions. He would remain Officer Shell until the LVMPD and District Attorney determined what disciplinary actions matched up to the charges filed. The nature of this investigation was expected: attack the victim. Destroy my credibility and then some spin control and Shell would get a slap on the hand -- a good cop who made a forgivable mistake. 

The problem for them was me. Yes, I had said I hated cops. Yes, I had an encounter with Bart Shell (I was now refusing to call him 'officer'). He had showed up at my domicile for no clear reason and later that night pulled me over at a traffic stop. Since I had retrieved all my 'non-weapons', I worked out a little electronic diagram for the two new IAB detectives (Rick Elkin and Kanani Kaimana) assigned to this case. 

"An unknown source sent those two random officers to my door -- no charges. Randomly pulling me over in a traffic stop -- no citation. Another unknown source randomly sent them to search my car and find drugs there that all the evidence indicated this random officer planted there. How many 'unknowns' and 'randoms' could any sane person be expected to accept?"

They went after all the video evidence; 

Why did I have such a set-up? I lived in a free country and had they missed out on the fact that I hated cops and didn't trust them for what proved to be very good reasons.

Could any of the video have been altered? 

What? By me? No. By this investigative team? Yes, I believed those two were altering their ethics.

No. Could the video have been faked?

I doubted it, but even if it had been, his wife had been faking for years and he'd never figured that out either. I didn't bring up that the other guy was clearly divorced -- missing wedding band on a finger he rubbed plus his wardrobe's cleanliness was subpar. Neither guy got angry.

I simply parried their insinuations until I took a bathroom break. I called my buddy in the Netherlands with some work for pay. She edited (not altered) everything from Monday afternoon's encounter with Rothschild and Shell to my very recent interrogation. 

She was going to distribute it to various media and legal sources, starting with the ACLU, the Nevada Attorney General's Office, KSNV (NBC-3), KVVU (Fox-5), KLAS (CBS-8), KTNV (ABC-13), KHDF-CA (Una Vex Mas-19), KELV-LP (Entravision-27), KMCC (MundoFox-32) and KVCW (CW-33). She wasn't a fan of our PBS.

That taken care of, I walked back to the interrogation room to await her call, and deal with these assholes a little longer. Then my lawyer showed up. That was rude of her. I hadn't called for any legal eagle and definitely not her in particular. Her name was Alesia Morton. After a bit of wrangling about me not being under arrest, the two 'other' IAB detectives left us alone.

"Mr. Vardanyan," she began.

"Credentials," I barked. She jumped slightly.

"I'm here to help you through this matter and to help clarify your possible situation," she carried on.

"Strike one. Credentials," I repeated.

"I don't think you appreciate..."

"Strike two. Credentials," I said yet again. "Believe me," I said in a low, deadly voice, "if your next actions are not to show me who you are and who you work for, you will not only have failed in your mission, you will have disappointed me -- shaken my faith in the American Legal Process."

Her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.

"I..." she gulped. My gaze hardened. She pulled her designer wallet out of her very expensive purse (she had an equally pricey briefcase) and showed me her Nevada BAR card. It didn't show me who she worked for. I still examined it, gleaming every bit of useful data I could.

"Are you a Girl Scout too, or a member of PETA?" I remained steady. "Those two and your BAR card are all in the 'that wasn't what I asked for' category. Care to try again?"

"I thought you would appreciate some free legal counsel," she tried to take the offensive.

"Alesia, do you really want me to answer that?" I lightened my mood slightly. For those next five seconds, she thought she was getting somewhere.

"Of course," she smiled, "If I'm..."

"If nothing. You are already ethically compromised, selling your integrity to people you know are wicked. That makes you a whore and a very naïve one at that. Whores never work for free," I smirked. 

"You are a whore. Shut up," I let the mirth in my eyes die a chilling death. "You are a whore. You were sent here to prostitute your profession. For some reason, you think you are smarter than me. You may be. I don't know and don't care."

"Since you haven't flashed a corporate card -- you are clearly corporate -- and you were given access to me without protest -- those two detective's faux-outrage was amateurish and insulting -- you work for Lloyd Pharris," I laid out my reason. Criminal law was most likely not her favorite subject. Her face and body gave too much away.

"Mr. Pharris..." she tried to regroup.

"Shut up and listen, Alesia. Your boss is a sick, perverted piece of work. I know him. He doesn't know me. Because you are kind of cute, I'm going to give you your two, and only two, options. You can walk away right now, quit the firm and hang your shingle elsewhere."

"Or, follow your instructions and confirm for me you've pledged your body, soul and future to a monster," I stated.

"What if I simply leave, Mr. Vardanyan?" she bolstered her courage. Deep down in her little mammal brain, she knew I was a killer Wolf and she was a rabbit. She was trying hard.

"You can't. Leave and you fail. Do you really think the partners at your law firm will understand that someone like me couldn't be fooled by a pro like you?" I pointed out.

"Fine," she tossed her past-shoulder length brown hair, put her wallet back on her purse and made to leave. As she stood in the open door, she looked back and me and smirked. 

"We'll see how a court-mandated psychological hold influences your willingness to play ball." I gave her an overjoyed closed-lipped smile then winked. She left in a huff. My phone rang as the two IAB idiots came back in. The girl in Holland gave me the thumbs up. It was time for me to go.

"Night gents. I've wasted enough of my time here," I stood and waved good-bye.

"Where to you think you are going?" the lead schmuck stood to bar my way.

"Sorry Leslie (a random gender neutral name)," I slipped past him. He put his hand on the door, trying to shut it. He should have worked more on working out in a gym instead of typing away on a keyboard. 

"You are IAB, not criminal investigators. That would make your restraint of me rather problematic. This whole building is wired for sight and sound, so your current choices are very limited. As I said -- night gents," I calmly related as I slipped out the door.

Their pursuit was short-circuited by...

"Mr. Vardanyan," Lt. Trixie Crow greeted me. "Just the man I've been trying to see." She let her gaze flash over my shoulder at her 'buddies'.

"Talk as you walk, TC," I greeted her with a nod. "I'm out of here."

She was seriously frustrated with the morass I'd thrown her into. I counted myself lucky that she was such a pernicious bitch. Fate was finally repaying my idiocy involving G and Dabney.

"Sure," she turned and walked at my side. "Refer to me as Lt. Buchannan."

"No. I can see that all those footprints on your forehead haven't improved your looks, or outlook," I joked.

"You are really damn annoying," she groused. We stepped into the elevator.

"Property Room?" I looked at her. She glowered then hit one of the buttons. "If you were under the impression that I am out to befriend you, I'm not."

"Why did you decide to take a colossal shit on my career?" she reposed. 

"Do you believe honesty is critical to any relationship?" I countered. She was annoyed alright.

"Yes."

"Then I'm glad we aren't in a relationship, TC. I'm not going to open up to you. I'm not going to be sympathetic. I asked you to do your job. That is all there is," I informed her.

"Fine...asshole," she remarked as we exited on the bottom floor. "Who are you? What are you?"

"I'm Vance Vardanyan, the paramedic. Why do people find that so hard to believe?"

"You used to be in the Navy..." she tried to draw me out. It didn't work. 

I remained impassive through the process of me getting my gun and knife back. The rest of my belongings had been returned because they had to unless the charged me with something. Weapons they could hold on to until I decided to leave...like I was now.

"Yes, I was in the Navy," I said as I secured my two dedicated-to-lethality tools. I could kill people with all kinds of things common in a normal room, or with my hands.

"Smart-ass..." she grumbled. "Your service file ran right into the Great Wall of the DOD (Department of Defense)." 

"Enlisted US Navy, January 1999 -- Honorable discharge -- September 2011. Hospital Corpsmen...Marine Expeditionary Unit...a passel of qualifications...and a lot of blank spaces. Were you some sort of black-ops soldier?"

"The navy has sailors, not soldiers. I was a Naval Corpsman," I sighed. "If I did something that the DOD blanked out, there was probably a good reason behind it."

"Okay," she allowed. "What did you do after you left the military?"

"I worked as an agronomist," I replied. "I have an Associate of Science Degree in Botany." 

That was sort of/kind of true. I had numerous online credits, but I'd never completed all the required non-core curriculum classes. I was still awarded the degree, due to 'extraordinary circumstances'.

"So you are a medic who studies flowers on the side?" she narrowed her eyes.

"So what happened to your parents?" I switched things around.

"What makes you think anything happened to my parents?" she frowned.

"The man in police uniform on your desk would be too old to be your father, but you are close to him. An older version is out of uniform in your Academy graduation picture. No rings. You're nit-picky, abrupt and barely keep tabs on your looks. You are beyond attentive -- you are obsessive," I continued. 

"I imagine most men find your abrupt, aggressive style to be intimidating. You aren't trying to prove anything to anyone else, which suggests you are battling internal demons. I'm guessing it was something traumatic with your parents. Since you aren't a traffic, or patrol officer, I believe it was beyond criminal related."

A long gap in the conversation ended with us at her car.

"Who are you?" she was truly curious now.

"I'm a guy who wants to get my car and go home," I told her. "I don't know where you people stuck my car. Is it on the side of the road on Delhi St., or has it been towed someplace?"

"So there is something you don't know?" she huffed. I shrugged, pulled out my phone and checked my car's GPS. Sure enough, it was close-by aka towed.

"It is over there," I pointed across the street. "Do you want me to walk it?"

"Get in," she grunted. In I got, and off we went.

"I don't understand you, but I will," she promised herself.

"That's not your job. If I become your hobby, you are bound to be disappointed," I warned her.

"Does anyone like you? You get off on being obtuse," she countered.

"Like me? Only if they don't know me," I joked. 

That was wrong. The only people who liked me were the ones who knew me. I didn't interact with strangers in any meaningful manner if I could help it.

"Since you are either ignoring the obvious, or trying to wear my alibi down, I will repeat. I don't like cops," I restated. "Today's activities have done nothing to change my attitude."

"I helped you," she reminded me.

"No. You did your job," I reposed. "All I did was dump information in your lap. I didn't make any of those cops corrupt. Since IAB wasn't addressing the issue of their corruption, I forced your hand. I aimed the watchdogs at the lawbreakers then let nature take its course. Had you dealt with this last week, we wouldn't be sharing our mutually disagreeable company."

"Why do you hate cops?" That question by TC aroused the impound guy's concern.

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Cops help people?"

"I don't want your help," I grinned. "I want you and the rest of the fraternal order to leave me alone."

"You help people. Don't you want people to like and respect your profession?"

"Not really. What's the point? I am not likely to ever see them again. I do my job because I like it, not because I want children to give me Teddy Bears, or have junkies credit me for them finally going straight," I said. "Honestly, I think you and I are alike." She mulled that over.

"I think you are right," she gave a depressed groan. "That's pathetic." I signed some papers, retrieved my car and got ready to part ways with TC.

"What are you doing for dinner?" she inquired. The vexatious cunt was asking me out. She was more desperate for male companionship than I thought.

"I have dinner plans with a friend," I answered. She assumed it was a dodge. "You are welcome to come along."

"Where are you meeting them?" 

"I'm going home, picking them up -- their choice of restaurants tonight," I failed to let her know the 'them' was another woman.

"Fine," she nodded. "I'll follow you to your place." That was reasonable. She didn't ask for a real contact number and she verified that she'd been officially taken off my case. A dedicated professional like TC would never cross the officer-suspect line. I didn't try to shake her and I didn't call Dabney to warn her because that would have been cruel -- making her sit there in my place, afraid to answer the phone, but bored out of her skull.

(Dabney and Trixie)

To me, the best part of the night that far was the look of fury on TC's face as I headed for the door to my home. Ah, the news outlets had finally gotten around to ask the LVMPD to comment on the data packets my contractor had anonymously dropped in their laps. Dutch Girl was worth every penny. 

She also possessed strong anarchist tendencies, which was another reason for me to trust her. Helping governments and corporations were mortal sins in her book. She only liked me because I'd saved her older brother's life and helped her evade justice. She felt she owed me and I was loath to dissuade her of that opinion. She also felt she could trust me, which she could.

"What have you done?" TC snapped as she rushed to catch up. I didn't reveal my code to the door's lock while I answered.

"Is this your investigation anymore?"

"No, but..."

"But nothing," I cut her off. "If you still think this case is about you punishing bad cops, let me clear up that for you right now. It isn't. It isn't a matter of me not trusting you -- I don't. It was a matter of you knowing how pernicious this matter is and who it touches. It turns out you are the best person for the job. That is not what your bosses want. They want this problem to go away."

"That's very cynical -- is this what you are truly like?" she murmured. She was caught off guard by Dabney.

Dabney threw herself into my arms, wrapped her body around me and attempted a French kiss. My lips rejected her attempt, so she settled for multiple smaller kisses.

"V, I missed you so much," then...

"Who's that?" the both echoed.

"Dabney, meet Lt. Trixie of the IAB," I motioned the cop's way. "TC, meet Dabney, my childhood friend." I recognized the female body language exchange -- 'Whore' vs. 'Cop/Pig'. 

"You failed to mention you have a girlfriend," TC grew down-right frigid. I imagine she was prejudiced toward any man failing to live up to her rigid standards.




Ebb Tide Ch. 02



"You never asked. Had you asked, I would have told you it was none of your business and Dabney isn't my girlfriend -- she is a girl who is a friend. She has had some personal difficulties, so I'm letting her crash at my place until her life becomes less complicated," I opened up a tiny bit.

"Let me get my sandals," Dabney turned around in her super-tight, body flattering jeans and flounced over to the sofa. My manhood grew to 'main mast' proportions. I had this bizarre idea that she'd painted those pants on. That was not where I needed to be focused on at the moment. I entered my domicile, held the door for TC, then shut and locked the screen door unobtrusively. No need to freak the cop out.

"Get you something to drink?" I asked Trixie Crowe. She was studying my living room.

"What is the cot for?" she pointed at the collapsible bed I had stood against the wall.

"Oh, that's where Vance sleeps," Dabney let her words drip with honey while her eyes shot solar flares at TC. "He doesn't sleep with me, or Ms. Norquist. We use his bed."

TC's eyes flicked to me before dropping a heaping helping of condescension on Dabney. 

"Are you gay?" TC mumbled.

"No, he's all man," Dabney finished putting on her sandals, then hopped up swiftly enough to put a good deal of bounce in her awesome rack. 

Dabney wasn't dressed like a whore, yet she couldn't help acting promiscuous and inviting. She started to snuggle next to me.

"I'll take some water," TC requested.

"Dabney?"

"I'd kill for a good, dark beer," she teased me. The only alcohol in the house has a more utilitarian purpose. "V8 please, V." I nodded and off I went.

"So, are you really a cop?" Dabney asked. The way she used 'cop' made it sound like an insult ~ as in 'so, you say you have chlamydia?'

"Are you old enough to drink?" TC shot back.

"I'm 26," Dabney retorted. TC hadn't been giving a compliment. She'd been insinuating that Dabney was being immature. I showed up with the drinks, in glasses, because I prefer to drink from clear glasses whenever possible.

"Thank you, Mr. Vardanyan." TC.

"Thanks Babe." Dabney.

"Mmmm...this water tastes...tasteless," TC observed.

"I filter all my water -- not a fan of parasites, toxic chemicals, and ground animal bits," I stated.

"The city filters its water," TC defended her hometown.

"Name the five common chemicals they treat the water with? The type of screens they use? How many cycles do they use to flush out contaminants and what is the water to particle ratio that they deem acceptable?" I tested her.

"I don't know," she confessed. "Do you?"

"Yes."

"Of course he does," Dabney rallied to my side for no better reason than to piss TC off.

"I know because they give tours of the waste and water treatment facilities. All you have to do is ask them," I enlightened her.

"V is one super-smart guy, and he saves lives," Dabney rubbed up against me. I doubted Dabney was a nymphomaniac. Sex had been the currency of her life for nearly a decade. Offering up her sexuality for security was her stock and trade. I counteracted that by ruffling her hair as if she was that ten/eleven year old shy kid I used to know. "Oh, by the way, Dear, how was your day," she tacked on.

"Nothing to write home about. A few bumps, bruises and bad drug reactions," I recalled. 

"Let's go out to eat," Dabney moved along. "Is she coming along with us?"

"I don't think so," TC changed her mind.

"Trixie Crowe, I'm not dating Dabney, I'm not dating you, and I'm not dating G -- Ms. Norquist," I told her. "Dinner is dinner."

"Okay," she reluctantly agreed. "Where are we going?"

"Las Vegas Mini Grand Prix Family Fun Center," Dabney sung out. She was clearly psyched about going to a massive arcade complex even though this sort of place was not one of my favorite venue. TC was staring at me.

"Let's go," I shrugged.

"You'll have fun, Grouchy," Dabney teased me. "So TC, have you ever been there?"

"Not since I was nine," she snobbishly regarded Dabney.

"Well...I want to go and Vance needs to unwind, so we are going," Dabney sniped. 

I put an end to the sniping by issuing an authoritarian command to pile into my car. I put Dabney in the back seat with the suggestion that she could lean forward and rub my shoulder, play with my hair and tickle my ear. Since Henderson is on the South side of Las Vegas and I lived on the north side, we had plenty of time to talk -- ugh. It took Trixie Crowe all of two minutes to start laying into my house.

I had the sneaking suspicion that she thought I was paranoid. I used my standard first line of defense argument: it is better to be prepared and never have a crisis than have a crisis and not be prepared. The fact that she was going out to dinner with me within twelve hours of meeting me spoke volumes against me being a true paranoid. Like most intelligent people, she settled on the idea that I was odd.

Dabney was dying to tell TC about our shared history over the past 72 hours, but she was smart enough to know that her story would have too many holes that TC could fill in; things like me blowing up Vegas Fantasies and disposing of Pablo, her old pimp. Instead, she began talking about growing up in the city.

That mollified TC somewhat. It confirmed that I was also a native ~ I admired her distrustful nature ~ and got her to open up. Then we collided with the iceberg.

"Buchannan...police...wait, were your parents gunned down by drug dealers?" Dabney blabbed. TC went rigid. Clearly, I was the only one in the dark. I chose to err on the side of knowledge.

"What happened, Dabney?" I spoke softly. Dabney had noticed her faux pa too.

"I...ummm...TC...I mean, Ms. Buchannan...do you mind?" Dabney inquired sympathetically.

"It doesn't matter," she grunted. At that point, I would have changed the subject.

"Your father was an undercover narcotics officer...he was involved with some really important case, but some gang-bangers tracked him home...to your house..." Dabney worked her way through a difficult recollection. "They killed your mother and burned your house down too."

"Not gang-bangers," TC grumbled.

"I...the news..." Dabney stammered.

"All the news that is fit to print, doesn't mean what you think it means, Dabney," I stated. 

"Huh?" 

"It means there is a gap between what happens and what makes the news," I explained.

"It was Hermosa Pena," TC said in a very flat voice. I'd never heard of the guy. That didn't mean anything to me, but I'd never been in the drug crowd and Las Vegas was a big place. "Two of the killers were gang-bangers. They gave his name up. Pena was shot and killed by the LVMPD evading arrest. Case closed."

That was the point where I knew she was lying, knew she didn't want to talk about it, knew there was more to the case and knew she hadn't let it go, both emotionally and professionally. 'This was not my problem' rang hollow. I was taking on too many people's problems.

"Is that why you are in IAB?" I asked.

"What?" Trixie looked my way.

"Nothing," I sighed. No words were exchanged for several seconds.

"I'm sorry," Dabney apologized. TC shrugged. Emotionally, the women were moving in different directions. It was not a big deal; I had learned multitasking and situational awareness in a very rough school. 

Try being rushed by five different armed assailants from three different directions in a disorganized assault while shoving a syringe full of adrenaline into a comrade's heart because I was having a personal disagreement with Death over his misconception that he can take my guy. If I hesitated more than a few seconds, all my efforts at CPR would have been wasted. 

If I didn't start shooting people, they were going to kill both of us. In that case, I drew my .45, shot the closest, then the most exposed. That bought enough time for me to shove the needle in, remembering to not put the 'just fired' gun on any of my buddy's exposed flesh. Seven seconds of CPR later, I shot the bravest one, then the one who thought running around a confined space with a loaded RPG-7 was a good idea.

He spasmed, pulled the trigger (the safety had been disengaged), the grenade went flying into the ceiling over his head. The last guy was fried by the back-blast and then had chunks of the upstairs fall on his head. After stabilizing my patient, I sprinted over and finish off that last guy. He'd been concussed, but I still viewed him as a threat. 

I made him a 'post-threat' before prepping my teammate for evacuation. Seconds later, my MCPO called me up to see what the explosion was about. 

"I should have Royce (the wounded man's call-sign) stable within the minute (my first priority). Five dead. Declaring our exit route secure seems to have been prematurely optimistic," I relayed with all the zest of trimming a hangnail.

I heard chuckling from several of my mates. They'd been worried about Royce and my blithe tone eased their concerns. Balancing two women, one who wanted to sulk and the other, who wanted to unwind in a childish manner, was a walk in the park in comparison. It was also a learning experience. Good cops and good whores share a surprising number of traits.

Both have to put distance between themselves and the misery they witness. Both have to lie convincingly and notice when others are lying to them. Both have to be alert for conscious and subconscious violent behavior. They differ in how they respond to these situations. Cops look for an advantage. Whores look for a way to mollify the threat.

I could tell TC was studying me, evaluating my words and actions, then reevaluating them as I alternated between engaging her and Dabney. Dabney was trying to make me happy. When that didn't work, she elected to accept the attention I was giving her. She knew I was trying to make her happy, rewarding her for not fucking up all day...yeah...

Dabney also took comfort in the fact that I was sexually responsive to her and not to TC. That was what she wanted -- to bridge the gap between the teenage boy she once loved and the creature in front of her now. The more humane I could pretend to be, the more she could ignore my carefully concealed menace. Pimps used subliminal, and direct, coercion to keep girls in line.

She was deluding herself that this would only be the face I showed the outside world. To her, I was her protector once more; lethality that warded her, not hurt her. In the way of women, she convinced herself that this ruthlessness within me would never be turned her way. Sammi couldn't help her ~ she had her own children to worry about now. I was all Dabney had left. Lucky for her, that particular delusion was based in reality.

TC was a different type of woman. Like Dabney she had been burned by life. Dabney was immersed in the emotion game. TC built up a wall around herself to keep the game at bay. She was unhappy alone, yet less unforgivingly miserable than anywhere else. If I had to make a guess based solely on my experience, it was something -- some promise -- her father made before he died; that unfulfilled promise was a betrayal she could not forgive.

It wasn't something horrible. It was probably "I'll see you on Sunday" and then Sunday never came. My psychological training was primitive. Trauma was what I knew well. After Dabney and I had reveled in two hours experiencing the childhood we wished we'd had, we elected to finish off our night tag-teaming a 40 oz. Slushy. TC decided to offer me an opening.

"What did you do in the Navy?" she questioned me again. 

I knew I was changing in the same way I'd always changed. I was doing what I needed to do to survive. The truth was, I couldn't stay here and survive on my own. Abandoning Dabney wasn't even something I was considering. The same went for G. It wasn't how my mind worked. Besides, Lloyd wasn't going to let go until he was dealt with.

"Hospital Corpsmen (TC's frowned deepened) -- Marine Corpsmen -- SARC 'Special Amphibious Reconnaissance Corpsmen' -- SEAL teams -- DEVGRU 'United States Naval Special Warfare Development Group', though you will find no evidence of that and I'll deny it if you ever bring it up again." 

"For the past three years, I was with the CIA's SOG -- 'Special Operations Group' which I will categorically deny as well." Trixie Crowe wasn't frowning, though she remained dour.

"That's a lot of 'specials'," Dabney whispered.

"Did you kill many people?" TC asked.

"Yes."

"Did you ever break the law?"

"Yes."

"That's not how I do things," TC stood up and shook her head.

"Tell me about your mother and father's murder," I remained still.

"Are you going to drive me back home, or do I need a cab?" she glared.

"Come on, Dabney," I tapped the younger woman's hand. "Let's go." We drove away in silence. Dabney was heavy on the affection. She sensed the disturbance coming. 

Jumping out and running away wasn't going to work for her either, so she curried favor with me instead. I made sure to pet her hand and played a little thumb-tag.

"Why do you call Dabney, Dabney," TC inquired, "while I'm TC and G is G?"

"Memory cues," I answered. "Before I was trained how to organize my mind, I knew Dabney, so now I think of Dabney as Dabney. G was always G."

"I'll rarely call you Lieutenant Buchannan because you aren't a lieutenant in any branch of service I respect, or an authority of any kind, in my book. Constantly calling you 'cop' would get on both our nerves. Your name is Trixie Crowe so I call you TC," I responded.

"Stop doing it. I don't like it."

"I don't care what you like, or dislike. As I keep telling you, I don't like cops. Now I don't like you as a person either," I let her know. "Pain, I understand. Your pain making you stupid is something I don't need."

"What the hell? You don't know anything about me," she snapped. Dabney grew worried, so I squeezed her hand.

"I've seen enough to realize I don't want to know anymore, TC. You are more fucked up than I can handle right now. I gave you a shot and you disappointed me," I said.

"Fuck you! I opened the case on those officers," she growled. "I showed up at the Detention Center in time to get your bacon out of the fire."

"Had I thought you incapable of doing your job, I would have chosen someone else to do it instead," I told her. "Your failing is as a human being, not as a law enforcement agent."

"Oh, so I was supposed to hear about your glorious service record then pour my heart out to you?" she seethed.

"You don't date much, do you?" Dabney muttered just a hair too loud.

"Shut up, Whore," TC started to turn on her. I know how to hurt people in numerous ways that leave little, or no mark. I had also studied acupuncture which wasn't relevant at the moment. I used my hand to chop down on a spot above her left leg. It kicked forward into the bottom of the dashboard quite painfully.

"Ow!" she gasped.

"TC, you have decided you would rather be on the outside, looking in. You don't get to talk to Dabney that way. I don't, G doesn't and Dabney doesn't refer to herself that way and we are the only three opinions that matter," I cautioned. "I didn't tell you my background to get into your pants, or your head."

"I told you my career history to give you a chance to make an informed decision about solving your life's crusade. You chose to be the same friendless bitch you've always been, so that's that."

"You hit me..." she complained as she rubbed her knee and shin.

"So? What are you going to do about it?" I replied. She had to think that over.

"I'm not afraid of you," she simmered.

"Then you are an idiot," I told her. "Your only protections are your badge, your gun and your reliance on my good behavior. I don't give a fuck about your tin, I can kill you before your hand touches your hip holster and I'm not known for being even a decent human being," I said. "Worse, you now have a clue to what kind of person I can be and you still are acting moronically." We finished the drive in a renewed stillness.

Dabney wanted to drag me inside the house. A confused, frustrated, pissed-off female cop with a gun was in our driveway. What she saw as a bad thing, I saw as forward progress. I'd put a chink in Trixie's social cocoon.

"Pena was a cut-out," TC spoke into the night air. She was staring off into the starlit sky.

"The police officer who killed him was on someone's payroll. Four years ago, IAB was closing in on him, but before they could flip him, he 'committed suicide' -- swallowed his piece," she let us in. "The autopsy was flawed. The body -- cremated. I've been backtracking his case history, trying to put pay-offs to faces and figure out where the money goes."

"Do you want my help?" I offered.

"I won't break the law to get whomever was behind my Father's death," Trixie declared.

"Of course not. That is what people like me are for," I reminded her. "I am not now, nor ever have been, a mercenary. I've always fought for a cause."

"I don't trust you," she insisted.

"I'm fine with that," I shrugged. "You go consider the numerous courses of investigation you've yet to examine. I'm going inside." Dabney slipped an arm around my waist.

"I didn't say I wouldn't work with you," she cooled down. "But it has to be on my terms."

"I understand you concerns, but you need to meet me half way," I stopped and looked her in the eyes. "I will not inform you of the evil I commit. You won't ask how I do what I do. I'm not interested in convictions. That is your gig."

"I won't break the law, or instigate you breaking the law," she stated.

"I'm okay with that. Can you accept someone stumbling into your office and spilling their guts about all their wrong-doings without pressing too hard on what caused their change of heart?" I offered.

"You really think you can pull off something like that?" she expressed her serious doubts.

"I think he can," Dabney spouted off. TC shot a look her way. It was an 'I'll interrogate you about that later' gaze.

"I will give you an option; if it ever becomes too much for you, I'll quit," I promised. I wasn't worried about that coming to pass. TC was a psychologically haunted soul. The more I proved my usefulness and the closer she got to her goal, the more she would rely on me.

I didn't force people to trust me. I didn't trust others until they proved themselves to me. In the military it was easy. By the time I got to my second year, I knew who I worked with and they knew me. I made a point of getting to know all the people I'd be taking care of. It helped them when they knew my name and I knew about them and what mattered to them.

This was the same thing. With Dabney, it was easy and she showed her trust in a way most people wouldn't get. When she'd doubled back in that container yard to kick Pablo the pimp repeatedly in his shins then bounced a rock off his skull, she had expressed her trust in me. I would safeguard her from any retaliation -- I had also given her the freedom to express her pain, fear, rage and frustration without being judgmental. 

We had never talked about her actions, or mine. We didn't have to. I'd backed her up in a life and death situation and that was all that mattered. She wanted to turn our relationship sexual. I was warming up to the idea. TC was confused about the proper procedure for parting company. I wasn't a date, a comrade, or a friend. I stepped up and offered my hand. She gave my hand two firm shakes, turned and departed hurriedly.

"Are we going to see her again?" Dabney asked as she led me inside.

"Can you give me a good reason not to?" I reposed, giving Dabney the sense that her vote counted in the affairs of 'our' household.

"Since you don't trust her, I guess it would be okay," she allowed. "What now?" 




Ebb Tide Ch. 02



Dabney had slowed down as she crossed the living room, still leading me by the hand. I moved my body against her, wrapping both arms around the gentle curve her stomach below the beltline until I linked my fingers right about her pubic region.

"You aren't little anymore," I whispered into her ear. She started faint rumbles of lust.

She worked out a serpentine motion starting at her ankles and unwinding all the way to her neck. Dabney's body rubbing against me was an incredible turn on. 

"Do you think I'm a whore," she sighed.

"Yes," I responded softly. I could feel her soul diminish slightly, so I turned her around.

I tilted her chin up while keeping my left hand on the small of her back, our crotches pressed tightly together.

"I admire whores, Dabney," I explained. She teared-up. "Whores are survivors. Whores are fighters and they discard trivial shit like honor and morality because those don't pay the bills."

"Dabney, I'm not ethical. I couldn't live with someone who was. I couldn't be honest with them, but I can be honest with you," I finished. Two tears tracked down her cheeks.

"You haven't changed," she sniffled. "You are still watching over me, Vance."

"It is way tougher 'just' watching," I teased her. My left hand squeezed a butt cheek while my right hand moved to the back of her head and drew her into a passionate kiss.

"It took you long enough," she sighed happily when we came up for air. She was back to using little movements of her body to further arouse me.

"I should warn you," I murmured as my lips planted small kisses across her cheek and around to her ear. "I haven't had sex in three months. I'm really ready to go."

"Oh," she giggled. "Three months? I was happy for making it without sex for three days. You must be in agony."

"Save me," I mumbled as I sucked on her earlobe. "Save me Dabney," and she did.

{That first big step}

That first time...it happened in a place no one can remember, in a fight no one even knew we were in and it certainly didn't make the evening news. It was East Timor, November 1999 ~ my first assignment. I was tagging along with my platoon commander while we were making a sweep of a village and its environs, close to the E. Timor/Indonesian border. 

The noises from the company frequency was buzzing in the background. Suddenly shots rang out somewhere I wasn't. We all flinched. Our Staff Sergeant had been in Kosovo. The rest of us were green, young and switching from boredom to fright. With me was one fire team, the Staff Sergeant, Platoon Guide (Sergeant), our radio specialist and the Lt. who was affable and smart; just out of his element at the moment. We were all learning.

I don't think anyone besides the skipper of the USS Belleau Wood even knew were Timor -- East or West -- was before POTUS decided that we, as in Golf Company, 2nd Battalion, 5th Marine Regiment, 31st Marine Expeditionary Unit (MEU), should go there and stop one group of locals from killing the other.

The Lieutenant was trying to get everyone to calm down so he could figure out what the hell was going on. I heard a Corporal screaming over the air waves about 'Conway' being hit. I was five weeks in the unit, so didn't know most of the guys by name. I'd learn from that mistake as well. One of our fire teams (a Corporal and 4 Marines) had been ambushed by an unknown number of hostiles, a man was down and they couldn't get to him. 

The Lt. had to juggle putting a picture of the action together, possible fire- and/or air-support requests while calling in a medevac helicopter. Our intelligence briefing 'suggested' that there 'might be' Indonesian soldiers out of uniform supporting the pro-Indonesian militias operating in the area. 

The tempo of the fire fight 'suggested' that there 'might be' professional soldiers on the other side of that ambush. I deduced by the volume of rifle fire going off that our guys were in serious trouble. Before that moment, I considered myself an asset -- a tool for the platoon leader to use. In that moment, my instincts took over. I was a corpsman and one of my Marines needed me.

I glanced over to the SSgt. He clearly had pierced the sound baffling caused by the walls of the buildings around us and was looking off in the direction of the firefight. That was another trick I'd pick up in time. I created a mental map of our platoon's patrol area (I paid attention) and figured out where the action most likely was.

"I got this," I said to the Staff Sergeant before sprinting off. I could have sworn my Lt. glared at me, his only corpsman, racing away into the unknown (in his opinion). The SSgt. didn't say a word, though I quickly figured out one member of the team, Lance Corporal Arroyos, was right on my heels. Ten buildings later, we found the Cpl. and three of his four Marines. 

One was on the far side of the main thoroughfare, nervously looking back and forth, up the street and down the alley at his back. The Corporal was struggling to control events and failing. We all could tell. He was trying to communicate his situation to the Lt., who was trying to vector the other teams in the platoon to converge on the rebel militia position. 

The other two members of the fire team were alternating taking pot shots up the road...at who, I couldn't see. The fourth member of the fire team (the Cpl. didn't count) was 12 feet up the road, lying on his back and trying to keep his bloody right arm attached.

"Where are they?" I ask the Marine who wasn't currently shooting.

"Top of the road -- both houses this side of the pigsty," he responded without breaking rhythm.

"Okay." It all felt surreal. I knew I should have been scared. I really don't know why I wasn't. I wasn't angry with those Indonesians for shooting at me, or wounding that Marine. Somehow, this was my job and I had to do it. That was the sum of my existence in that instant.

"Get ready," was my only warning. 

I stepped half way around the Marine currently shooting and squeezed off 3 round bursts, switching randomly between each house until I emptied the mag. I slipped my M-16A2 on my back, then ran for it. I wasn't sure why no one shot at me and I didn't care. 

I slid to a stop by the wounded leatherneck, knelt and began doing a rapid assessment of his condition. The man was alert, in a great deal of pain and in danger of losing his right arm just above the elbow. He had been trying to tilt his head back and around so he could see who was shooting at him, even though he couldn't fire back, so my appearance surprised him.

"What...what are you doing here?" he babbled.

"Can I interest you in Mary Kay?" I smarmily replied. "I'm a Navy Hospital Corpsman, you dumb jerk. What do you think I'm doing out here?" That's when the Indonesians started shooting at me. I no longer flinched. I would never flinch again. 

I was on the clock, especially if I was going to help this man keep his arm. I decided with my minimal experience that I could move him. I picked up his M-16A2, put it on his chest and then put his battered arm over that. When I did, he screamed -- no surprise there. A bullet grazed the top of my helmet...which felt odd. I couldn't fireman carry him with his arm in that shape. 

My right arm went between his legs and under his butt while the left cradled his head and right shoulder. Bang! Something hit my shoulder. No penetration, so I yanked the Marine tightly to my chest, stood up and started running back to the Corporal's position. That's when I noticed that all five Marines where shooting back up the street around and passed me. 

It felt good to have friends. When I got him safely behind the building that sheltered the rest of the team, I gently laid him down and started applying my first responder trauma training.

"Dude, you're nuts," L.Cpl. Arroyos, the Marine from the Lt's fire team, laughed nervously. I was too busy to reply.

"God, it hurts," the wounded man groaned.

"That's what your sister said last night," I blathered. A gentile bedside manner was never my strong suit.

"That's sick, Man," he griped, clearly upset. "My sister is ten." That was okay. His anger was focused on me and that helped keep him from going into shock.

"Well then," I began, prepping his arm for immediate transit, with the hope the doctors could save it. They did. "I'm glad you are the one who's wounded and I'm the one who ain't."

"Ah...oh...sorry..." he mumbled as the absurdity of his ten year old sister being anywhere near this dump occurred to him.

"No worries," I chuckled. The bleeding had been contained, so it was pain-killer time. I didn't want to slow his heart down too much as I was worried about blood loss. "I'm giving you something for the pain," I advised him. He nodded. His adrenaline was crashing, the blood loss was kicking in and, while my work had saved his arm and life, it still hurt like a bitch, or so I've been told.

The only part of the ordeal that felt weird to me was the after battle crap. When a Marine Lt. tells a Navy Corpsman that he (me) did something stupid, what else can you say but 'Yes sir'? I had run off in the heat of battle (yes), I hadn't waited for orders (yes) and I'd exposed myself to enemy fire recklessly when I was the 'only' available corpsmen, not a Marine (that was one way to look at it).

The SSgt. was a different story -- he didn't chew me out. First he talked to Arroyo, the Marine who was sent to watch over me. Arroyo gave him the blow by blow, quips and all. Then the SSgt. turned on me.

"Did you realize that people would be shooting at you?" he started questioning me.

"Yes Staff Sergeant."

"Were you afraid?" 

"No, Staff Sergeant."

"Why not?"

"No clue, Staff Sergeant."

"Are you looking for a medal?"

"For doing my job? No Staff Sergeant."

"Would you do it again?"

"That depends, Staff Sergeant; am I still the platoon's Corpsman?"

"Yes."

"Aye aye Staff Sergeant."

"Good job. I'll take care of this," he motioned to the Lt., who was busy talking to the Captain while we loaded the wounded Marine into a Hummer. From there, it would be a short ride to a waiting helicopter and then a hop over to the real doctors on board the Belleau Wood.

Word got around about what I did ~ the Marines looked at me differently after that. Even ones who I hadn't served with earlier. The next day, even the Marine Lieutenant 'corrected' (he couldn't really apologize) his opinion of my participation in the firefight. I eased things for him and the others by requesting that he keep me with his platoon.

I clearly did the right thing with the LT., because the Staff Sergeant came up to me later and gave me the first of several 'you did good kid's'. One of the surgeons gave my permanent record a 'gold star' too. When we got back to San Diego, my Marines (all of Golf Company) took me out for drinks. I paid for some, despite their protests and my poverty. 

I reminded them that I was only doing my job and that the five guys who gave me cover fire had done just as much to keep Conway alive and whole as anything I'd done. Apparently my reputation as 'a solid team player' followed me around, as well. It turned out that those factors, along with that 'gold star', came in real handy when I applied for SEAL training, but that came later.

{Don't you dare call me a Hero, damn it!}

Third day on the job. Same old stuff. Our first call was a fifty-two year old woman, riding a bicycle, drunk off her ass at 9 AM, who decided to play chicken with an oncoming Jeep Wrangler. Between the Jeep driver's excellent reflexes and her blood alcohol level of .21, she was only slightly banged up and was feeling no pain.

She asked for my phone number while insisting she was 'always up for a good time'. I broke her heart by telling her Lorenzo and I were married. Lorenzo and the four LMVPD officers didn't know what to make of that, until my partner vocally (in their presence) reminded me that he and his wife were looking forward to me coming over Saturday and meeting her sister. That made everyone laugh, female cop included.

A heart failure that turned out to be recurring angina and a lesson in why you always keep up with your prescribe drug doses came next. Following that false alarm, we had an eleven year old boy who learned the hard way why you don't run around the edge of a pool. Lorenzo told him that chicks dig scars (the cut on his forehead). 

I told the kid that he could tell his on-line buddies it was a shrapnel wound, which he found to be much cooler. I gave him the name and address of a hospital in Gaza, along with the name of an ER physician who worked there -- on his phone for memory's sake. The important thing was the kid being occupied while we stitched him up. 

He could claim to have been treated in a real warzone replete with supporting evidence. Yes, I, who planned to never be a father, was better at understanding the pre-teen male mind than my younger partner.

The number four call was a disaster: a running gun battle over fourteen blocks that had started out as a botched kidnapping and bad timing for two police officers and several trigger happy Playboy Bloods. Six ambulances were responding. Dispatch pointed us at the center of the action -- as the back-up to the back-up medical team, because I was still the 'trainee'. 

We were greeted by the sound of automatic weapons fire. I made sure my body-cam was activated. Maybe I could learn something new in the after-action replay. As we pulled to a stop two blocks away, I opened the door and leaned out the door for better acoustics. My experienced ear made out the sounds of AK-104's, Mac-11s, and Mossberg's; 9 mms and .40 cals were zinging about.

"Lorenzo, turn this ambulance around. I want you to drive backwards toward the action," I demanded in my detached manner.

"Vance, that's not...you have a gun?" he gasped. I did and it complemented my thick, bullet proof vest I was putting on. It was dark blue with 'EMT' spelled out in big white letters on the front and back.

"Yes -- do it, now," I stressed. So that's what he did, bringing us within three houses of the action.

Upwards of twenty patrol cars had responded. In the background radio traffic, another MedicWest wagon was at the original crime scene. One cop dead, one in critical condition. They were stabilizing that guy as they were rushing him to the Summerlin Hospital's ER. 

Dead cop ~ not good. When Lorenzo braked to a stop, I opened the back doors from the inside and slipped out. Striding God-like over the battlefield is a great way to cash in all your chips, only to have St. Peter tell you they ain't legit. No, I kept my body bent as I sprinted over to the closest two police cars. 

They formed a 'V', pointing toward this single story dwelling that seemed to be at the center of the action. The four guys closest to me weren't firing at the moment. The people in the house weren't as accommodating, taking random shots off in three directions. For a few seconds, I let myself absorb the action then created a plan. 

A patrol car had rolled into the curb in front of the house. One officer was unresponsive on the passenger's side. Facing my way, the driver's door was open. The driver was out of the vehicle, sitting up against the back driver's side door. The black officer had a nasty wound in his hip and was bleeding profusely. 

No one was rushing to save him because in the middle of the road was a Cadillac, riddled with bullets. The driver was dead and the front passenger had a pistol, but was in a bad way. In the rear seat was the jackass with the Mac-11. He was alternating between shooting out the already blown out rear window, then out the already shattered front window. Those three guys were Hispanic ~ Playboy Bloods were black. Gang war.

You couldn't reach the downed policeman without risking fire from those two. On the far side of the conflict, SWAT arrived at the same time we did. On the lawn of the main house were a small collection of bodies. One black male, face-down, was halfway up the concrete stairs that led to a walkway and then the house. Another black male was in the far corner of the yard, on his back. Beside him, on her side, was a Hispanic female, 8 ½ months pregnant (by my estimation).

The police were formulating their own strategy. Four TV vans were there and setting up ~ letting this tragedy play itself out on live feed. The cops weren't reacting fast enough for the black cop bleeding out as he sheltered behind his ride. I ran (bent over) back to my ambulance.

"Lorenzo, let's get the gurney to the cop cars," I told him. I meant the 'V' shaped ones.

He prepped the gurney to roll while I added a few extras to my kit, plus two bags of plasma and two Saline in a satchel. 

"What's the plan?" he asked nervously.

"We go to the cops. I'll cover the ground, block that bleeder then bring the man back to you. We hand him off to another ambulance," I informed him.

"Man...Vance, they are still shooting," Lorenzo pointed out. "It is against company policy to be active participants at a crime scene."

"That officer isn't going to make it much longer," I explained. "I go, or he dies."

"Ummm...okay," my partner muttered.

I outlined my analysis of the situation and my future actions to the senior patrolman. While another officer rounded up two spare ballistic vests, he relayed my information up his chain of command. I knew the lead officer on the scene would nix my intentions because law enforcement can't condone sending 'civilians' into harm's way. I crouched down and started running. I rounded the trunk of the farthest police cruiser, then raced for the downed officer.

By that time, the wounded Hispanic male in the front seat was too far gone to care. The guy in the back seat didn't react fast enough, though he still threw some lead my way. The officer was Sgt. C. (Cedric) Dunston. His hash-marks suggested a 20 year veteran. His dark, dark black complexion was turning waxy and pale. His breathe was coming in ragged gasps. I put my case and bag down. I'd leave them there for the moment.

"I'm going to cut open you pants leg, apply some 'sealant' that will hurt like a bitch. You've suffered too much blood loss and your pulse is too weak (I had my fingers on his wrist) for me to safely apply a sedative. The second I have your bleeding under control, I'm putting one vest over your head and another over your legs. Then we are getting you out of here. That's the bad news," I remained totally professional. 

"The good news is you've just won the Publisher's Clearinghouse $5000 dollars a week for life give-away."

He snorted at that.

"Bad...tough...wife...tell her...my partner?" he mumbled.

"You first, Sgt. Dunston. This wound didn't sever the artery, but it's been gashed pretty badly," I told him. Had it been severed, he'd already be dead. "I'll be back for your partner in a second." Dunston made a feeble protest. He knew his partner was in a bad way. It worked out pretty much that way, except when I placed the vests firmly in place, I drew my .45 leaned out from behind the cover of the patrol cruiser and put two bullets into the maniac with the Mac ~ left side jaw and left eye tear duct. The exit wounds were much larger and very fatal.

Now I could get back to Lorenzo without too much risk. I holstered my pistol, positioned the Sgt. for a fireman's carry and off I went. As Lorenzo and I were handing off the wounded officer to two of our MedicWest co-workers, the senior officer on my side waved me over.

"The Lieutenant in charge wants you to know you might have killed that man in the car," he warned me.

"I put two bullets into him," I informed the officer. "His prognosis isn't promising. Excuse me, I've got to get Sgt. Dunston's partner now." Lorenzo had doused the two vests with disinfectant by that time. I didn't want to pass the blood from one patient to another. The senior officer didn't try to stop me. He even warned the other policemen that I was making my move.




Ebb Tide Ch. 02



On this trip, I had decent cover fire. I was in the driver's seat in a flash. The other policeman's shoulder and head were still exposed so I pulled him to me as gently as I dared. It was hopeless. He'd taken bullets to his temple, bridge of his nose (deforming it) and the fatal wound -- a bullet had caught him under the right underarm and traversed his body. He had a bright, shiny wedding ring. I doubted it was even 2 years old. Officer A. (Ang) Ling was leaving a widow behind.

The brain is surprising resilient. He might have recovered from the head shot with some of his faculties intact. The nose required reconstructive surgery to correct. The third wound had perforated both lungs and his heart. The hydrostatic shock would have immediately rendered him unconscious and he'd bled out in seconds. I slipped out of the seat, looked back to the senior officer. I signaled I was about to make my exit.

'Him' being dead didn't mean I'd leave him there. I put a vest over his head and chest to disguise his face and the scope of his injuries. Cradling him in my arms, I waited until the senior officer gave me a nod then ran back to the relative safely of the 'V'. It was a common courtesy to let the man's fellow officers make the notification to Officer Ling's widow and to not let her find out about it over the 'Breaking News'.

"Officer Ling didn't make it," I softly informed the senior officer, L. Kelly. The man was close to tears. I didn't like cops. I understood inter-service solidarity though. I motioned the waiting ambulance team. I gave them the bad news then 'suggested' they play along with him still being alive. It took them a few seconds to understand my intent. They complied.

Officer Kelly went to an alternate frequency to let his Lt. in on the bad news.

"The lieutenant has ordered you to stop this," he looked at me. He was relaying an order that neither he, nor his superior, expected me to obey. I didn't care.

"Tell him I overpowered you," I gave my own sad smile. A little empathy could go a long way.

"Be careful," he said. Two more police ballistic vests appeared by my side.

"Lorenzo, do you think you can get to the Cadillac safely?" I caught his gaze.

"Safely? No. I'll try anyway," he gulped.

"Let me go first. I'm running for the cruiser. I'll get my stuff then make for the pregnant woman. When I do that, make for the Hispanics," I directed him. 

Lorenzo was freaking scared, but he'd do his best. That was the most I could ask for. The senior officer gave me a curt nod. Off I went. The people in the house were more alert this time. I felt a 7.62 mm zip passed my ear before I made it back to the abandoned police car. A few deep breaths later, kneeling by the tail end of the vehicle, I gave a hand signal that I was ready.

I gave the house a little something extra to think about: three .45 caliber reasons to keep their heads down, before I made my next mad dash. The gentle slope of the ground was the only shelter that pregnant woman had. Three more inches and the people in the house would have a clear shot at her. I was a much bigger target. I'd worry about that later.

As I dove beside her, the girl's eyes flew open. She'd been faking unconsciousness, hoping the guys in the house would leave her alone.

"Hi, I'm Vance," I smiled. "They can't hit us here. We are in a depression that shelters us." She didn't get it. I repeated my words in Spanish. Then she started babbling and crying.

[Spanish] "Calm down," I cooed. "I'm going to put a vest above you as a shield, just in case. Now, can you tell me where it hurts?"

[Spanish] "My back and thigh," she grunted. She was wearing faded jeans and a yellow, floral print maternity shirt. The left thigh wound was a crease. Enough blood to look scary, but already clotting.

[Spanish] "Care to enlighten me why we are all here today?" I mused. I rolled her slightly toward me so I could get a look at her back without getting my head blown off.

[Spanish] "I don't know," she whispered. An obvious lie.

[Spanish] "Me neither," I joked. "I was looking for 'Circus Circus', but all these street signs are in American, so I ended up here instead."

[Spanish] "Oh," she said after a second. She relaxed minutely. "You are joking. You are an American."

[Spanish] "Don't tell my girlfriend's mother that. She thinks I'm from Argentina. She doesn't want her daughter marrying a gringo," I finished my cursory exam.

[Spanish] "Ah...really?"

[Spanish] "Ha," I snorted. "Nope; no girlfriend. I'm single, though I met a girl a few days ago who might want the distinction." She took a calming breathe. "Your back wound isn't going to be fatal, or even crippling. I know it hurts."

[Spanish] "You are a doctor?" she asked.

[Spanish] "I'm a paramedic -- I treat people before they see the doctor. Trust me, I've done things like this before. I was in the military doing this exact same job." That helped even more. "You have a broken Scapula -- that's the bone plate behind and below your shoulder.

[Spanish] "That bone did its job. It deflected the bullet so it didn't go inside. Give it two months and you should be fine. You'll need to get used to doing things with your left hand for a while. Do you understand?" I laid out her medical situation. She nodded. She didn't understand most of what I'd said. Dying was her major concern.

[Spanish] "I'm going to apply some anesthetic and bandages," I moved right along. "Do you want to call anyone to let them know you are okay?"

[Spanish] "I don't have a phone," she groaned. I gave her mine.

[Spanish] "You are not with the police?" she worried. That wasn't good.

[Spanish] "No, I am not. Do you understand that the police can lie to you about that? They only have to reveal their identity when they are interrogating, or arresting you," I explained.

[Spanish] "Can I call my boyfriend?" she requested.

[Spanish] "Go right ahead." I went to work. First I cleaned her thigh wound before applying a pressure bandage.

She gasped then ground her teeth. She stopped that when the man, Ramone Garza, answered her call. Rapid-fire Spanish went back and forth. She was terrified. She wasn't sure who kidnapped her, or where she was. She didn't know me and 'Raul' had been killed when she was grabbed. Her physical distress as I worked on her back drew her phone-companion's attention.

[Spanish] "There is a man working on my back....okay." She tried to hand me the phone. My hands were busy, so I leaned into the phone.

"Do you speak English?"

"Yes. If anything..." he threatened.

"Shut up!" I snapped. "You aren't important right now. Your girlfriend and unborn child are. Get over yourself. I'll talk to you when I'm done." I got back to my business. The girl looked fearful and shocked by my attitude. More rapid fire Spanish followed. She couldn't see my name tag because of my body armor so she settled for describing me.

A Playboy Blood decided that killing me and the girl became a priority. He slipped out a side window the police couldn't cover well and tried to creep up on us. 

[Spanish] "Cover your ears," I hissed. It took her a second to comply which was a standard civilian reaction. 

The moment she did, my .45 came out and I put two slugs into his heart. I was not from the 'shoot to wound' school. Before his body had finished flipping onto his back, I'd holstered my piece and gotten back to work. The frantic Spanish picked up again. Corazon, the girl, told Ramone, her bf, that I'd shot at something, but she couldn't see what it was because there was this thick black thing she was using as a shield.

[Spanish] "Ballistic vest," I informed her. She relayed that. The boyfriend decided to calm his lady down while I finished up. I rolled over and motioned for the phone.

"Here is her status," I told Ramone.

"If..."

"Don't be stupid. I have other people to tend to. Your lady is fine. Two non fatal wounds. I've dressed them. I can't get her to the ambulance right now because there are some other assholes trying to shoot her ... us. She'll be fine as long as she stays still. Quickly tell her good-bye. I need my phone back," I finished up. Ramone did as directed. I had my phone back and I was crawling over to the closest assailant.

As I suspected when I first saw him, he was dead. I closes his eyes. I had to take my case over to the third person. More crawling. He'd been shot once; one shot, between the third and fourth rib -- right of the spine. He was in a bad way. It was a through and through, necessitating me plugging both holes and giving him a bag of plasma with a dose of adrenaline to keep him going.

My problem was how to move him. While I was dealing with Corazon, a police negotiator had attempted a dialogue. Twice they had shot at him and twice they had made unreasonable demands -- namely an armored car to get them out of this standoff and no police pursuit. They threatened to kill the hostages. That implied the homeowner(s) were still alive. 

"In the house," I shouted. "Your guy here is still alive. If he doesn't get to an emergency room in the next fifteen minutes, he's going to die."

"Stop his bleeding, Man!" someone inside shouted back. I loved amateur healers...

"A round ~ I think it was a .40 S&W ~ passed through his chest cavity. I've put in an IV of plasma, but that's not going to be enough to deal with his internal bleeding," I responded.

"Fix him!"

"You want me to cut your guy open in the dirt, with all these flies around? I might as well overdose him with morphine and get this over with," I mocked him.

"You shot my boy," the voice snarled.

"He was trying to kill me so I shot him first."

"He was a Playboy!"

"Are you under some misconception that I give a damn," I called out, "because I don't? I don't care if he was a freaking Brownie, or with AARP. He threatened my life so he inherited two bullet holes."

"You are dead, Cop!" another knucklehead screamed. "I'm going to blow your fucking head off." That was negative thinking. My pistol came out, I rose up just enough for a quick, two handed shot and put a bullet between the second fucker's eyes. I was down before his friends could retaliate.

"I'm not a cop. I don't even like cops. I'm a paramedic. That's EMT for you uneducated morons -- Emergency Medical Technician," I educated them. 

"Mutha-Fu..." another jack-ass screamed. A single shot silenced him. Finally, SWAT had gotten off their asses and become involved. I'd counted three shooters up front initially.

There was no time like the present to resolve this so that my current patient lived. I didn't run for the door; I dove through the window formally occupied by the second Playboy I'd killed. I rolled twice before blowing the last gunman's knee off. He fell backwards, I went to a kneeling position and put two more in his prone form. 

"K-K!" I heard someone shouting from the next room. I put my pistol away and swept up one of the AK-104's lying around. They had a small gym bag with spare mags. Switching the used one for a fresh 30-round magazine took three seconds.

"KK?" the voice called out once more. 

I didn't know the building layout, but this front room had two exits besides the front door. One way led to the voice while the other led to the room with the window that other gang-banger had crawled out -- the first Playboy I'd killed. There was no noise that way, so that was the way I went. I padded rapidly yet quietly. I heard the 'caller' walking on the broken glass.

He was moving out of the left (to me) side room to the front one. The room I was in had a small dining table. The door to my left was open -- a bathroom. The opening in front of me revealed a kitchen and two more Playboys keeping a nervous watch out the back for the police.

"Shit!" the first voice called out. "They killed..."

The two Playboys were fatally distracted. I put three-round bursts into each murdering fuckers' chests as they turned around. Shooting them in the back would be suspicious. The only room missing was the bedroom. Two doors -- the door in front of me -- leading out the back -- and the one to the left...I ran back from whence I came. If the guy in the bedroom (the only type of room I hadn't come across yet) had half a brain, he was now focused on the kitchen door where I'd just put down his pals.

I was careful of where I stepped, keeping my progress silent. The guy calling for KK had a whole millisecond to be surprised before he died. I quick-stepped it back around the other way. A frail, thin elderly black woman, was lying dead on the floor. Her dead eyes were open. Her gnomish black husband had male pattern baldness with curly white hair around the sides. 

He was sitting on the floor, holding her head in his lap while he stared off into space. I pushed him to the floor. No time for sympathy at the moment. The (second) door into the bedroom opened outward. I twisted the doorknob, swung the door open while I plastered myself against the wall. 

Sure enough, the guy was panicking. A hail of bullets came my way. I let him shoot his heart out. When the AK-104 expended its last round, I stepped around the corner and put three in his chest. Problem solved. I put the AK down, then picked up the closest landline phone. I was sure the police were listening in.

"There are seven opponents down. One hostage -- DOA. One hostage alive and in shock," I informed them.

"Who is this?"

"Vance Vardanyan; paramedic with MedicWest. I'll be coming out the front door with the hostage." Whatever they said was lost as I dropped the phone. 

I cradled the old man into a standing position. We made our way slowly to the door. The moment the front door opened, the police came swarming in. The old guy was swept away as was I -- in a different direction. The press wanted to talk with me. The police lieutenant had priority.

"Did you get that hostage killed?" was his first accusation. 

"No. Close contact burn suggests she was shot at close range -- less than a foot -- single shot to the chest. She was dead before she hit the ground," I informed him.

"What possessed you to shoot all those people? The police could have handled it," he seethed.

"I'm sure Sgt. Dunston, that idiot over there," I motioned to the Playboy that I hadn't shot, "and the pregnant lady might disagree." 

"You shot nine men," he declared as it what I'd done was wrong. "We already know one is dead."

"It was eight, they had guns, they were engaged in criminal activity, they were an immediate threat to me and others, plus they were stopping me from engaging in my life-saving duties," I countered. "Do you really want to arrest me for this?"

"You jumped into the building and shot up the..."

"Shot five. Your sniper put a bullet in one and I shot two earlier," I filled him in. "I admit I put two bullets into the exposed body parts that guy in the back seat of the car presented. Now, if you don't mind, I have a job to do."

"Where do you think you are going?" he muttered.

"Unless you restrain me, I have a woman to take to the hospital," I drew forth my holster with the gun still in it.

"You will need this for your ballistics tests. The AK-104 I used is resting against the wall in the study, next to the dead woman's body." Off I went. Several reporters tried unsuccessfully to trap me. Lorenzo and I switched up in the ambulance. He had retrieved Corazon, placed her on our gurney then put her in the back of the vehicle. 

My partner was better at driving this beast and someone needed to stay with the girl. She looked relieved to see me.

[Spanish] "I am glad you are alive," she gave me a fatigued grin. "Can I have your phone again?"

I handed it over. Lorenzo was headed for the hospital when she began talking to Ramone. I took the reprieve to switch out the battery on my camera and upload everything in memory. This model could go for 12 hours, but I erred on the side of caution and I didn't know when I'd be able to make the upload, or battery exchange later.

More rapid-fire Spanish between the two love-birds then Corazon handed me the phone.

"Did you just kill all those guys?" he was more polite this time. The wonders of live TV.

"How many guys do you think I shot?" It was impolite to refer to the people I'd shot as dead though I was pretty sure they all were. "I don't like taking credit for someone else's work."

"You killed that Playboy who was about to shoot my baby's mamma," he said.

"Letting him shoot us would have invalidated all the work I'd done on Corazon," I told him. "I hate having to do a job twice almost as much as I hate doing it on myself."

"You are one crazy Bad-ass," he commented. That wasn't flattery. That man was familiar with killing people.

"My most recent psychological exam disagrees," I joked. "Are we going somewhere with this, or can I get back to doing a check-up on your baby. You lady has gone through a great deal of trauma. Anything in the last month could bring about premature labor. Babies born early face a whole host of developmental problems that I'd like your girlfriend and newborn to avoid. Here is Corazon," I signed off. 

She spent the rest of the time talking to him until we arrived at Summerlin's ER. The place was a madhouse. The route of the police pursuit and the two gangs duking it out had left three dozen casualties in its wake. Two cops were dead and four wounded. Both Sgt. Dunston and the first officer brought in (brought in by another ambulance) were in critical condition. 

I had barely managed to hand her off to the ER staff and give Corazon's hand a good-bye squeeze when Lorenzo pulled me aside.

"Dude...uh...they've suspended you," he whispered.

"By that you mean MedicWest has suspended me?" I sighed. I checked my phone. 

Oh yes, MedicWest had been burning up my answering service while Corazon was on the phone with the only other person that mattered to her.

"Well, shit happens," I shrugged.

"It is only a suspension..." Lorenzo trailed off. "I mean..."

"Lorenzo, this is my trial period. I'm pretty sure they are going to let me go over this," I patted him on the shoulder. "Frankly, I don't care. I did what I did and I'll live with that." A LVMPD officer located me. I was supposed to stick around. He hovered close by to make sure I did. MedicWest sent a technician over to catalog my gear, so I could sign out one last time.

My new ex-partner looked freaked out about the whole ordeal. Lorenzo had to get back to the dispatch center. His ass was on the line too. Not only had he not reined me in, he'd done a little risk-taking as well. Two of the four Hispanic gang members had survived. The driver and the guy I shot were heading to the morgue. There had been a fourth guy in the car, I hadn't seen him. Me and my cop-shadow migrated to the visitor's lounge.

There, for the viewing pleasure of the whole God-damn world, were the highlights of the firefight. Most notable was the footage of me taking care of Corazon, stopping long enough to send a Playboy into the next life and then going back to Corazon as if nothing had happened. The kicker for me was that some clever sound guy had picked up on the MedicWest frequency.

Since I was wired in for sight and sound, my conversation with Corazon was added for the viewing public's pleasure. They'd actually ponied up their pennies for Spanish to English subtitles.

Officer Steve Markowitz, my minder, did a few double-takes.

"Is that you?" he inquired.

"Yes."

"Did you really save that officer's life?"

"Yes."

"Did you kill that man in the car?" He meant the Hispanic corpse.

"Shot him -- yes."

"How did you make that snap shot?" he asked. I sighed, shook my head and looked at him with amusement.

"Markowitz, he was five yards away, presenting an upper torso, head and neck profile. How could I miss?" I stated. 




Ebb Tide Ch. 02



Clearly he thought he could miss that shot in the less than two second it took me to draw, kill that bastard, then holster my weapon.

"Did you kill all those people?" he sounded fearful. 

The TV showed the current (suspected) casualty tally: LVMPD -- 2 (the one on the lawn plus the one the sniper bagged), Playboy Bloods -- 6 (I only knew about Officer Lang -- maybe the F-13's driver), "Florencia 13" Sureños -- 2 (none I'd witnessed -- the dead guy on the lawn was killed by a cop), and MedicWest -- 8 (that'd be me). At least I now knew what gang Ramone Garza was in.

The projected Body Count was looking grim (based on the number of body bags). The killed/wounded: LVMPD -- 2/4, Playboy Bloods -- 11/1, Florencia 13 Sureños -- 5/2, Las Vegas civilians -- 2/14, and MedicWest -- 0/0... added because the media can be real dicks. Better yet, they were already bragging about how I'd killed Lincoln 'K-K' Sherman. K-K was rumored to be the No. 2 guy with the Playboys.

"Oh, there you are," a woman's exasperated voice declared. "We need to talk, Mr. Vardanyan." She was a suit, bureaucrat, what-have-you -- an Asian-Caucasian mix.

"I'm Ha Grenier," she gave me a false smile. "Officer could you give us a moment?"

"You would be with MedicWest?" I regarded her. 'Ha' was a Vietnamese name.

"Yes," she gave a clipped reply.

"Steve, give us a few minutes. I promise not to let her smuggle me out in her cleavage," I joked. Officer Markowitz gave a jolt -- that sounded like sexual harassment in his mind -- then smirked, nodded to me and left. 

Ms. Grenier had a nice small B that was a good match for her petite physique. I had an impression she hit the gym once or twice a week, jogged when she woke up early enough and told herself she was in good shape.

"Are you MENTAL!!!" she screamed at me. I liked her furious anima.

"Is this about me noting your small, but perfectly formed breasts, or me not getting shot?"

"Wha..." she looked down at her cleavage for a moment. She'd sweated up a storm just getting here and little rivulets had made their way from her throat to her lacy magenta bra that was partially exposed. She clutched her shirt closed.

"Mr. Vardanyan, MedicWest is horrified by your behavior this morning. You murdered people -- on live Television. Can you comprehend what you have done to MedicWest's reputation?" she thundered. The few people on the far side of the lounge looked at her nervously. "What were you doing even carrying a firearm on duty? Where did that 'EMT' vest come from?"

I stared at her. She waited. I stared at her some more.

"Well?"

"Finished?"

"Can you..." she got out.

"The extra equipment was mine. I'll testify to that. I've got that part of the PR lecture already, Ms. Grenier. I comprehend that I made MedicWest look bad. It was not intentional. I know your employers, and mine, are a corporation who bases their profitability on municipal contracts and case approval ratings. I've tried to play it your way and I clearly made a mistake coming to work for this company," I told her in a calm rational voice.

Her mouth opened and remained that way for several seconds.

"Are you quitting?" she inquired tentatively.

"Oh Hell no," I chuckled. "I'm going to make you assholes fire me."

"We will," she threatened.

"Understood," I nodded. We waited a few more seconds.

"Oh...okay. I have prepared a public statement for the press," she handed me her iPad. I looked it over. The bare bones -- I worshipped MedicWest, but I had screwed up. No comment on how I'd screwed up. I handed it back.

"I need you to memorize the statement," she tried to hand it back.

"I have; all five lines."

"Are you sure?" she eyed me suspiciously.

"Yes. Do you like working for MedicWest?" I asked.

"Yyyess..." she was worried.

"Then don't let me talk to the Press," I suggested.

"Listen up, you Neanderthal," she groused. "If you make a scene, your career will be over." Did she miss the part where she already told me I was fired? I shrugged.

Between Sunday morning and noon Wednesday, I'd thrown my life plan away. I couldn't remain an unobtrusive citizen for a whole two fucking months. I hadn't made it seven weeks.

"Come on," she tried to pull me up. Setting aside her roughly 130 lbs. handicap, she had no leverage. So I stood up. "I'm going to say my spiel, you are going to do your part, don't answer questions and we should get through this with our lives intact." Her life maybe.

"Can't we avoid this farce?" I gave her a second out.

"No. Shut up and behave, you idiot," she hissed.

"Don't you want to hear my version of events? What motivated me?" I mused.

"No. Shut up and behave," she glared at me. I felt I'd given her three opportunities to exit this fiasco with her hopes for living the American Dream still alive and thriving.

The police were getting ready to make some statement. Some high-ranking suits were about, even my current 'Doomed Henchman', Assistant Sheriff Mahaulu. He recognized me too. A cop I'd seen at the shootout saw me. That was fine. I hadn't been bashful. Then he started clapping. Shit. More cops saw me and began clapping as well.

Ha tried to head off this civil servant display of affection by standing in front of me and waving her hands for quiet. "Mr. Vardanyan is prepared to make a brief statement," she announced. "He will be available to answer questions at a later time." (A lie) She stepped aside. I thought there, at that last second, she finally realized I was going to be a vindictive shit.

"I have no regrets about what I did today. Ms. Ha Grenier," I motioned to the woman, "of MedicWest is about to fire me, so I'm probably going to take a few days to reassess my life. Any questions?" I remained solemn. Ha gave out a strangled gasp. Then the barracuda closed in.

"Mr. Vardanyan..."

"Call me Vance," I requested.

(1) "Vance, did you kill K-K Sherman?"

"What did he look like?" Someone showed me one of his numerous mug shots. "I recognize that man. I shot off his right kneecap, then put two more slugs in his chest when he hit the ground." Pause.

(2) "Once you shot him in the knee, did you need to kill Mr. Sherman?"

"I shot him. He may, or may not, be dead," I fibbed, I knew I'd killed him. "He had a rapid-fire carbine. I played it safe."

(3) "Could you have disarmed him?"

"Yes, I could have done that. I elected to remove him as a threat. I decided that he needed two .45 caliber size holes in his chest to ensure he would reconsider making life choices that were a detriment to me and the rest of Las Vegas," I sighed. KK would be doing his 'reconsider'-ings things in Hell. "I'm not going to apologize to his mamma either."

(4) "You murdered KK?" 

"No, I shot KK. He had a gun and he'd fired it. Is there some reason I shouldn't have shot him?"

(5) "Are you worried about retaliation from the Playboy Bloods?" 

"Yes, but such is life."

(6) "If he dies, doesn't that make you a murderer?" 

"No, it makes me more lethal than Mr. Sherman, which his friends might want to consider before heading my way."

(7) "Why didn't you spare him?" 

"It wasn't a matter of sparing him, or not sparing him. He still possessed the ACR-104 he'd used when he was shooting at civilians and police officers. The ACR-104 is a Russian-made carbine -- that's an assault rifle with a shortened barrel designed for urban warfare -- introduced in the 1990's; so it's very modern. 

"It normally has a 30 round magazine firing 7.62x39mm M43 rounds. Translation: it puts really big holes in people, even people in body armor. In comparison, SWAT use CAR-15's firing a 5.56x45mm, or the Heckler & Koch MP5/10's which use a 10x25mm bullet -- essentially a pistol round. So, when KK was within three meters with a weapon that could blow through my armor, why exactly would I wait to see if he wanted to kill me or give up?"

(8) "Are you associated with Florencia 13?" 

"I'm not much of a joiner. I know who the Florencia 13's are. I didn't know the jack-ass F-13 shooting his Mac-11 at me was one. He's going to need some extensive facial reconstruction, or getting a closed casket funeral...I shot him twice in the face," I explained, "So his buddies might want to consider my marksmanship before they start stumbling over the Playboys coming my way."

(9) "Are you threatening the two most powerful gangs in the city?"

"No. I'm reminding them of the facts in evidence. I don't appreciate people who point guns at me. Stupid people with guns don't scare me plus, today, I hit everything I aimed at," I stated.

(10) [To the Police PR guy] "Is the LVMPD going to provide Mr. Vardanyan protection?" 

"We are still examining the shootings," said the highest ranking cop ~ the Under-Sheriff. 

(11) [To Ha Grenier] "Why has MedicWest fired Mr. Vardanyan?" 

"He hasn't been fired. Mr. Vardanyan is a trainee. He has been suspended while we conduct an internal review of this tragedy," Ha sounded a tad too shrill. Everyone knew that meant I was indeed being fired.

(12) [To the police again] "What set off this spate of violence?" 

"Two LVMPD officers came across a kidnapping in progress. There was an exchange of fire between the Playboy Bloods, Florencia 13 and our responding officers," the Under-Sheriff supplied. I began to wonder why the Public Relations Officer was there.

(13) "Mr. Vard ... Vance, what do you think of MedicWest's response?" .

"I understand their reaction. They are a corporation based on a profit motive, not the public welfare. They are fully within their rights to take into account the liability I exposed them to and terminate my employment. This is the reality for any municipality that has privatized social services. 

"I acted based on my desire to save the people caught in the crossfire. My personal desire to save lives is not what MedicWest is all about. If they don't make a profit, employees could fail to get scheduled raises, or even lose their jobs. Critical equipment isn't updated. Stockholders don't get their premiums."

(14) "You seem to be taking this rather well? Aren't you the least bit bitter?"

"Bitter? I'm bitterer about you people asking why I kept shooting at KK while he was still armed. KK, and all the Playboys with him, all made the choice to put other people's lives in danger. 

"Had any of them surrendered, I wouldn't have shot them. They did have weapons and were possessed of deadly intent. I held them accountable for their actions. In a similar manner, MedicWest is holding me accountable for the choices I made.

"I see the LVMPD is ready to do their thing," I looked over at their PR cop-guy, "and this is their show anyway. It is time for me to exit -- stage left. Have a nice day," I gave a casual salute and followed my own advice -- I strode passed Ha and went back to the lounge. Officer Steve was waiting for me. Thirty seconds later, Ha came storming after me.

"You made me look like an idiot!" she yelled. She was rather vocal.

"I warned you not to take me out there -- three times," I reminded her. 

"You made us out to look like soulless corporate monsters," she wailed.

"MedicWest is a soulless corporate monster, Ha," I pointed out. "But you shouldn't worry about it. They are going to shit-can you too. You were supposed to keep me in line and failed spectacularly." 

"Since the junior PR slot at a medical service corporation is not the normal high-profile job for top graduates in your profession, you might want to seek out your next employment opportunity in another field of endeavor," I added. She slapped me. Okay, she tried to slap me. I caught her wrist. She was already bawling like a baby.

Her phone rang, the sight of the number caused the blood to drain from her features.

"Hello. Mr. McKinley, it wasn't my intent to..." she blathered. Sob. "I am...I can...but..." and broke down into tears. I beckoned for her phone. Faced with an utterly hopeless future, she handed it over.

"McKinley, Vardanyan here. Do us both a favor and let the buck stop here," I cautioned him.

"Mr. Vardanyan," he grumbled. "You have no idea what you've done to our position in the Las Vegas market."

"Mr. McKinley, I do know what I've done. You sent Ms. Grenier here pedaling your PR crap. 

"For some reason you convinced her that I'd fall on my sword. Ms. Grenier is too young to know better. You did know better, so you sent her because you were afraid you would fail. Stop being a total douche and we can wrap this up off screen. Give Ha her PTO and two week bonus. Me? Send me a check for my two and a half days and you'll never hear from me again. Deal?"

"Why shouldn't I simply fire you both?"

"My suggestion would be the kind, humane thing to do, Mr. McKinley. Be a man. Ha did what you instructed her to do. This is not her fault. You have to terminate her employment, or hand in your own resignation. The later isn't going to happen. Please consider my suggestion. I would like nothing more than to wipe this day out of our collective memory."

"Retract your statement about us firing you, then resign quietly at the end of the week and I'll consider it," he offered.

"You fire me, give Ha her severance and I won't do any more interviews where I remind the city that you are concerned about liability first, profitability second and quality healthcare a distant third... and only when it effects with your bottom line," I counter-offered.

"If you mention MedicWest one more time, or wear any of our uniforms or identifying items, we will sue you, Mr. Vardanyan," he menaced.

"Good idea. I'm sure when I say 'my former employers who fired me for saving a dying policeman and a pregnant woman' it will totally fool them," I replied.

"If you mention any part of today's activities..." he began.

"By all means, sue the four networks who took the footage currently flooding the 24/7 news cycle. Then we can look at the fact that your contract with Las Vegas is to fulfill a public service, thus voiding most of your private corporate practice protections and any gag order is going to look even worse." 

"Knock yourself out, McKinley. I've shown you a way out. Stop being a stooge," I chastised him. "Neither one of us wants the publicity nor the notoriety." I was interrupted by Ass. Sheriff Mahaulu and Robbery/Homicide Detectives, Sgt.'s Timothy Brokaw and Bradley Ustinov [From Chapter One]. "Gotta go, McKinley. Think about what I've said."

"Clear the room," Mahaulu demanded in a crystal clear, authoritative voice. Steve 'hopped-to' and began escorting the real visitors out of the room. Sgt. Brokaw forcefully removed Ha from the room. "Thanks for making this headache go away so easily, Mr. Vardanyan. Oh, you prefer to be called V...or is that Vance," he showered me with his smug grin.

"It's Vance. V is for people I like, or at least respect," I grinned right back. He laughed.

"You murdered three people 'live and on air'," he shook his head. I'd been using the word 'shot' because both the police and press associate the word 'kill' with 'murder'. "That could be considered 1st degree murder, as you brought a gun into a known fire-fight." 

"I think the DA will settle for three counts of 1st degree manslaughter. That's still 40 years. If you like, we can pin five more dead in the house."

"You are delusional," I snorted. 

"You think so," he kept up his high spirits. "Vance Vardanyan, I hereby place you..."

"Hold on cowboy," said as I stood. "First guy -- shot at me, had a gun and was prepared to shoot me again as I took a wounded..."

"I don't care," Mahaulu was tiring of this game. "You are going down for this."

"Honestly, don't any of you realize you are living in the 21st century?" my own patience was wearing thin. 

"I recorded the entire incident, just like I'm recording our conversation right now. I'm sure the general public will enjoy you doing the DA's job for him...except you aren't a DA," I informed the three of them.

"Where?" he grew downright volcanic.

"Right here," I pointed to the cameras on each side of my shirt collar. While they were looking there, I used my other hand to surreptitiously up-loaded the most recent contents.

"Give me those," he lumbered forward in anger. I didn't need to do anything. The hospital had wall-mounted cameras in this room capturing all the video evidence I would ever need.

Normally I would be worried about hitting a police officer in a public place, but I had plenty of witnesses close by who were undoubtedly listening in ~ people like Ha ~ to doubly verify my 'Cops Gone Bad' direct-to-video release.

{An aside, or why being shot by me is less painful than the alternatives}

Over my career I had been taught a variety of martial arts before being introduced to one of the most secretive and advanced hand to hand killing techniques ever known to man, or beast. It was a tiny brotherhood who perpetuated this mysterious lethal art ~ it was called the Sǐwáng Báichī! (死亡白痴!) style.

This martial art was virtually unknown outside of the Chinese literary world. Inside the Chinese literary fold...it was a source of confusion and laughter. See, Sǐwáng Báichī! meant 'Die Fool!' and no Asian, or Asian-American had ever learned it. The Sǐwáng Báichī style only had two Cardinal Rules: 1) never stop refining the style and 2) use whatever works for you. 

It was a 'no frills', 'no nonsense' inflict pain / incapacitate / kill school. We didn't give our methods 'pet names'. You learned by being shown what to do. If we had to expose our skills to outsiders, somebody else was going to the hospital, the morgue, or in a shallow grave. I'd seen a SEAL buddy use it and asked how he'd done what he'd done. After an arduous screening process (I bought the guy three beers) he agreed to be my jiào yuan (instructor/ 教员).

Our martial art had no 'masters', only fellow students. Very few of us spoke, or wrote any form of the Chinese language. Those who did had never bothered to correct our naming conventions. We had no schools, tournaments, or web pages. To get in, you had to ask the right person. If one of us agreed, we found ways of letting the other people in our brotherhood (there were female students too) know. That was about as gregarious as we got.

Could your school beat our school? We didn't care. We didn't count coup. We didn't shop around, pick fights and advertise how lethal we were. That would have been counter-intuitive since our style was supposed to be 'SECRET'. We learned Sǐwáng Báichī! in order to increase the odds of us staying alive and if you thought you were Billy Bad-Ass, we'd walk away if you let us. 

We didn't do the 'our school is better than your school' bullshit. What was the point? If you wouldn't leave one of us alone, you probably wouldn't be able to describe exactly what we inflicted on you to the hospital staff and the investigating officers. 

Way too many self-proclaimed 'I am the toughest Motherfuckers ever to walk the face of the Earth!' ended up getting gang-jumped, shot, or stabbed in the back for our liking. Let some other jackasses draw attention to themselves. Our work gave us all the life and death excitement we could stand without the need for chest-beating. 

{Corruption Burns, Breaks and Bleeds}

'Look America, a cop was brutalizing me', and the pain began. Assistant Sheriff Mahaulu was a former Marine and that formed the basis of his hand to hand training. I doubt he'd practiced it much in the past 18 years. Three fingers spearing his solar plexus robbed him of breath. I shoved the big Hawaiian into Officer Ustinov.

Officer Brokaw went for his gun. I went for a crouched, spinning leg-sweep. On the first pass, his legs were kicked out from under him. On the second spin, I connected with his face before he hit the ground. That earned him a broken nose, loose teeth and a group of very unhappy cervical vertebrae. The trauma had him unconscious before he slammed into the door, feet first.




Ebb Tide Ch. 03



Editing magic performed by KJ24 and Shyqash, plus contributions by the regular gang of brigands and neer-do-wells.

Flood tide: The period between the low tide and rising of the water to high tide.

This tale is an espionage fantasy under assault by reality.

The 'hero' of this tale might be considered a Libertarian, though the label means nothing to him. He is not completely sane (by some people's definition of the term).

FYI, two of my long-time readers get their cameos at lunch with Vance.

 *A List of the Principal Characters is provided at the end of the chapter* 

*****

{Vance begins to screw over Lloyd and goes to lunch}

G had both Wednesday and Thursday nights off. This gave us - Dabney and me - enough time to patch G back together. Whoever Mr. Rogers was, he scared the crap out of G. That was okay, he scared me as well. I knew the type. He had been a detached amoral intellectual who had graduated to being an immoral social cynic.

The CIA agents that dealt with 'covert operations' were part of the Special Activities Division (SAD). They were the ones that converted vaguely worded suggestions such as 'disrupt an Al Qaeda group operating in Lahore, Pakistan' into lists of people to compromise, have arrested, and kill. It was easy for SAD people to feel God-like when deploying that power.

Good SAD members didn't give a crap about the lives in the balance. They worked for 'minimal intrusion', which meant leaving the smallest 'footprint' by removing the fewest people. Bad SAD operators weren't into mass murder. No, that would cost them their jobs and lead to 'extreme sanction'. No, the bad ones reveled in the lives they ruined and were masters of making scumbag group 'A' attack scumbag group 'B'.

That sounds neat in theory. It is too often a disaster in practice. Once A and B get into a shooting war, the Agency lost all control over the collateral damage. We thought those people were scumbags for a reason, notably for their complete disregard for human life. The bad CIA types liked to sit back and watch the chaos ensue.

SOG operators like me and my old family removed the people we were told to take out, by either blackmail, setting them up for the local law enforcement to arrest, or assassination. We also could look at the news and figure out the long term implications of what we'd done. No one on the CIA SAD end of things made that kind of mistake twice.

If the pattern repeated itself, competent team leaders would start asking the CIA analysts what had gone wrong. 9/11 had made the oversight tighter, not weaker. Sure, the politicians wanted us to be more active, but they were also more knowledgeable of the risk of cascading damage ... things like the Taliban growing out of the Soviet-Afghan conflict.

According to a few of the old timers I interacted with - I didn't join the SOG until 2011 - we were killing far many more people. We were simply killing the right people with an eye out for avoiding that kind of blowback. Mr. Rogers was from the Old School; the kind of men my mentors warned me about.

"V, he's frightening," she confided in me. "He was terribly...chilling. I don't think he was sadistic. It was something else."

"I'm not going to tell you 'now that I'm here, everything will be okay," I said. "If he is the type of person who I think he is, Rogers is going to be difficult to deal with."

"We are here for you, G," Dabney hugged her from the right side. "V can be pretty scary too."

"Are you sure we are doing the right thing V - Vance?" G searched my eyes.

"As opposed to what?" I then kissed her gently on the lips. "Consider me your tax dollars at work, G. The US government went to great expense to make me what I am today."

"Tell, me; what is that again, V?" G sniffed.

"I'm a paramedic," I joked. "Why doesn't anyone believe me?" The women looked at one another.

"The pile of dead bodies you made yesterday," Dabney smiled. "I don't know much about paramedics, but aren't they supposed to spare lives, not take them?"

"Wise ass," I chided her. Dabney responded by uncoiling from her kneeling position beside G until she was lying on her chest, squishing her breast down while arching her back and knees so that her pristine glutæus maximus was elevated. Her Brazilian-cut, diaphanous black panties only made the act all that more enticing.

"This wise ass?" she giggled. She was hamming it up for G's benefit...mostly.

"Thank you too," G stroked Dabney's bottled blonde-streaked wavy hair. Neither G nor Dabney were lesbians, or even all that bi-sexual. Both had been required by circumstances to sexually entertain women - Dabney because she had been a high-priced escort and G because her ex-husband was one sick fuck.

He wasn't a sick fuck because he liked to see his wife with another woman. He was a sick fuck because he did it knowing neither woman wanted to do it yet weren't strong enough to defy him. Lloyd Pharris, G's ex, got off on humiliating people that came under his power.

"That's okay, G," Dabney kissed G's stroking hand. "You waited fifteen years to have sex with Vance just like I did. If you two had a history, I might have been jealous."

Dabney was teasing us over me being G's pool boy in the two years before I graduated High School and then joined the US Navy. We hadn't slept together. She was loyal to her bastard of a husband and I knew to steer clear. That didn't stop G from being nice to me, even kind.

"V was always polite and pleasant to me, a friend to my step-son," she gave a slight sob.

Ford Pharris, her step-son, had been forced by his father to testify that he and G had an affair. He'd been my age and a friend of sorts. Me and another of his friends, Kristoff Declan, had worked at bolstering Ford's self-esteem. Lloyd enjoyed mentally grinding his family down and that was the original source of his dislike for me. I'd hated the monster within a week of knowing him.

"Wynn kept hoping you would hit on her," G looked back to me. "I 'suggested' that she should leave you alone. I always thought you were too smart to fall for her tricks." Wynn was the step-daughter. She'd rebelled against her father in defense of G and paid for it several times since then. That was another reason for me to want him to suffer.

At the moment, I didn't want to drag G down a painful Memory Lane. I reached past her and gave Dabney's closest buttocks a good spank.

"Ow!" Dabney exclaimed. "Why did you do that?" she pouted. Oh, she knew precisely why I did it. Role-playing is a skill a girl in her profession had to cultivate.

G snapped herself out of her funk. She launched herself over Dabney's exposed posterior. G's bountiful bosom protected Dabney's buttock. She was giving me a stern look over her shoulder, but she'd left her exposed butt facing me. G should have recalled that she was in a very tight, white men's undershirt which barely reached her hips and no underwear. I took a bite - of her butt and I was downright carnivorous.

"Yow!" she squalled. "That hurt!" her look became overly-aggrieved.

"Oh...well, I've been dreaming about doing that for seventeen years," I reminded her. "Let me make it up to you." She watched me cautiously. I leaned for and planted a kiss beside my faint teeth marks. She made an exaggerated cooing noise.

A few more kisses surrounded the offended tissue with her letting her cooing transform to aroused sniffling and a slow rocking of her hips.

"Hey," Dabney protested. She pushed her butt up against G's stomach. "Don't forget me."

"What are you...Ah," G exhaled happily as I let my kisses gradually work their way down to her ass cleft.

"I'm protecting you. Hush," G chastised Dabney. I tenderly opened G's legs so that I could part her labia with my right, middle finger lavished nuzzling kisses on her tailbone. My phone buzzed. Crap, we had work to do today before the Sun set our world ablaze.

"Time to get moving ladies," I groaned. Both women shot me evil looks. I shrugged. A time table was a time table.

{Screwing Lloyd is so much fun to do}

Our first stop was at Dabney's old place. For the amount of money she brought in, she should have been able to afford something better. Pablo and her other 'creditors' had been giving her a pittance of what she earned. What the place lacked in location, footage and security, it made up for in closet space.

Her clothing was rather expensive (and extensive in number, if not material), yet wasn't High Society chic. Virtually everything she owned was flattering; more 'mistress' than 'upfront girlfriend/wife' wear. She didn't have enough luggage for her lingerie, much less her dresses. I introduced her to the concept of 'using sheets for looting'.

She and G were aghast at all the 'damage' I would cause her outfits. I promised to pay for all the dry cleaning, which mollified them. They still viewed me as a fashion Philistine. As we were preparing to leave, it dawned on the two ladies that they were essentially destitute. G's salary was heavily docked ~ paying off the financial burden she'd accumulated divorcing her demonic Ex, Lloyd Pharris.

He feigned poverty by cleverly hiding all his assets in off-shore corporations. I had a friend working on that. I had a trick up my sleeve that I was sure old Lloyd hadn't considered: I was going to have my old SOG rob the accounts at the source - whatever country the computer servers were based out of.

Having all sorts of shell companies was made to obscure money and property ownership from legal entities. The list of countries the IRS and Treasury couldn't get access to was rather small. Combined with the high level of computer security Lloyd would insist on narrowed the list down even further.

Dutch girl had the data for me in under twelve hours. This time she wanted a small percentage, not a fee, so I knew the information was a gem. If Lloyd thought that the Cook Islands were secure, he didn't take into account that the official police force was rather provincial. Private security was understated and not up to high tech International banking standards.

Oh, their computer software was equal to the financial security of Qatar, or the UAE (arguably the best). I'd put in a call into Sylas and his team with the appropriate data. The beauty of the plan was that the information wasn't being stolen ~ the ownership was being transferred. We'd done this before. It was the source of my current wealth.

Sylas wasn't going to hack the system, he was going straight for the hardware. Yes, we were altering the code form inside the bank which negated all that expensive cyber-security. Why wasn't Lloyd worried? It was the fucking Cook Islands, protected by New Zealand, in a part of the Pacific that didn't tend to attract secret agents bent on corporate espionage.

While I was out in the breezeway talking with Dutch girl via satellite encryption, Dabney played with her answering machine. Sometimes I swear, people don't have the common sense to always check all their surveillance cameras before leaving the house, or not having your answering service match your address. A half-dozen people wanted to talk with her. One was an old threat from a credit agency.

Four were from co-workers and the last one was from her new pimp. So, what did she do? She called her working buddies to get the 4-1-1 on the new, 'other' man in her life. I walked in on the last third of those discussions. She was bragging about me in uncertain yet positive terms. I might be 'The One', the mythical White Knight who would whisk her away to the good life.

Then she asked about the new pimp. What was he like, how had he showed up and was he good-looking? G thumped her for that last question. The guy was 'classy' (he didn't dress like a pimp) and low-intensity (he used verbal threats instead of physical ones). He had muscle too ~ some ex-football defensive line guy - big - not likely to be terribly fast, or overly bright. Smart football guys didn't work for pimps, even pimps who ran real escorts.

He had showed up with a Little Black Book that had all of Pablo's information in it. He looked like Carmine Giovinazzo ~ Det. Danny Messer from CSI: NY. He went by the handle of Kip Churchill. After she finished with her friend she gave me a hopeful look.

"I'll just call him to tell him I'm out of the business," she promised. Yeah, right.

Her call woke him up. That was no surprise. It was 9 a.m. and the bastard had probably hit the sack maybe two hours ago; once he had all the girls accounted for and collected his cut of tips and credit card receipts. I put him on speaker.

"Hi, this is Dabney "Care-Free" Curtiss," she began. "I've heard you wanted to talk to me."

"What ... huh? Oh, yeah. You were a major earner for Pablo. You owe some serious back taxes, 'Care'," he mumbled. "You need to get off your ass and get back to work - for me."

"I do?" Dabney proved she had learned something from hanging out with me. "How much?"

"What?" Kip got grouchy.

"Hang on," followed by some rustling noises then, "You owe forty-three large ($43,000)." Dabney studied me. I nodded.

"No I don't," Dabney chirped happily. "I don't have any credit card debt either."

"What? Listen bitch... wait, is a guy called 'V' with you?"

"I'm not saying he is, or he isn't," Dabney winked at me. "Why do you want to know?"

"I've got a message for him. Where is he?"

"Tell me what it is and I'll make sure he'll get it," Dabney grinned.

"Listen Care-Free and listen good; you don't want to ..." he began.

"Have they found Pablo yet?" Dabney chortled. Pause.

"No."

"Then you might want to consider who you threaten, Kip," she got all spirited and feisty.

"Are we going to have an issue?" he groused. "If so, pay what you owe and find someplace else to work," he threatened her.

"Yeah. Whatever," she faked a yawn. "What's the message?" Another pause.

"Give me his phone number and someone is going to give him a call," Kip told her. Dabney looked at me for instruction. I typed out the order on my phone's screen for her to relay.

"Call them. Have them give you a number and when I call you back ... in say an hour, you'll give it to me and he'll get in touch with them," she repeated my message.

"Who do you think you are?" he got angry.

"I think I'm the new girlfriend of the man who made the news yesterday. My boyfriend is - was a paramedic with MedicWest. Did you see him?"

"You're shitting me," he grumbled.

"Nope. Did you see him kill all those people? What do you think he's going to do with you if he thinks you are screwing around with me - Kip?" Dabney beamed joy my way. That I was opposed to all acts of bravado and boasting didn't occur to her.

"If you are lying to me Care Free, I'll give you something to care about," he attempted to intimidate Dabney.

"If you think that is a wise life decision, you go right ahead," Dabney challenged him right back.

"Fine," he yawned. "We'll talk later." He hung up.

"Dabney!" G lit into her. "You can't use V like that. He is not your personal bully-boy. He's not bulletproof, or immortal."

"Hey ... I," Dabney hesitated. "V, did I screw up?"

"Yes," I went straight for the jugular Truth. "Now he's going to be overly cautious and he can point other people at me over Pablo's disappearance. Not good."

"I ... I'm sorry V," she moped. "I didn't think ... I'm just so tired of being under their thumb."

"We live and learn," I very lightly thumped her forehead. "I think I know what this is about." I waited until we finished loading the car. She wanted me to tell her what I thought the message might be about. I didn't give in.

I let Dabney drive while I sat up front and G took the back seat and much of Dabney's stuff. We'd taken the Corvette because Dabney assured G and me that she only had 'a few things to pick up. Ugh. After we pulled away, I made the call. The person I was calling didn't have a listed phone number, but she did have an unlisted one.

"Hello? Who is this?" she answered.

"This is V," I informed her. "I have the impression you wanted to talk with me."

"You did? I didn't, but," she hesitated. "Why do you think I wanted to talk with you?"

"Kip."

"Ah ... maybe I do want to talk with you after all," she said. That meant she wanted to talk with her mom, Circe, Vice Lady of Lust ~ the Mistress of all the sex trade in Las Vegas. "I'll call you back."

"Well, my number is as useful as it was last time," I pointed out. "I'll call you back in ten (minutes)."

"You remain inquisitively annoying, Vance," she sounded amused. "Nice job yesterday. I'm glad we didn't have a disagreement last Monday night. You say CAM trained you?"

"In macramé, needle point and cross-stitch mainly," I lied. CAM - Christ All Mighty was one of my SEAL instructors, an exceptional human being and a man I didn't want to cross.

He was a physical conditioning expert - an ace at training men to regularly perform at inhuman levels of stamina, physical training, and overcoming your previous physiological limitations. He was also a dive instructor. CAM hadn't trained me in the 'lethal arts'. He had trained me how to tone my body so I could be far more dangerous than I would have ever been without him.

"Can't you ever tell me the truth - about trivial shit? I know you are as good as your word when it counts," she joked.

"I always thought you were very pretty and totally beyond my means when we hung out together," I told her. Dabney hit me. "You go make that call. I need to deal with Dabney. She's slapping me around."

"I'm sure she is," Reagan laughed. "I'll hear from you in ten." She hung up.

"Who was that?" Dabney asked. G looked at me intently too.

"It has to do with that matter Sunday night that I'm deciding how much I want to get G involved with," I reminded Dabney. She put her hand over G's eyes and mouthed 'Circe'?

I nodded. Keeping G in the dark was worse than letting her know she knew who 'Circe was.

"Oh shit," Dabney mumbled. G pulled the hand away.

"What is it?" G looked at me. "How bad is this? Is this 'why we don't talk about Pablo' crap?"

"Pretty much," I confided. "So, where are we going to eat?"

"Oh, let's try the Lagoon Bar and Grill," Dabney perked up. "I've been there twice - on dates - and it has great food and excellent service."

"You're driving," I reminded Dabney.

"I loved going there ... with some of my old friends," G went from happy to less than happy. G possessed a level of emotional self-assurance that Dabney hadn't cultivated - yet.

"You can either look at it as if they weren't really your friends because they didn't stand by you when you needed them," I offered, "or that they wisely avoided Lloyd and you can forgive that."

G reached around and hugged me. I HATED people grappling with me like that. It was so ... unnatural.

"Thanks Vance Vardanyan," she breathed into my ear. "Thank you for everything."

"Thank me when we are done," I advised her. "Don't count your victories until you've garnered them. It is a rule I live by."

I took the drive time to call Sylas. We discussed my info and possible plans. Since Dabney and G didn't speak Arabic, that was our language of choice. He loved the poetic justice of the mission. Self-important American corporate types, including arrogant lawyer-types, held a special place in SOG operators' hearts.

Too often, our political assignments were fueled by these bastards. If someone abroad was causing them business difficulties, we were duped into risking our lives so they could tack on another $10,000,000 to their portfolio. Considering we could die helping these douches meant we weren't hunting down real threats to our nation's well-being truly chapped our asses.




Ebb Tide Ch. 03



Don't get me wrong, I didn't hate any profession, in the same way I didn't hate any ethnic group (try growing up Armenian and NOT hating Turks and Azerbaijanis), religion, nationality, or gender. There were good lawyers I could rely on and doctors I wouldn't trust to tie my shoes. I had a Shia Imam hide me in the basement of his Mosque when being found would have been uncomfortable.

Why? The Koran directed him to protect those who sought shelter from the lawless. He hated the Secular West, yet he refused to compromise his faith in what he saw as combating its pernicious influence. Not a single member of the team had been Islamic, but we obeyed his strictures and discussed the Koran with him late into the night. His house - his rules. You will find how much easier life is if you follow a few simple guidelines like that.

I'd even met a lawyer from the International Criminal Court who wasn't a totally arrogant douche. He was mildly curious why a salesman of hybridized coffee beans (my cover) beat up (made them utilize their long-term care insurance) some thugs (really contract killers out to collect the bounty on his head). Not every assignment I had with the SOG involved us killing people ~ explicitly.

Sylas's team strategy was pretty straight forward. If we moved the accounts out of the Cook Islands, they'd track the transactions. That would amount to a massive post-Cooks Island investigation and tons of world-wide fraud charges. To get around this, we were going to have Lloyd sell everything at that bank through manually entered business dealings (from inside the bank at night) ~ selling off his assets ~ to another account in the same bank.

Several transactions later, as the price of Lloyd's belongings were consistently devalued, we'd eventually put them in Georgianna 'G' Norquist's name. By the time Lloyd's people ran down the trail of sales, G could legally transfer the accounts to other banks. The Cook Island banks hadn't lost any money or assets up until that point.

One group of internal accounts was making a series of transactions with other accounts inside the bank. That way nothing would tip them off to the break-in. G would end up'buying' everything with the money in the accounts I was currently setting up for her in the Cook Islands. According to their records, all were legitimate sales (the banks firewalls hadn't been breached).

The bank got their minimal fees for each transaction, so they'd be happy ~ with their share of Lloyd's money. In the final tally, G wasn't stealing anything. She was merely transferring assets the bank 'knew' (and could prove) to be hers to elsewhere. Lloyd had chosen the Cook Islands because they consistently fended of other global economic and legal interests in favor of their patrons.

That was about to come back at him in reverse. Lloyd could complain to the Cook Islands, who would then complain to - who? I was sure the IMF, the Treasury Departments& Finance Ministries of a dozen countries and Interpol would LOVE to fly to the islands and crawl through their records to verify Lloyd's claims of malfeasance. The Cook Islands would decline the assistance. Lloyd's millions were not worth the bank's billions.

Besides, they'd been paid and if Lloyd was proven right, they'd have to give up the thousands in fees the bank had (fraudulently charged him). Plus, they'd look like idiots ~ idiots with an unsecured banking system. Where were we sending all those accounts to? She'd register all the bank accounts and properties in ... Las Vegas, Nevada; the Good Ole US of A. Why?

How was Lloyd going to get back the things he had declared to the Nevada Court system that he didn't own when he screwed G over in their divorce? Everyone acknowledged said entities existed. Lloyd claimed not to own, or control them and they had all been out of US's legal jurisdiction anyway.

All those shell companies were still legal entities in the global financial markets. It had been their internal records that had been shielded. As an example: South Pacifica Reality Investments (SPRI) still existed. The shadowy board of directors who owned all the stock in SPRI had devalued their shares in a series of purchases then they unloaded those depreciated shares to G.

G, as sole stockholder then took over the SPRI, all legal-like. All of those transactions were manually entered into the Cook Islands accounts by Sylas's team (actually by a device the CIA created a few years back ~ it was way faster than any typist). Lloyd had a dozen such entities. They controlled all his properties on four continents as well as most of his tax shelters and illicit off-shore accounts. We were going to take them all.

The only way to attempt to retrieve his wealth was to admit he owned the Cook Islands-based institutions at the end of the shell corporation trail. Having failed to disclose these resources during his divorce trial, I was damn sure he'd never paid taxes on them either. That equated to about 150 years in the penitentiary for federal, state and municipal tax evasion, plus multiple counts of fraud, all on the public record.

G would have to fork out a gratuity (aka taxes) to the biggest extortion racket on the North American continent - the US Federal government - but it would be worth it. I knew G wouldn't get every penny Lloyd had. Dutch Girl would get paid as would Sylas and his crew.

Lloyd would still have his legitimate accounts based on his above board partnership in the richest law firm in the state of Nevada, plus some properties he legitimately owned and charities he controlled (for money laundering purposes). That equated to upwards of $2 million - a pittance compared to his hundreds of millions that he was going to lose.

Was I worried about his legal avenues of attack? No. Lest we forget, thanks to the shootout yesterday, I had the FBI interested in me (but not G). Their attention was an unlooked for complication, yet I'd been trained to improvise and adapt in order to overcome obstacles and turn deficits into strengths. I'd used IAB Detective Lieutenant Trixie Crowe Buchannan to hammer away at Lloyd's police assets.

I hadn't aimed for seriously impairing his influence. I didn't have to because, while I had meant to aim TC at Lloyd, she'd aimed herself at me. I was going to use that. The LVMPD would look incredibly vindictive and venal coming after me now, especially based on such chicanery as anonymous tips, hearsay and questionable evidence. When my name came up on any law enforcement proceedings, the Federal government would want to know why.

G was going to get her vengeance for two decades of humiliation and abuse. Without her knowing the whole game plan, I was going to let her gut Lloyd like a Big Mouth Bass to the tune of over $400 million - after fees and taxes. Georgianna was even going to get her house back and also Lloyd's firm's current office building.

I still had to worry about Mr. Rogers and his nefarious capabilities. Letting Lloyd spiral down into mediocrity probably wasn't his Plan A. He'd think of a way to go after G and I was going to have to be there to counter him. My next hurdle was keeping us in play until Sylas pulled all of this off - which looked like it would be on Saturday night - 10 pm CIT(Cook Islands Time) aka 1 am PDT (Sunday) in Las Vegas.

Before 6 am CIT Sunday morning, Lloyd's assets would start their long journey to the US, chasing the Sun, heading through a host of non-Western banking systems. (Numerous Islamic and Hindi financial institutions did business on Sundays.) When that happened, the first automatic international transactions would take place and it would be out of Lloyd's hands.

It wasn't until the start of business Monday morning ~ 9 am PDT~ that Lloyd would have his first chance to clue in that he'd been financially ass-raped. By then, he would already be in a terrible jam. See, if we did this to drug cartels, evil sheiks, Somali warlords and euro-trash syndicates, they still possessed a criminal organization that could come after us.

We hadn't stolen their guns, minions, or their outrage. Lloyd didn't have the option of using the first two. Oh, he had plenty of people still under his thumb, but coming after us would be a whole hell of a lot harder. He had to play by the rules of the US legal and criminal system. That meant he couldn't torture G to make her give back what she'd stolen.

The US banking system didn't work that way. As a yet another 'fuck you', G was filling out her new 'Last Will and Testament' with one of those on-line legal firms. It would take two business days, thus the need for her to finish it before 1 pm EDT. That meant we could pick it up here on Friday afternoon.

Then we'd file it at 4:55 pm (PDT) at the 8th District's (Las Vegas) Civil Clerk of the Court. G's attorney wouldn't find out about it until he received the certified notice by mail around 1:30 pm, or so, Monday afternoon. Since we all knew he was yet another one of Lloyd's stooges, he would also get the 'You are no longer my Attorney of Record' notice.

That would be seven and a half hours too late for Lloyd to do anything. Banks on the American East Coast began officially processing orders at 9 am EDT. The assets were now (electronically) on US soil. For a few seconds they'd stay in two dozen banks from Bangor, Maine to Miami, Florida.

Then that fortune would make the final trip to pre-screened banks and property management firms in Nevada, which would be completed in about ~ two minutes. I had pre-screened them before I began putting my legal assets under their care. By then it would be too late for anyone to stop G's return to Las Vegas prominence.

The new Will would pretty much guarantee G's life for the time being. If she died, she was leaving it all to twenty of G's favorite 'LOCAL' charities. The locals would fight Lloyd tooth and claw for their 'fair share' of her estate if she mysteriously perished. (She added the Wounded Warrior's Project just for me.) Lloyd was about to learn a lot had changed in the intervening fifteen years since we'd last met face to face.

I took personal satisfaction knowing that Lloyd had dodged all the taxes that other people had contributed to the government that paid for the training that allowed me to fuck him over. I was cautiously happy and optimistic. I felt I was making the world a better place by screwing an evil, monstrous sadist to the wall. That didn't mean I'd let my guard down.

Tons of bad shit could happen to us between now and Monday. I felt I needed some extra insurance, so I called Regan back. She wanted to meet me for lunch and I agreed. I told her where she could find me. It was a very public place and outside of Las Vegas city limits, so less likelihood of any stupid law enforcement malfeasance. 'Stupid' didn't mean it wouldn't happen.

"So, what's with the phone?" G inquired after all the business was dealt with and the Hilton Lake Las Vegas Resort & Spa came into view. The Lagoon Bar and Grill was part of the Hilton complex.

"It turns my mobile phone into a satellite phone," I explained.

"It makes it much harder to track, trace and intercept. It comes highly recommended and it's from South Korea so no one can pressure US firms to cough up information on me."

"Oh wow," Dabney rejoiced. "You've got to get me one of those."

"Why would you need one?" I asked.

"Oh don't know. Because it's cool?"

I sighed. G patted me on the shoulder in sympathy. Dabney was taking to her newfound liberty with a tad too much vigor and too little financial sense. I was familiar with the symptoms. It was something shared with anyone facing a long prison sentence that suddenly was granted freedom.

{Who is shooting at whom?}

The two clerks at front desk of the Hilton gave the three of us the 'hairy eyeball'. I was dressed the way I always was ... like I expected trouble to jump out of every potted fern and air vent. Dabney was apparently recognized from previous visits. G's divorce humiliation had been a media circus. I walked up to the front desk.

"We are going to the Lagoon Bar and Grill then lounge around the pool for a bit," I told them.

"Sir," the word dripped with sarcasm, "poolside service is for guests only."

"Okay," I shrugged. I handed them that black card I always carried.

"What's this?" the assistant manager (the female clerk with pretentions of authority) asked.

"Swipe it and find out," I directed her. She looked terribly put out. Her minion was about to put in that call for security since Dabney was a call girl. She swiped it. Her mouth fell open.

"Yes Mr. Vardanyan. Right away sir. Which room would you like?" her words come out honey-sweet.

"I want the one on the third or fourth floor which provides the best view of the Parking Lot."

"Not a lake view, or a penthouse suite?" she tried to correct me. "The lake is quiet beautiful." It probably cost more too.

"No. People don't tend to come after me from an artificial lake. Like normal folks, they park their cars and come through the front door."

"Huh?" she was clearly confused.

"Your next question is going to drop your tip form 15% to 12%. Food for thought."

"Yes sir. We have a suite on the fourth floor that overlooks both the Parking Lot and Montelago Boulevard. Does that ... I will log you in right away," she blathered.

I retrieved my card and room key then off we went. Did I plan to use the room? I didn't know, but if I needed one I didn't have to break in. Always a plus.

"What kind of credit card is that?" G whispered. "What is the credit limit?"

"Hmmm ... it is September 11th, 10:45 am PDT (Pacific Daylight-savings Time), so it is drawing from the Foreign Minister of Paraguay's illegal slush fund," I answered.

"In fifteen minutes it will be some cock-sucking sheik who thinks smuggling funds to Hamas is a wise course of action," I added. "At noon it becomes the Swiss account of some Russian arms dealer's mistress." That's right. Not only did I have my own secret accounts, I had a host of dirt scumbags' ill-gotten wealth to pillage as well.

The principle was that if I only took a little bit of money, they wouldn't notice. Even if they did, they wouldn't know who to come after (barring a super-good hacker)? Otherwise, the worst that could happen was they would empty that account. For that eventuality, I walked around with $5000 in cash. If someone could beat me up and rob me, losing that amount of small change was the least of my worries.

"How do you remember all of that?" Dabney wondered. "I have trouble remembering to take my birth control pill."

"Dabney, I know a hundred thousand plants by sight, smell, texture and/or taste. Recalling 24 twelve digit bank codes is child's play in comparison," I enlightened her.

"Whoa," Dabney tugged on my arm to get my attention. "I didn't know you were that smart."

I stared at her until the magnitude of her insult took hold.

"Thanks Dabney ... ," I trailed off. I was looking into to the abyssal depths of a seasoned professional killer's eyes. To add to the bizarre, 'it' had three kids sitting across the booth from her (?).

The owner of those eyes was also sitting in MY seat. I wanted to be perched there because it had a clear view of all the exits, including the one that led to the kitchen. It was a perfect vantage point. It took me a second to put all the facial clues together to figure out the killer definitely was a she.

She had very small 'A-cup' breasts and I had some experience with effeminate guys. Looking like a sissy didn't make you one. Unfortunately, the second best booth was the one next to hers and that vantage point would put me with my back to her ~ not something I was looking forward to.

"Take a seat, ladies," I directed my women. I made an elliptical approach to the killer so she could keep a constant watch over me. Spooking her would be BAD.

"Hi," I said to the lithe woman. She had one hand I couldn't see. She had shocking white hair and thin eyebrows that made her reddish-brown irises stand out.

Her skin was pale (she wasn't an albino), she was slight of build, yet wiry like a coiled serpent. Her nearly alabaster skin and hair contrasted with her black tank top nicely. Her red leather jacket had to be hellish in this heat. But it did an adequate job at hiding her two hand cannons in shoulder holsters. My bet was .50 caliber custom jobs. She was slouching slightly, so I couldn't make out her pants.

"Hi," she cautiously replied.

"I'd like to sit in that seat," I motioned with my head toward the booth seat I intended to use.

She thought it over.

"You are the guy from the TV yesterday," she remarked. Then the kids got into it.

"Hey!" the closest squealed - a girl in her mid-teens. The middle kid was on the cusp of puberty and of different genetic stock than the girl. The second boy who was ten, or so, was clearly related to the teenage girl.

Girl: "You kill people."

Middle kid: "You saved that pregnant woman."

Youngest kid: "You blew that guy's head off."

"Yes, I am that guy from yesterday, I don't like shooting reasonable people, and I didn't blow anyone's head off. I shot him in the head and blew off the back part of his skull."

"Wow", "What qualifies as reasonable," and "Cool."

"You shoot a HK45 Compact Tactical," the adult stated. I nodded in response.

"You are pretty good," she started to lose her silent menacing composure. "Can I see it?" Now normally I don't do that, but I had two friends close by.

I raised up my gun hand then carefully withdrew my piece. If she drew down on me, I was close enough to grapple.

"Nice," she weighed my firearm. "Off the shelf. A good buy." She handed it back.

I made double sure she hadn't done something tricky with it. She approved of my caution.

"Jo."

"Nice to meet you, Jo. Are we okay?"

"Yes." That was a statement of fact, not a gift. She thought she could kill me. I backed up to my seat. "I'm babysitting a friend's children and their friend." That was a courtesy.

"I'm expecting someone else. They may, or may not have company," I told her. Like me, she probably loathed surprises. She nodded. It wasn't like she could gracefully exit the situation. They had just received their meals and corralling the kids at this juncture would be the equivalent of herding chickens.

I didn't like children. I especially didn't like it when they turn around in their seat at my back and start talking to me. It made it hard for me to keep a steady watch on my surroundings.

"Are you a police officer?" the youngest one asked me. He was inches away from my ear.

"I'm a paramedic."

"I thought they saved people."

"I save some people and hurt others. I'm multi-talented."

"Can I see your gun?"

"No."

G and Dabney were starting to snicker at me.

"You showed it to Aunt Jo," the tyke countered.

"Does your Aunt Jo let you handle her guns?"

"No..." he moped.

"I think I'll follow Jo's example and not give you a deadly weapon."

"Wise course of action. Benji, leave the man who kills people alone," Jo intervened. The kid obeyed, the waiter took our order and then Reagan showed up alone. That was a whole new level of badness because the second Reagan saw Jo, she blanched. She still made her approach.

"So, you know the woman behind me?" I remarked to Reagan.

"Do you know her?"

"We just met. Her name is Jo and she's on an outing with some children she hasn't introduced me to," I explained.

"I'm Leigh," the fourteen chimed in. "My brother is Benji and Mark is our friend."

I didn't want to know their names. For the same reason I hadn't named G and Dabney. I valued my ladies' lives; giving their names to someone like Jo could rarely end well for either of us.

"Hi Jo," Reagan gave a weak smile.

"What are you doing here?" Jo was far from civil.




Ebb Tide Ch. 03



"I'm having an early lunch with friends," she replied. "Unlike you, I have a social life."

Whoa Nelly. Why was Reagan getting pissy? Why did Reagan have the impression Jo wouldn't flip and end her life ... and mine and G's and Dabney's?

"Chill, Reagan," I intervened. "This is an ugly fu..." damn kids, "fuggly situation. This is four coincidences too many for me in one week." Hell, three was enemy action.

"Hello Reagan," G spoke up. Dabney remained silent. I got the feeling she was under the misconception I wouldn't keep Reagan at bay if the shit got bad. Of course G and Reagan knew each other. Back in the day, she hung out with Ford, her stepson, and me. Dabney's relationship with Reagan was a more recent situation.

In hindsight, when Reagan had spared Dabney's life a year ago, she hadn't made my life any easier. But it was good sex, plus a feeling of belonging I hadn't had since I was a teen. I stood up so Reagan could slide in, leaving me the immediate exit if needed.

"Hello Ms. Norquist," Reagan was downright disrespectful. She slid in so I could resume my seat.

"Dabney, Vance tells me you are behaving yourself," Reagan turned her mob boss persona on my younger lover. She wanted to remind Dabney who had the power at our table.

"So, you wanted to see me," I began. "I want..."

"Let's not discuss business now," Reagan interrupted. That could only mean ...

"Oh shit," I mumbled.

"I heard that," Leigh giggled. At that point a lesser man would have banged his head against the table in frustration and maligned the very nature of the universe until he was unconscious, or babbling like a madman. Me and my fucked up existence.

"Who is she with?" I looked at Reagan.

"What makes you ..." Reagan began to lie to me. "Do you really want to know?"

"As opposed to the possible psycho sitting behind me with two hand cannons remaining one of life's Great Unknown? Yeah, I'd like to know."

Reagan looked over her shoulder at Jo. Jo was playing the cipher.

"She's the chief assassin for the Lord of Wrath, Thulsa Doom," Reagan whispered in my ear. Too many people were getting in my physical space. It was an irritant I didn't need.

Only three words of those words were critical to my survival. Assassin and Thulsa Doom. In my time, I'd know three people who deserved the title of 'assassin' and I'd help kill two of them. The third ... I'd tried and failed. I was sure one of these days that Scandinavian witch was going to show back up in my life ... or put a bullet through my heart at 500 meters. She was an exceptional shot.

Thulsa Doom was Las Vegas' own Merchant of Death. If you sold anything that ended up killing people, wielded the lethal blade, or pulled the trigger, you paid tribute to that black-hearted soul ... or so the legends said. I hadn't wanted to believe in that fairy tale - until that moment.

It was time to work on removing my ignorance. Jo wore two shoulder holsters while my sole gun was on my hip. It allowed me to do this ~ draw my gun and point it against the back rest so I could put a hole in Leigh. I am that guy who would shoot kids to get the job done.

"Jo, I think it would be wise if we cleared some things up," I stared at Jo's chest.

Eye contact was pointless since the danger lay with her arm/hand movements.

"What's going on?" Leigh asked.

"I'm inviting your Aunt Jo to have a little private chat over there," I indicated the restroom's recessed area while keeping my eyes on Jo's chest.

"Why do you want to do that when I'm right here?" Leigh teased me. Jo slowly complied with my wishes.

"Leigh, do you make a habit of walking around armed?" I kept my aim steady.

"Jo does because she's ..." Leigh stopped herself from blabbing family secrets to a near-total stranger.

Jo slid slowly out of her seat then took two steps away from the table, her hands clear from her weapons. I slid out, holstered my .45 and motioned her toward the bathrooms. Oh, she could probably whip out some fancy martial art's move. I might not get my gun out. If I did, I was also the type of man who wouldn't hesitated to kill people no matter what their age out of a sense of revenge.

We migrated toward the privacy of the bathroom antechamber. Jo put her back against the wall.

"Okay," I met her gaze. She was still being a cipher. I had experience with this type of situation. Jo wasn't someone you fucked with without a God damn good reason. I moved to the wall on her left. Odds were if she wasn't born ambidextrous, she'd trained herself to be.

I put my back to the wall about a foot away from her. Jo kept staring forward.

"I find myself needing Reagan right now. You are causing her concern and it would be nice if someone clued me in on what's going on between you two," I said. Jo kept quiet.

"Fine," I shrugged. "Let's go sit back down." Very slowly Jo's head turned to look at me.

"You are the one who drew down on me," she pointed out.

"That is correct," I confirmed. "I've got a basic understanding with Ms. Cho. I can't say the same thing about you. That means you are a complication and my life has too many already."

Jo mulled that over.

"You speak your mind," she stated. "I'm not sure I like that."

"Making you like me isn't one of my immediate goals."

"What is going on between you and Ms. Cho?"

"Not something I can talk about."

"That's not helpful," she looked forward again.

"Would you rather me be the kind of person who would break my agreement with Reagan?"

"The Lord of Wrath controls the arms trade in the region in the same way Circe controls the sex industry," she volunteered. "Do you work for Circe?"

"No, but I owe her for not killing my younger friend."

"Very well. Just so you know what you are getting into, The Lady of Lust is not someone you want to be indebted to."

"Thank you for that piece of advice. I appreciate it," I replied honestly.

"We both know you are the type of man who kills anyone who gets in your way," Jo meant she knew my threat wasn't totally empty, "and that you had your safety on. That was a serious risk you took. I'd kill anyone without hesitation who threatened those kids. As it is, I feel you owe me now as well."

"That's Peachy. Still, I'm good with owing you now that I have some idea who you are. Besides, you weren't likely to murder someone in front of the children," I added.

Jo conceded the point with a nod.

"I think we've kept our associate dependents waiting long enough," I suggested. Jo nodded.

I was of the opinion Jo grudgingly gave up every word she spoke. We walked back to our respective tables.

"Did you ask Aunt Jo out on a date?" Mark asked. I hated kids.

"I did, but she only dates men of high moral character," I replied deadpan.

"Jo doesn't date at all," Leigh point out while not so subtly hinting she did. What could possibly possess that teenager to think I wanted to commit suicide by underage pussy?

"Having high standards isn't a character flaw, Leigh," I related.

"But you are a hero?" Benji piped up. "She'd like to date a hero."

Why? Why would Jo want to date me and why would I want to date her? I was barely adjusting to the two women I liked, had a history with and even their constant proximity was wearing on my patience.

"Vance asked me out and I said 'yes'," Jo enlightened us all. I hid my horror well.

Dabney and G were not so gifted, or restrained.

"Why would you date her?" Dabney grumbled. "She's not even pretty." That's right Dabney. Go out of your way to irritate someone I was cautious around ... you know, lethal.

"I'm attracted to her constant silence, Dabney. Her ability to keep her mouth shut before saying something rude, uncalled for and possibly personally unfortunate," I grimaced.

"She looks like a boy," Dabney muttered.

"Dabney, there is clearly something going on here that we don't understand yet," G warned the younger woman. No one was corralling Leigh.

"Dabney," Leigh turned in her seat, knees on the cushions, "how old are you?" Ugh.

"Twenty-six," Dabney replied. "Vance looked after me when I was just a kid. I've loved him for a long, long time," which was aimed at me. Fuck, was I being sized up for a nose ring?

"Do you love Dabney?" Leigh kept coming. I came here for a meal and a chat with Reagan so we could delineate Dabney's future, not satisfy a teenager's curiosity.

"Six hours in the past two days," I responded. Leigh didn't get it right off the bat. Dabney sighed happily while G blushed.

"Enough," Jo quietly compelled Leigh to turn around and attend to her lunch. Our own meals arrived. The Lagoon Bar and Grill was filling up which didn't make my job easier.

While I was eating my steak (I don't really like steak, but with steak comes a steak knife), I saw another historical landmark reappearing in my life. I recognized him. He may not have remembered me. I had been a lot younger when we last crossed paths. His look remained unperturbed and his reactions, if any, were guarded ~ which was normal for him.

Another worrisome couple arrived ten minutes later. I saw the bulge that strongly suggested a concealed firearm. He gave Jo, me and the other newcomer a scan I would have missed if I as a more trusting soul. The depth of our companionship must have put him at ease. The hot young lady with a dark complexion and long, luxurious black hair with him certainly helped. He held her chair while she chatted amicably. There were too many distractions for my comfort.

"Let's go poolside," G suggested. "Vance reserved a room as well."

"Good idea," Reagan nodded. It was a good idea, just ten seconds too late. Out by the pool, eight men (Group A) who didn't belong there were coming our way. Their two duffels were out of place and menacing.

Two more groups inside the restaurant - the first six (Group B) in the middle of the room (one duffel held by the fifth man) the other seven (Group C) closer to the bar (no duffel) -were winding their way through the tables toward me, as well. All the duffels were big enough for combat shotguns and carbines.

Instead of going for the serious hardware, they had out pistols mainly, pointed down and pretending they weren't obviously here to bungle an attempt on someone's life. It hadn't escaped me they could be coming for Jo. Both assassins and rambunctious paramedics could accumulate their fair share of enemies. A quick analysis indicated they weren't brain surgeons, or even good hitmen.

They were blocking themselves in and were ignoring the solidity of the booths we reclined in. The inner wall of the booths was against the restaurant dividing wall. Between the thickness of the booth structure and the depth of a wall meant to support the hotel above us (filled with heat resistant insulation) we had a miniature, pistol-proof, fortress.

"Everyone down," I hissed.

"Get under the table," Jo quietly commanded her wards. As for our attackers, it was their fatal, final exam time with a steep grading curve and they clearly hadn't studied ... or even attended classes. They were staring right at us. Their attentiveness indicated my table was the target.

I wasn't sure if it was Reagan, or me, but legality meant I had to wait until they went from stupid to stupid-killable. 'Me' moving to the very edge of the booth was all the 'provocation' they needed. I wasn't absolutely sure yet, but I suspected Jo was mirroring my move. Drawing first was the smart thing to do. It was what my military training had honed my instincts to do.

It was also the reaction that would land you in jail for multiple counts of Manslaughter (if you were lucky) or 2nd degree Murder (if you weren't). Reagan was already sliding under the table. Dabney and G weren't as fast. The first guy, a medium sized black man with a white dew rag in group B, revealed his S&W Model 629 .44 Magnum - good at intimidation - a bit too heavy for waving around.

It was the 'Hunter' type with the nifty little scope on top. I counted off the milliseconds until civilian 'Rules of Engagement' turned me from aggressor to victim. His intent was to shoot with his right hand while he was shifting to a side-facing position. Since I was between Jo and the attackers, I was obliged to quick-draw while going to a kneeling stance.

I felt constrained to let him get first crack. He was adding to his list of insults to shootists everywhere by make his first pull of the trigger while he was still holding his Magnum sideways. That bullet passed through the spot Reagan's head had just vacated. The gun kicked and he'd be almost two seconds drawing a bead on me. I didn't have to wait any longer. Bang!

I caught him in the Manubrium ~ that's the top of the sternum. The bullet shattered his fifth cervical vertebrae. The second and third people in group B had been shielded by the lead man's body.

The fourth person, an overly-bulked out woman with a pink Mohawk, was raising up a mini-Uzi from under her short leather jacket where she'd been (theoretically) concealing it. She was slow and too bunched up with her teammates between two tables to get a clear shot. I didn't have her problems. My .45 hit her in the jugular notch and exited her trapezius, blowing off a third of her neck.

I planned on the arterial spray from Mohawk woman to have a demoralizing effect. Even as the recoils was passing up my arm, Jo fired twice with remarkably rapidity - not a single action. Before that moment, I'd only seen people fire two guns in the movies. Jo was behind me, but my ears were keeping me abreast of her movements.

The physics of a 5' 8" woman roughly 115 lbs. (she was wiry, tight with dense muscles) absorbing the recoil of TWO alternate-firing .50 caliber custom-made handguns was a technique my mind would analyze later. All I knew was I felt more comfortable using a two hand grip with my sole HK45 Compact Tactical.

By unspoken plan, we were taking out the leaders in the two (B&C) groups inside first. I was kneeling and by the sound of her fire, she was moving to the left toward the bar. She was also mowing down seven men approaching us from that way. Seriously, they should have had body armor. Jo and I didn't because we had come here to get a bite to eat with people we cared for.

It was reasonable to assume they had come here expecting a firefight. In a peripheral manner, I was aware that Jo's first two shots were lethal. The lead player in C, a forty-something, greying white guy, was raising up a .38. He had spent too much of his life smoking, drinking and poor living. Jo's .50 caliber slug took him left of center chest - heart shot.

That bullet, having passed through him between the ribs, proceeded to fatally wound the man behind him, a big, white dufus whose vacuous stare spoke to borderline retardation. A third man in the line-up, a white guy, painfully over-weight with thinning, slick-backed hair - was partially shielded by his companions. Jo's other gun caught him just above the left elbow, severing the flabby limb.

Jo and I shared a problem. The dying men in front of us weren't falling down fast enough. Seamlessly, I pivoted and shot the sixth and seventh men in Group C's line-up; two black men who looked closely related and strung out on meth. The sixth man's sawed off shotgun, triggered by his body spasm, blasted the fifth man, a short, wiry Hispanic, in the back.

She killed the fifth and sixth shooters in my group; a stocky, older Hispanic male and a tall, thin, Amerindian looking fucker. Jo's movement allowed her to flank my group. Her group (C) had been trying to catch us in a crossfire with group (A) by moving along the bar. It should be noted there were six civilians in the kill zone. None of them had started to react yet.

"Moving forward," I called out as I went into a slightly crouched stance and closed the distance. I was quick-stepping it in their direction. Three tables back and straight ahead, I saw that older gentleman I'd recognized earlier drawing a Colt 1911 .45 ACP. In that split second, three tragic accidents were avoided - Jo didn't shoot him and he didn't shoot her.

The second, unexpected ally, the guy in the far corner of the room, drew down on the moron hit squad instead of deciding to shoot any of us. I was moving toward the remnants of group B, so that when the four of us turned on Group A, I wouldn't be in her line of fire. The four surviving enemy combatants in the dining area were finally getting into the fight.

By shifting to get clean shots at Jo and I, they were unmasked by their dead companions. The last two on my group (B) broke left and right. The guy to the right tried to use an older (spectator) woman as a shield. I put a slug through his right eye with the accompanying brain and skull splatter to the tables behind him. I continued moving forward.

The last guy in 'B' - the one going left - pitched forward as the elder ex-serviceman shot the bastard in the back. In the left corner, another 'hero' was coming into play. He'd been pushing his date to the ground as he drew his Sigma series S&W40. He had run out of immediate targets as Jo cut through the last two in her group. He didn't even bother tracking me, Jo, or the third man.

He pointed his pistol poolside, pulled the trigger and began shattering glass and bodies. That was the cue for the rest of us to unleash hell in that direction. Eight men meant we all got two would-be killers in our target zone. The new guy took the far left, the third shooter took the center-left, Jo aimed for the right center duo and I took down the remaining two on the right.

It was common knowledge that shooting though glass can really screw with your bullet's trajectory. Manifestly, none of us heeded that principle of physics. We got off eleven shots, re-categorizing seven bodies to their new, deceased status. The eighth? He was already running for his life by the time we began shooting and barely edged out of our fourth (our second ally) irate citizen's view.

Due to tactical considerations, I shot the big, black man who had the look of a prize-fighter-muscular, but clearly having taken a great deal of fists to the face over his career. He was acting in a leadership role without exhibiting any real talent for it. His S&W MP40 barked twice. The first shot whizzed past my left ear. The second spun past closer to the old man.

Our temporary allies put multiple rounds into the women holding the duffels. Both targets went down in quick succession before they could access any of their heavy weapons. Both had been pulling out AR-14's.They had been two hillbilly-looking fuckers. In this city, despite their superior sizes, they were probably degenerate gamblers, not killers.

The remaining four sheep - I couldn't consider them true combatants -began to scramble for cover. The fifth one was turning out to be a rabbit. The furniture outside was designed for easy rearrangement, not a gunfight. All of our firearms could easily penetrate the light aluminum circular tables.

The chairs were even worse - hollow aluminum frames with cotton straps providing the seats for the occupant. Of the two non-combatants out there, one, a boy in his late teens, was already diving back into the pool. The older woman, maybe his mother, rolled off her fully-reclined lounger onto the cement surface.

A huge Hispanic man, was distracted by her scantily clad movement. That was the last mistake of his life. I put a bullet in his right ear. An overly tanned woman in her later thirties / early forties crouched down and got off two quick shots. Her 9 mm impacted the dividing wall without enough force to punch through.

She realized that and began raising her aim. Inside the restaurant, a bullet passed by my right ear, outward bound. Joe's guns had thundered twice more. The woman aiming at me pitched over backwards; the first .50 caliber slug hit her in the chest, showering body-bits into the pool. Two of the remaining four scrambled for the duffels; a heavy-set black woman and a smartass, a black man who was attempting to look slick.




Ebb Tide Ch. 03



The black woman turned her back on us as she bent over; pulling up a shotgun. Jo decided to pick off the other smartass, the black guy. He was presenting a side-view. She obliged his stupidity by putting a bullet between his fourth and fifth ribs so that it traversed his chest cavity and went sailing over the pool, then Lake Las Vegas and, if it missed a random golfer, off into the desert.

The black woman had enough sense to try and flip over a table to use as cover. Our third shooter's next bullet (he'd killed the duffel-carrying hillbilly that had been to our right) passed through her nasal cavity, out the back of her skull and went chasing after the Jo's round. The eighth and last man, white - in his early twenties, had already turned away and was running for his life.

The police frowned on shooting fleeing people in the back, so we reined in our instincts and let him go. I changed magazines in one smooth, rapid process. I would collect the spent mag when / if things were finally over. The situation was that three men and one woman, none of which truly knew one another let our eyes flicker about.

The fourth guy went first; holstering his S&W as he knelt by his date. She was muttering something in a language I didn't know. That was when normal reality kicked in. People began screaming, crying and running for exits. Idiots. They had no clue that the shootout ~ as much as it was ~ had concluded.

There was one person moaning. That was the guy whose arm Jo had blown off. Jo spared me a moment.

"Are you okay?" she asked, her voice calm and emotionless. I nodded. We both looked to the older guy.

"Do you have any idea who they were?" I asked him as I holstered my piece.

"No idea," he shook his head. His gun went back home as well. That made Jo comfortable enough to put her hand cannons away. In real combat, you make sure the people you shot are dead. In this case, it had been a slaughter.

Whomever sent these people our way had been moronic and incredibly tactically inept.

"Dabney, G, Reagan - call out," I was in my own state of combat-calm. Panic wasn't something a man like me could afford.

"I'm okay," G sung out.

"V, are you okay?" Dabney was starting to tear up. She'd been pressed down on the seat. G crawled out from under the table on all fours. Reagan slithered up on the far side of our table.

"Benji, Leigh Mark; time to go," Jo's voice was more insistent. I could understand that. Hotel cameras had record the events and I was way too recognizable. Jo and company were in a different situation. She was likely unknown. Successful assassins prized their anonymity. It made little things, like moving through airport security, less of a hassle.

"Reagan, can you get the ladies out of here?" It wasn't really a request.

"Sure thing," she responded nervously. "This way, I know we'll talk later."

Reagan saw more than her fair share of misery and death, but that didn't make her a killer, or a combatant. People had been trying to kill her ~ maybe.

Bullets had been flying, Jo and I had dealt with the threat and it was time for her to not be a witness to multiple murder.

"Vance, I don't want to leave you," Dabney came up and hugged me. G wrapped her up and began pulling her away.

"Dabney, you don't want to be here when the cops arrive. We'll talk later. Now go!" I insisted forcefully.

Jo was already rounding up her mini-squad and herding them out. She spared me a quick glance, then was hurrying for the exit. It was time for me to do some damage control. The second ally was calming down his 'date'. Her voice had an odd, heavy accent.

"Is this what America is like?" she asked her companion in halting English.

"Only on Saturday nights and the occasional, random Thursday," he joked. "Let's go to the lobby," he coaxed her loud enough so that rest of us knew he wasn't running away - like Jo. I noticed G and Dabney shooting me worried looks out of the corner of my eye. That left me and the old guy.

"Brigand, are you somehow involved with this?" the man, 'Gunrunner', asked me. Brigand had been my SEAL call sign. I hadn't trained with this man. He was from before my time, but he'd trained several of my instructors and they thought he walked on water. Worse, he was a sniper.

Snipers are their own breed and it didn't take long for me to decide I didn't have what it took to be one. I had cross-trained as a spotter though ... which only reinforced my desire to not be a sniper. In a way it was career affirming that he'd remembered my name.

"If I say 'no', will you believe me," I replied, "Gunrunner?"

"You are a Naval Corpsman," he chuckled in a completely relaxed manner; as if killing three stooges before lunch was a perfectly normal thing to do. "You are expected to lie upon occasion."

"In that case, 'I've never seen any of these people before and I don't care to speculate on their intentions," I grinned.

It was the classic 'what you tell the civilians' response. If they kept up the delusional thinking that one of us would tell them the truth, it was JAG time. He was about to say something else, except the carnage of human frailty was all around. It was time for me to play paramedic. I was already heading for task #1 on my damage control plan.

"Ma'am?" I went to the mature woman poolside who had thrown herself on the ground.

"Ah ..." she squinted up at me fearfully. I crouched down and handed her the sunglasses that had flipped away when she made her roll. The noontime Sun was beating down on us. The few wispy clouds provided no shade.

The woman's fear became confusion then blossomed into recognition.

"Mom?" the young man from the pool called out.

"Ma'am, are you okay?" She was collecting herself. A white band on her ring finger suggested a recent divorce.

"Yes ... yes I am," she smiled as I helped her up. "Are you the ..."

"Yes, I am. I need to go check on the others now," I calmed her. "Why don't you move over there?" I pointed away from the carnage close by. "Wait for the Police to arrive." I returned inside. Public relations exposure was the proper ploy for me at the moment.

I needed eyewitnesses telling the cops good things about me. Outside was easy. I didn't have to walk over the dead to help the woman. It was an easy twenty seconds for maximum reward. Inside would be tougher. There were staff and patrons surrounded by the slain. The armless man had quieted down.

He'd been too shocky to do anything useful with his stump and I was willing to let him bleed to death. I went to a screaming waitress who was doused in fountaining blood from the Mohawk woman I'd shot. I snatched up an unused cloth napkin, dipped it in water and then gently began cleaning the blood off her face.

"Miss, you are not wounded," I soothed her. Dealing with physical and emotional trauma was my chosen profession. Even Marines got freaked out from time to time. A tap on the nose brought eye-to-eye contact. She became lost in my gaze, her breathing grew steady and her pulse stopped imitating that of a race horse down the final stretch.

"I ... dead people," she mumbled. "Is it over?"

"The shooting - yes. The police will have questions," her name tag read, "Jennifer, you need to start asking the patrons what they want to drink, keep them here and help me keep things calm. "Can you do that?" I continued. Jennifer nodded.

"Alcohol is okay. Nothing to eat because post-stress nerves might cause vomiting. Let's get started," I spoke with quiet authority. In a crisis, people responded best to quiet, decisive voices. Give a person sensible directions and a job to take their minds off the horrors they just witnessed. I pulled her up by the arm. She could take it from there.

I did the same while moving through the rest of the room until the first member of the LVMPD - the Hilton was outside of the city, but the LVMPD had inherited most of Clark County's unincorporated areas as well as many of the smaller municipalities ~ like Paradise, which was the 'municipality' of the Las Vegas Strip. It was of no surprise that they both had their standard issue Smith & Wesson Model 659 9mm's out.

I stood up, raising my hands over my head.

"I'm Vance Vardanyan. I have a pistol and a Concealed Carry Permit. It is on my left hip," I announced clearly. I'd hate to have them try to shoot me and have to kill them as well. They started a careful approach, one pointing his sidearm at me while the other scanned for other threats. The armless guy had thankfully shed this mortal coil.

I would rely on Reagan to figure out why this crazy shit happened.

"Hey, you are that guy from yesterday," he relaxed slightly. His accent was Bostonian. "The paramedic MedicWest canned."

"That'd be me," I confessed. They identified themselves as Officers L. Galloway and A. Sanchez.

That turned out to be Liam and Alonzo. Liam didn't care. Alonzo had a stick up his ass so I ended up letting Liam do all the talking.

"That was fucked up," Galloway continued. "I hear you saved Sgt. Dunston's life. Thanks."

"At this point obsessing on the past seems irrelevant," I shrugged. I still had my hands up.

"Oh," Galloway noticed. "You can put your hands down. What happened here?" I went over the fire-fight without hinting that I knew who any of the other gun-wielders on my side, or the name of any of Jo's children. I did identify Dabney and Georgianna, though I didn't know their current location. Witnesses were not required to stick around, or make statements to the police.

'Reagan' was an unknown and unnamed acquaintance of Dabney, which was okay since Dabney had a criminal record. Why had they left? They weren't accustomed to all the blood and death. Sane people ran from such things. Standard hotel surveillance was visual only - no audio - which meant no evidence what we talked about at the table and the bathroom cove was a visual dead zone.

I walked the two officers through the fight as seen from my vantage point. When asked if I could have saved the guy missing part of his arm, I said 'Yes. I decided to check for possible victims first.' By the time I'd finished, six more officers had arrived. Two had the presence of mind to bring their Model 870 shotguns.

When the homicide detectives showed up, I was sipping on a tall glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, courtesy of Jennifer, and chatting it up with Officer Galloway. One of the Sgt.'s directed him to make sure I didn't vanish along with half of the survivors involved.

"Mr. Vardanyan," the lead Detective greeted me with a smirk. "Are you on a one-man crusade to rid Las Vegas of our criminal element?"

"If I was, you wouldn't be finding the bodies so easily," I bantered back. "ID's."

"Still hate cops, Vardanyan?" the second officer said as they both brandished their ID. For a man who wanted to live below the radar, casual law enforcement comradery was the opposite of what I wanted. Today I had Det. Sgt.'s M. Griffin and L. Sabatini. 

"With a passion," I grinned. "Liam here is trying to convince me that you guys are actual terrestrial entities, but I'm still looking for the zipper on his 'human' suit."

"Do you really hate cops?" Galloway thought the two were joking with him.

"Yes he does," Sabatini answered.

"Yeah, Liam," I sighed, "because they act like assholes and answer questions aimed at other people without fear of being taken to task by Ms. Manners." Galloway still thought a joke was being played on him.

"I am going to see if the other two shooters are more cooperative," Griffin spoke up.

He headed Gunrunner's way. I would have wished him luck with the 'Old Man', except that would have been disingenuous. Gunrunner had killed three people in under eight seconds. Like ... well, the other three of us hit what we were shooting at and killed everyone we hit ~ just like me.

"So, Vardanyan ..." Sabatini began.

"Call me Vance," I huffed. "I have a feeling we are going to be seeing a lot more of each other."

"Fine Vince ... Officer Galloway, you can leave now," Griffin continued. Reluctantly the patrolman left.

"Vince ..."

"It is Vance, Dick-tic-tac Suppository," I corrected him. "You can be 'like that', or you can accept that I've been interrogated by people who had the power of life and death over me. Your primitive annoyance tactics merely make me want to be as helpful as you are polite."

"Vance, let's start with how many people did you kill today? By the ambulance people hanging around the front entrance I figure no one lived," Sabatini inquired.

"Today, or only today - here?" I snorted in derision.

"How about we start on the past hour and work our way back?" he answered.

"Seven. Those two," I pointed to two of the corpses by the bar, "those three," the three corpses I'd killed initially, "and two of the seven outside. One ran away. His face is on the cameras and he should be easy enough to hunt down. He's the guy in his early twenties who has pissed on himself and dumped a serious load in his shorts (underwear)."

"Who killed the other fourteen?"

"Good Samaritans," I said. "Apparently Good Samaritans who practice with firearms regularly."

"What did that one hit them with?" Griffin looked over one of Jo's kills.

"Bullets," I answered completely deadpan. "I'm sure if she'd thrown table wear, I would have noticed."

The rest of the Q&A processes was as productive ~ which is to say I was as little of help as possible. They took my current pistol, making it a grand total of two now in the Police Evidence Locker. I only had twenty-two registered ones left, which was barely acceptable in my cautionary opinion. That was twenty-two pistols, not total number of firearms.

After the official on-sight interrogation and collection of all the supporting testimony, plus the physical and video evidence, they let the three of us go. I finally got to talk to the second guy who'd stepped up and helped. His name was Brent Black. He was a private security specialist, neither military nor mercenary. That meant he was a professional bodyguard.

This was his first date with the woman he was with. Her name was Tamari Bolkvadze, from Georgia (the country) who currently worked at a software design firm in Hong Kong. Gunrunner and I wished him luck. Her waiting in the front lobby and not being in her room, packing up and heading back to the airport, was a good sign.

Gunrunner and I were kind enough to wait with the lady while Brent went to his car for his 'back-up' main firearm. He had once possessed a back-up .32, but the cops had taken that too. After the couple went off to her room ~ he'd driven up from Arizona ~ me and the 'Old Man' went out to the parking lot. By unspoken consensus we went to his car first, so he could rearm.

Since the bad guys were definitely not after him, that was the safer move.

"The police appear to know you well," Gunrunner commented. If there was any doubt, that was not a positive accusation.

"I retired two months ago and I'm trying to keep a low profile," I replied. Gunrunner snorted.

"If this is your best effort, Brigand, you might want to re-enlist. The US will be safer that way."

"I retired from the 'Teams' three years ago. I was otherwise employed," I said. That meant the SOG (aka CIA) 90% of the time.

"I thought you were smarter than that," he taunted me.

I was busy retrieving my next .45 Compact Tactical from the gun safe in my trunk.

"Apparently not." Pause. "I ran across CAM a few days back, here in Vegas. He's working private security now (a bodyguard). He's looking good - better."

"Tell him to call me sometime," Gunrunner allowed.

Ex-SEAL, or not; hanging around an out-of-control junkie who happened to be a trained killer was never a safe thing. If I thought CAM was in control of himself, there wouldn't be a problem. I was a corpsman so my opinion mattered a smidge more. The LVMPD had cordoned off all the entrances to the Hilton, keeping the press at bay as the coroners came and went.

One of the two remaining ambulances retained a lone vigil. The first one had taken away a female patron complaining of chest pains. The newshounds were using their cameras to sweep the parking lot. I was in a spot covered by two service vans, so 'Old Man' and I weren't visible. He didn't need the scrutiny.

"Take care," Gunrunner grinned as he turned to leave. "You seem to have attracted the wrong kind of friends."

"I'll keep that in mind," I joked back. There was no 'thank you - you're welcome' passing between us. Not helping one another would have been the oddity.

Had the attackers identified themselves as law enforcement, or had I not engaged them, Gunrunner would have let events unfold without intervening. Once those stupid sons of bitches brought their guns out (which they had done in the lobby), Gunrunner was going to get involved. I would have done the same thing.

Mr. Black was undoubtedly upstairs right now, getting some victory pussy. I wished him luck making the second date better than the first one. For me, the next hurdle was exiting the parking lot. The reporters didn't stampede, so I slowed down and answered a few non-specific questions.

#1 "Why was I there?"

"The Lagoon Bar & Grill had great food."

I didn't tell the reporters the truth. I hadn't been rating the LB&G cuisine. My mind had been pre-occupied the entire time and I hadn't had a chance to order dessert. Throwing the place a bone (they would need a week remodeling) felt like the community-conscious thing to do since Las Vegas was my home town once again.

#2 "Did I know the people involved?"

"The ones trying to kill me? No."

#3 "What about the people that weren't trying to kill me? "

"I was concentrating on the ones who were trying to kill me. It seemed the prudent thing to do at the time."

#4 "Was this the Playboy Bloods, "Florencia 13"s, or another group of the Sureños?"

"No comment."

#5 "Were there any survivors?"

"No comment."

#6 "Would I consent for an interview?"

"Not yet. I'll let the police make their announcements." I knew my attitude was fucking with the LVMPD's mind. Yeah, I vocally hated them, but I also was being an excellent witness by not yammering critical details to the media. I'd let their 'unnamed source' do that.

#7 "Didn't I hate cops?"

"Yes. That doesn't mean I think the whole department is incompetent. This is their job and I plan to let them do it."

#8 "Did I hate the free press?"

"Journalists were people ~ both good, hard-working, honest souls and utter scumbags who gave bottom-feeders a bad name. As for 'free'. If I found a member of the 'free press', I wouldn't expose them out of common courtesy from one endanger species to another." I would let them figure out which group I didn't like.

#9 "I was an ex-SEAL. Had I killed people before?"

"Did they mean full-formed human beings, pets with rights, or sperm cells?" That went over well. A few female reporters blushed. Yeah - right.

#10 "Did I think something like this would happen again?"

"Since I don't know what has just happened today at the Hilton, I don't believe I have enough data to make a proper prognostication." I didn't use big words to stump less intelligent people. I used them because that was what language skills were for - to adequately define what you meant. I had little doubt more than one of the reports thought I followed the zodiac, or something else equally inane.

#11 "It was reported that I was meeting someone and/or on a date?"

"Are you suggesting I'm seeing someone, or insinuating I might be lonely and you are asking me out?"

#12 "If they took me to dinner, would I grant them an interview?"

"No. That would make one of us a prostitute."

#13 "Did this..."

"Nope. Sorry. No more questions. I'm way past my limit for socialization for the moment. Thank you and good-bye - and if one of you think that jumping in front of my car in order to keep me from leaving is prudent, you might want to consider that I accidently sent some people to the Medical Examiner yesterday and odds were I've done something similar today ... and today isn't over yet."




Ebb Tide Ch. 03



{Origins of the Disloyalists}

Stunningly, they got out of my way and I hurried off ~ at the speed limit. I knew the principles of public relations. I simply hated using them. Besides ... I was trying to evade justice. My only regular path of egress was the Las Vegas Parkway south to Route 564. From there, I should have headed west into Henderson.

A man living a sin-free life would have headed that way, because it was the fastest way home. The only way to deviate from that was to head east when I hit 564, then headed up Route 147 north where it turned into Lake Meade Rd. That would circle around near Nellis Air Force Base and Sunrise Manor (another suburb).

I was the opposite of angelic and never much into trusting others, or not making contingencies. There was a service road for maintaining the power lines running N-S and I could reach it. The speed limit in such areas was ... questionable. I'd been looking forward to test my upgraded suspension on my Corvette anyway, so off I went.

It was the eastern branch of Lake Butte Rd. and wasn't designed for anything but 4X4 and dirt bike traffic. No one would be expecting me to take a sports car that way. The only downside to it was the dust cloud my passage was making. I had to wind my way north until I hit Route 147 ... the same road I'd met Reagan and CAM on, last Monday night, just farther to the southeast.

The net result of this was that it allowed me to scoot around the City of Las Vegas. 147 circled north, then into North Las Vegas due south of Nellis Air Force. North Las Vegas had its own law enforcement jurisdiction - not part of the LVMPD. Rumor had it the two weren't married to the concept of helping one another. Considering my personal problems to date, that was a benefit I'd be a fool to ignore at the moment.

When I reached Route 147 (aka Lake Meade Blvd.), I tapped my messaging service to check on Dabney, G and Reagan. They were good ... at my place ... they had taken Reagan into my home. Was I the only fucking person in Las Vegas who knew what Operational Security meant? Sigh. To be fair, I was the public owner of record.

I'd bought it in my own name, mainly because it discouraged people from thinking to look for my other properties. I owned a dozen places (mostly rattraps) under assumed names, scattered about the quad-state area ~ Southeastern California, South and Central Nevada, Southwestern Utah and Northern Arizona. Anyway, the girls were fine. I also had a message from TC (IAB Detective Lieutenant T. [Trixie] Crowe Buchannan).

"Where the fuck are you!" was how she answered the phone. I guess I was the only one without a Caller ID to give her a ring in some time, or maybe she was terribly rude.

"Why do you want to know?"

"Because you were involved in a shoot-out, Stupid," she growled.

"I didn't shoot any cops. No cops shot at me. What's your problem?" I answered.

"I want to talk with you," she insisted.

"I'm now at the point where I am wondering why I would want to talk with you," I told her. "Care to help me out here?" There was a long pause.

"What happened?" she broke the silence. That gave me a chance to study the background noises from her end. She was driving a car and not alone. Someone with her was trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

"Why don't the five of us do dinner?" I suggested.

"Five?"

"You are on speaker, not Blue Tooth, which suggests you are driving and someone else is listening in. I'm not clairvoyant, so I don't know who it is. I imagine there is a reason they are with you and it's not likely you are on official business. I know you were taken off the case, remember?"

"It is Detect ... Soledad," the other person identified themselves.

"This is awkward," I replied, "since I've already dealt with Detectives Griffon and Sabatini. They refused to give me their first names so I refused to be of any help beyond the minimum required by law." To do less could be misconstrued as Obstruction of Justice.

"I gave Sabatini all the relevant - to me - details," I responded. "Since you don't know what's going on, I have to conjecture you two have become Rogue Crusaders for Justice. That fusion of morality, professionalism and pragmatism elevate you both in my eyes. What can I do for you?"

"Are you mocking me?" TC accused me.

"No. Mocking either of you doesn't help me," I related. "I am genuine in my willingness to look past your badges and recognize you as something more than liabilities to my desire to live free."

"You are an asshole," Soledad remarked.

"I'll challenge that opinion over dinner," I offered. "I'll attempt to be as useful to you as you are to me."

"Are you okay?" TC repeated. Oh, damn it.

"Why do you like me, or even care? As Soledad said, I'm an asshole."

"I don't care about you," TC evaded. "I don't have much of a case without you."

"The case you are no longer on?" I pointed out.

"The case has been 'set aside' pending further information, or complaints," TC quoted the official spiel.

"Pretty much what I expected," I shrugged.

"Then why did you drop this turd in my lap?" TC snapped.

"TC, keep in mind that I hit everything I shoot at and I kill everything I hit," I reminded her. "You are not now, nor have you ever been, the person I'm after."

"Are you really going after Lloyd Pharris?" Soledad murmured.

"We'll discuss your utter lack of communication security when you stop my place tonight," I countered. "Pick up something for six. Surprise us."

"You are assuming a great deal," TC responded.

"Not really. You have two things in your favor. You expect me to do something for you," I said. I let that hang there.

"What's the other thing?" Soledad broke down because TC wouldn't.

"I don't want you in my life. Since that desire has completely backfired during the past week, I feel a certain sense of foreboding just talking to you two," I confessed.

"I concur with Soledad; you ARE an asshole."

"Okay."

"Okay?" TC sounded suspicious.

"Okay. We are back to Tuesday afternoon with you and yesterday afternoon with Soledad," I explained.

"Your opinions of my personality don't matter to me. What matters is that you find me useful, without the need to regurgitate your most recent meal or shower in scalding water after we part ways."

TC was about to get incredibly defensive.

"Do you think we find your assessment of us anymore credible?" Soledad stepped in.

"Yes, because I base my attitude and judgment of you two as being driven professionals who have an ounce of consideration for your oaths of office," I countered. "I don't care if you fart, pick your noses and think Rosie O'Donnell is the greatest comedic talent of the 20th century."

"My opinions are based on your skills and willingness to use them, nothing more."

"We'll be there in an hour," TC spoke. "Bye." She was gone and I was left wondering ... I'd actually gotten some serious tail in High School. I was a 'bad boy' and never much thought about it. I nailed chicks that dated jocks yet wanted to take a walk on the wild side.

I was fearless about it. In the service, I had never struck out at a bar. I didn't make a habit of going to one without comrades. I hadn't been a horn-dog and I'd never use my dangerous career to get laid. I certainly wasn't a Casanova. I had to re-examine my relationship with Dabney and G. Could they have been drawn to me sexually? The idea seemed rather far-fetched.

Reagan was waiting for me. The dynamics inside my beloved bunker had to be an Estrogen Inferno by now. I almost fell on my knees and thanked the Supreme Being when I discovered they had locked my doors - BOTH of them! As I unlocked the screen door, the front main door swung open. Dabney was improving her aerodynamic assaults.

I receive a face full of cleavage as she leapt upon me. She'd changed clothes. Why? It was a woman thing that I didn't understand. She'd also been very liberal with the perfume she'd figured out I liked (found the least offensive) and dabbed it between her bountiful mounds ... that she'd incased a 'push up' bra. I didn't knew they made them in her size.

I needed my right hand free, so I put my left hand on her ass and held her in place.

"Oh God, I thought you'd been arrested!" she exclaimed. Replying wasn't physically possible so I finished walking her in, locked the screen door then the main door. All the while, I was holding my breath. Her bra was purposely shoving her boobs into my mouth.

Air wasn't a problem. SEALs are divers and have great breath control. I also knew my house layout and could walk the entire thing blindfolded ~ which I did regularly. Bumping my shin into the coffee table was an unwelcome surprise. Mother-fucker! They had moved my stuff. Playfully hurling Dabney in the direction my sofa was supposed to be stopped being an option.

I could peel her off, but there were easier ways to do things rather than applying brute force. I walked my right hand up to her underarm while Dabney rained kisses down the top of my head, or tried to - face full of cleavage. She gasped, giggled and then rocked backwards while wrapping her legs around my waist. Her crotch was humping my belt buckle.

Now she was at a thirty degree angle leaning away from me. I could see she wasn't worried one bit. She was using her concern as an excuse to molest me in front of company.

"Dabney, would you like to go back to the bedroom and fuck?" I asked the question I already knew the answer to. Dabney was obsessed with scent marking me around other women.

"Sure!" she smiled like the Cheshire Cat. "I'd like that."

"It is not going to happen because we have company and two more are on the way," I glowered. "Dabney, I'm not going to vanish one day, like I did 15 years ago. I'm not leaving you. I want you, but I also want you to become a team player."

She was mulling that over.

"Hi Reagan. Thanks for hanging around. If you keep looking at G like she's a washed up has-been, I'm going to start thinking you don't value my opinion and insight. If you keep disrespecting me, I'm going to go tell your mother and we both know that's not going to end well."

I was basing my verbal interactions on some visual clues and regular psychology. There was no ring on Reagan's finger. She didn't act overly divorced. That implied that she wasn't adjusting to a double-life the way her mother, Sandra Cho had. Either she kept a man outside her life and he got irritated that she was sneaking around behind his back ...

Or, she told him what she did. That meant he was already a man of questionable moral character for her to confess her numerous crimes to. Reagan was the Madam of All Madams in Sin City. He likely couldn't avoid sampling the goodies. It was the nature of males to let their testosterone overwhelm their common sense.

Reagan had access to people who hurt people and followed her instructions. So that type of jerk would always end up treating her badly, then get to spend some time in a body cast contemplating the reality that Reagan really was temperamental, criminally connected and very smart. That's why she dated Kristoff Declan back in high school; he was just as bright as she was.

Now she had me as her man-toy. I didn't think she loved me. I doubted she was nostalgic for what we never shared in our youth. I was a man she could communicate with who: didn't give a damn about what she did for a living, wasn't judgmental of her style of human exploitation and was turning out to be both capable and reliable.

That Dabney didn't understand and I did, was Dabney was making herself an obstacle to Reagan's plans for 'us' ~ Reagan and me. She was treating G like that because she was Lloyd's cast-off, thus dangerous to me, plus Reagan harbored a secret desire to punish G for being better looking and for being an emotional punching bag for Lloyd's perversions.

It didn't make sense. Beyond the rough mental framework, I didn't understand women and I'd never really made the effort to learn. Since I was not likely to find myself living alone anytime soon, I was going to have to remedy that. Reagan carefully mustered her response to my observation.

"You are annoying," she grinned. "Also, who is coming over? I didn't think you had any friends."

"IAB Lieutenant Trixie Crowe Buchannan and Homicide Detective Soledad Moreno. I am going to help them commit criminal acts in the pursuit of their personal agendas. These agendas are something the normal LVMPD hierarchy has being foiling for internal reasons to the point they are getting desperate," I added.

"Oh shit. You can't do that," Reagan informed me with authority. "At least I can't be a party to that."

Dabney was back to wiggling her hips against my belt buckle and licking her lips while giving me a seductive 'O'-face. I was made of sterner stuff ... which was another aspect Dabney found appealing. I wasn't lost in her sensuality which meant I liked her for her personality while not being a metro-sexual.

"I believe you have a very good reason for backing out at this juncture. I'm not going to be deterred from my current course of actions. G doesn't have the luxury of running and I'm not going to let Lloyd Pharris break her. I'll have a talk with Kip and work out a series of loan payments. You'll get your money. Dabney?" 

"I'm out of the escort business, Reagan. I'll find another way to make a living," Dabney's sexy aura turned into one of immense compassionate vulnerability. Reagan looked at G.

"Hey, I've told Vance repeatedly he's lost his mind by sticking with me. He's convinced he can make Lloyd back off ...and I believe him," G's voice rose in confidence.

Reagan's mind was a whirl of dire onuses and competing fortunes, ... resulting in some personal capitalization ~ redemption. She was making her final calculations. I didn't know what factors she was weighing. I knew she was enticed by the possibilities. She stood.

"V, we need to talk in private," she motioned me toward the kitchen.

I released Dabney, letting her slide languidly down my body. I kissed her on the nose. That was the affection she craved more than lustful passions. Reagan led the way and I followed. I pulled out my larger sugar jar. I pulled out a low frequency sound generator to discourage eavesdropping.

"Okay," I indicated she could safely begin.

"You don't want to mess with Lloyd Pharris. I can't say I understand your loyalty to Ms. Norquist. You are on a Fool's Errand. You cannot beat Mr. Pharris with all the assets at his disposal. I'm giving you and Dabney an out. I can't save Ms. Norquist," Reagan reasoned.

"Do you know what resources Lloyd Pharris has at his disposal and what he'll do to win?"

"Yes, Vance. Yes I do," Reagan insisted.

"Do you know what resources I have at my disposal and what I am capable of?"

"I ... you are one man. I know Mr. (Jessup) Alexander pretty well and I know he wouldn't have a prayer against Pharris. Not a hope in hell," Reagan tried to explain to me.

"Why do you think I'm only one man? You think that because I'm the only person you see. You are not looking at the sum total of my assets and abilities, Reagan," I said. "I'm not CAM. He's great man, a great instructor and a great warrior. I'm not him. I don't think like him. I would have left the SEALs instead of turning to drugs to attempt doing what I was no longer capable of."

"I don't know the extent of Lloyd's power, but I am aware of his numerous vulnerabilities."

Reagan paused. I didn't knew her peculiarities yet. I knew her type though and I could see her face transform.

"You've got a plan," she gave a sliver a cunning grin.

"That's the first stupid thing you've said since I've come back home," I studied. Ego driven people were of no use to me and I had to prod her a bit more to be sure.

"Ah... ouch," her grin become full-blown. "You are right. You took down Pablo and engineered a peace with Circe inside of five hours."

"We are used to thinking of things like structures and profit margins," Reagan weighed her words carefully. I had already won her over. Reagan would be jealous of her mother's success, but wanted to prove she could expand in ways her mentor hadn't. She was smart, and considered herself smart, which raised my deviousness in her mind. 

Despite the apparent disparity in power between Lloyd and me, if I had out-maneuvered her, thus, by her logical progression, I could defeat Lloyd as well.

"Outside of a public attack on you, you've bought time against Lloyd's possible means of aggression," she added.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"You are going to give me information as you think I need it and I'll read you into my plan when I feel it is prudent," I told her. "You aren't helping us out of any sense of affection, or devotion. You have your own selfish reasons for helping me and I'm good with that. I haven't told anyone here my plans because, like you, I have a realistic expectation of what the people around me can contribute to our success."

"Dabney and G are worthless to us," Reagan tried to point out. 'Us?'.

Reagan had created an 'us' and had dropped hints about a 'we' on me earlier. Jo wasn't with Lloyd, or Circe. She was with some character whose code name was Thulsa Doom. Circe was a witch who turned men into pigs, which was somewhat appropriate to the sex trade.

I needed some immediate information and an internet search wasn't something that I could safely do at this very second with Reagan in front of me. So ... I made a call to Dutch Girl.

*Me - simple search - Thulsa Doom. I will stay online*, I relayed to my best friend in Europe. My words and tones expressed to her I had an audience.

The text she sent: 

'Robert E. Howard - author 1906-1936 (suicide - depression)' 

'Thulsa Doom - fictional character - no legendary/historical basis - necromancer - invulnerable - sense of immortality' 

'Key words: undead - evil -wizard - Weird Tales - King Krull'

'Antagonist to fictional protagonists - Krull - Conan the Barbarian'

'Hope this helps'

What could I make of that? Circe was a witch, as was Thulsa Doom. That strongly suggested that other 'magically-themed' underworld king/queen-pins had a basis in reality. To the best of my recollection, that meant there were five other Vice Lords out there who weren't underworld fables. Shit. In turn, that equated to other Reagan's and Jo's - those who have mastered the art of sin - and were waiting in the wings for someone to drop dead. Few criminal masterminds ever really retired. Al Capone only succeeded in that because his brain had been rotted out by Syphilis.

"Thulsa Doom is the arms merchant of Las Vegas ... so there are five others still out there I haven't pissed off yet?" I studied Reagan. She gave me a silent applause. "Let's rejoin the others." I put up my toy before we returned to the main room. The resulting conversation was stilted and awkward. Dabney kept crawling into my lap which had a whole new level of danger because I had strategically decided to stand the coffee table against the wall and put my collapsible bed in its place.

I was 240 lbs. and Dabney was a healthy, lush 140 lbs. This bed was rated at 300 lbs. capacity and it was protesting the violation of its specifications. I didn't chastise Dabney because she wanted proximity. G and Reagan were adjusting to that. I could remain focused on the conversation and lovingly stroking Dabney like a prized thoroughbred.

Seconds after Dabney's horniness overcame her decorum (she had a great deal of coolness under pressure when she chose to exercise it) and began tonguing my ear, the doorbell rang. For an instant, fear flashed across Reagan's face. She was contemplated some level of treason, no doubt. I manually cut on the 72" TV (none of this remote control crap) and punched in the code for an eight screen split view.




Ebb Tide Ch. 04a



High tide: The moment between the flood tide and the ebb tide

This tale is an espionage fantasy under assault by reality

The 'hero' of this tale might be considered a Libertarian, though the label means nothing to him. He is not completely sane by some people's definition of the term

The principal characters in this story are listed at the end of the chapter

*****

{Las Vegas, where dreams go to die ... and be buried in tombs of Gold}

Why was I standing next to Kip Churchill's gurney in an Emergency Room? Because I let myself care for completely irrational people who lead with their hearts, not their heads, and have no concept of what real violence means or costs. I was standing at Kip's bedside because Dabney's big mouth and her belief I could do anything had led to this. Amateur. This was not my friend, my place, or my damn JOB.

Until that point, it had been a 'not-horrible' day. I had started the morning by attending a meeting with the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department (LVMPD)'s Gang Crimes Bureau (GCB). They had wanted to talk with me on Tuesday night or Wednesday. Tuesday night was a no-go. Wednesday ... I ended up killing people again ... although unlike Tuesday, I'd killed them 'off the clock' and out of LVMPD's jurisdiction. What they wanted to see me about was the Tuesday killings.

I didn't call and set up an appointment because it is not in my nature to let armed people I can't rely on know where I'll be. I showed up at 8:15 am. I let the cops at the entry way know who I was, that I was legally armed and I was not giving up my weapon in order to talk to some cops.

They knew me - no ID required (I had risked my life and killed a person to save the life of one of their own - a Sgt. Dunston.) They believed me when I said I was packing without needing to be patted down and they called the GCB for me. The GCB proved to me they were operating under the misconception that I wanted to help them fight gang violence in Clark County.

The only gang I was worried about was the LVMPD. The Playboy Bloods could attack me from surprise, except far better outfits had taken that approach and died for their temerity. The cops could disarm me, then kill me ... or try to kill me. It certainly was more legally complicated killing them back.

Playboys ... the Mayor was considering giving me a medal for the ones I'd already moved to the afterlife. I told the GCB that I had another appointment, so I'd be leaving at 10:30 am and my offer was going - going - gone in two and a quarter hours. They told me to come back at nine. I thanked the officers for helping me and left.

Promptly at 8:59, I returned. The duty officer made his call, I was invited up without my firearm. I called Soledad, told her I'd honored my pledge of the night before to come by the department, I had been rebuffed and I expected her to honor her commitment.

She wanted to know 'Had I really tried?'. I handed my phone to the duty officer. He confirmed his location and this was my second appearance, he had called the GCB for me - twice and then said he didn't understand why I wasn't going up. Of course no one armed was allowed to walk around the building unless they were enforcement.

(I neglected to mention my journey to the building Tuesday morning when I'd bluffed my way in using a stolen police ID.) The cop gave me back my phone.

"Be reasonable," she insisted.

"I am being reasonable. People are trying to murder me. Some of those people even carry badges, so surrendering up my weapon at this juncture isn't the reasonable thing to do," I countered.

"Hang on," she sighed with exasperation. "Let me call 'our' guy at the GCB.

Seven minutes passed before a plain clothes officer came down to retrieve me. We went through the rigmarole of him signing in my gun and knife, then off we walked.

"Why are you being so damn difficult?" he - Officer Marquez Hermosa - asked rather angrily.

"Since you people suck at bringing crime victims back from the dead, I find your inability to help me to be troublesome. My 'difficulty' is reminding myself why I've bothered to show up at all," I sounded bored.

"You are killing people," he pointed out as he opened the door to his section.

"I haven't put a gun in anyone hands, Marquez," I countered. "These are 'your' fuck-nuts criminals trying to murder me. If you were successfully protecting me and the other citizens of Las Vegas, I wouldn't have had to pull out my gun in the first place," I explained as we passed through the door. "So I am hardly going to feel guilty about your complete failure to protect me from danger." 

"Now, I don't expect you to magically appear to ward off crimes before they happen. Don't insult my intelligence by pretending you can," that last bit drew some stares from the people in the room. The key dude was the one Marquez directed me toward.

"Lieutenant, here he is," my guide grumbled.

"Mr. Vardanyan," he extended his hand. I ignored it.

"I go by first names whenever I can. Call me Vance," I regarded him. "To clarify my visit, I promised an acquaintance I'd stop by and be as helpful as I can be without risking my life. I don't want to help you, I'm not afraid of the Playboy Bloods, or 'Florencia 13'. Within those parameters, what can I do for you?" 

"O-kay," he withdrew his hand. "I'm Lt. Gor Mirzoyan. Please call me Lieutenant or LT. There is a preliminary matter to take care of. Officer Gatsby," the Lt. motioned to another officer. This one wasn't in the GCB. All those guys and gals had a rougher edge to them. This guy was - plainer.

"Mr. Vardanyan," Gatsby began, "I would like to ..."

"ID," I stated. He handed it over. I checked - he was Officer Thomas Gatsby with Vice - I handed it back.

"I'd like to talk with you about Pablo Bastos," he studied me.

"Dabney Curtiss's ex-pimp, short, thick Brazilian guy ~ second generation most likely ~ a brutal thug. What about him?" I replied

"We are looking for him," he prodded me. "He seems to have vanished."

"Funny, wouldn't that make this a Missing Person's case?" I remained uncooperative.

"Some people think you killed him," he came out with the 'boom'. It was more of a bust.

"And?"

"And ... did you kill him?" Gatsby asked. 

"Wouldn't that be a matter for Homicide?" I kept playing along.

"Vice doesn't know if he's dead, on vacation, or retired," Gatsby kept trying to make me verbose on the matter. My bet was they had a turncoat, or a body.

"Right now, he's still a pimp," he clarified LVMPD's side of the case. "He's also a pimp we think you put in the hospital the day before he disappeared."

Nah, they had an inside source who didn't know the particulars of Pablo and my disagreement. The four man crew that had actually killed and buried Pablo wouldn't flip on me. So this group had nothing but corroborating testimony from other known criminals, plus I'd spent the past two days showing the whole world I took care of my problems on my own.

There was also the niggling little fact the four guys had been hanging around the murder scene in the first place because they had accepted Pablo's money to kill me. I had turned that around because Pablo was an ass, and someone they hated. I hadn't even paid those men off.

Someone else had - someone they couldn't even name if they wanted to. The phone I'd been using to make all those calls was the burner phone Pablo had given me through a third party. That 'third party' was the only guy who knew for sure I had that phone and he'd rabbited. Guys like that didn't stand up to people like me, especially if word was circulating about Pablo having gone missing while I was still hanging around.

The poor sap would have to face me at trial and my non-verbal intimidation tactics were finely honed. An experienced prosecutor wouldn't try to hang a murder case on that guy's word against mine.

"Since he hasn't talked to my friend in a few days, I don't care about what has happened to him," I replied.

"I don't like the guy. As long as he leaves my friend alone, I don't see that his well-being is any of my business," I made sure to use the 'present' tense.

"What is your friend's name?" Thomas requested.

"Since you already know it, my confirming it is a waste of breathe. Personally, I'm disinclined to help you go after a friend," I continued treating him like an amateur because he kept treating me like a common criminal.

"Her name is Dabney Curtiss ... she has a few prior arrests ... only two convictions ... nothing serious until now ... goes by the name 'Care-Free'," he read off his palm pilot. I stared at him. "Well, is that the prostitute in question?"

"Refer to my last two sentences, Thomas," I stared.

"Fine, we know you've been seen with her on multiple occasions, including yesterday's shootout and Tuesday afternoon at the hospital," he pressed.

"Yes, I was seen in her company," I kept staring. "As I said, she's 'my friend' which would suggest the possibility of us being seen together."

"What is your next question, or do you plan on persisting with this line of inquiry while eating through the remaining 69 minutes I'm going to be here?"

"69 minutes?" Gor (the Lt.) inquired.

"Yes, a few of your cohorts convinced me to spend two and a quarter hours with you today, so that's what I'm doing ~ wasting two and a quarter hours it appears."

"Two and a quarter? Man, you just got here," one of the GCB guys spoke up. "Can't you count? That would be 125 minutes, taking into account the ten minutes you wasted signing for your weapons."

"I showed up at 8:15 am, which is within the legitimate business hours for your unit. You chose to send me away for 45 minutes."

"That's on you, not me. I even relayed my time table to you; you ignored it. Then it took you seven minutes to send your guy to get me and ten minutes to satisfy your bureaucracy that I have the right to bear arms."

"So, 'Failed product of the Arizona Public School System' (I knew the accent), that's - do the math with me now - 135 minutes minus 45 minutes, minus 7 minutes, minus 10 minutes, minus 6 minutes being interviewed thus far and you get ... 67 minutes now."

"Dude, you are starting to really piss me off," the guy growled.

"It might help if you reminded yourself that you are a public servant questioning a legal citizen of the United States who hasn't even been accused of violating a single municipal, county, state, or federal law," was my retort. "I'm not going to spout the incorrect 'you work for me' bull crap. You work for the LVMPD, not the public in general, and not the taxpayers in particular."

"In theory, your job description requires you to accept that US citizens have certain rights and liberties and you are to protect said rights and liberties. Right now your actions are insulting me ~ 66 minutes," I added.

"You appear to be a well-read man, Mr. Vardanyan. Are you aware of 'reasonable cause' ~ you and the Mr. Bastos had a physical disagreement the day before he went missing," Gatsby resumed. "Then there is law enforcement's 'power of direction' which requires you to answer questions that don't involve self-incrimination," he thought he was clever. "Now I'm directing you to tell me about your relationship with Ms. Curtiss."

"On what grounds? I am not aware of any criminal complaint involving myself, Ms. Curtiss, or Mr. Bastos. To utilize any of your police powers, there has to have been a crime committed and you have to inform me of what that crime is. Only when you have 'reasonable cause' to think I'm involved in an actual crime do you get to apply the 'power of direction'."

"'Power of direction' applies if we suspect a crime has been committed, Mr. Vardanyan. A man is missing. Now, if ..."

"Has a Missing Person's report been filed?" I asked. "No? Then has Mr. Bastos been sought after in questioning for another crime? If so, what crime?"

"Mr. Bastos is involved in an investigation involving pandering," he grudgingly admitted. The law on this matter was vague. He had to supply me with a legal reason to question me. Otherwise I could claim his queries were of a personal nature thus allowing me to ignoring them, or even be deceptive.

He could threaten me with Obstruction of Justice and I'd come back with False Imprisonment. His accusation toward Pablo was suitably vague, yet it also gave me some wiggle room.

"Call an ADA and have them grant me, in writing, blanket immunity for any and all matters dealing with our discussion today," I suggested.

"Why would you want blanket immunity?"

"Because you are a police officer questioning me about an issue so unspecific," I sighed, "it borders on violating my right to privacy. You are allowed to question me about a specific crime, not my social life. Do you have a specific incident you want me to comment on?"

"I'm trying to figure that out, Mr. Legal-Aide," he bantered.

"Dabney Curtiss is my friend. She is not a prostitute," I said.

"She has plenty of priors and a suspicious ability to have her charges reduced, or dropped entirely," he persisted. "She's a prostitute."

"She is no more a whore for hire than you are, Thomas."

That bought me a momentary respite. I hadn't called him a whore.

"What do you think she'll say when we bring her in?" he inquired.

"She'll probably think you are a whore too."

"Fine, what do you think she'll say after being grilled for ten hours?"

"She'll think you are an expensive whore," I shook my head. That retort got me a few semi-suppressed chuckles from the other officers.

"Okay, Funny Man," he re-charted his approach, "what can you tell me about Kip Churchill?"

"I never met him. To my knowledge, Dabney only talked to him once. He believed they had some business to conduct and she corrected that misconception," I answered. The extent of my response confused him.

"And that was it?"

"I don't keep track of her phone calls. I am not aware of any other communications between the two," I told him. "Next two questions: I left her at my home before coming here ... an hour and forty-eight minutes ago, so I don't know where she is ... and I do not give you permission to trespass on any part of my property."

"Do you have anything useful to my investigation into the whereabouts of Mr. Bastos?" he conceded he was getting nowhere with me.

"If I have this correctly, you are looking into the absence of a pimp and want to question a former prostitute about him, as opposed to doing something about him when he was actually out on the streets being a flesh-peddler," I glared.

"Normally that would suggest he was an informant, except in the scant few minutes I actually interacted with him, he appeared far too pig-like and sadistic to be reliable, so that means one of his stable was/is a Confidential Informant (CI) and you are trying to figure out if she's still safe," I studied his reaction. I was right on the money. "Thomas, I've done some counter-intelligence work before."

"You've given up a whole hell of a lot more than you've learned - which is nothing you didn't already know. Now you need to trot back to your boss and let him decide to let that poor girl hang out to dry because I have neither a name, nor am I credible enough source," I reasoned. "Basically, pat yourself on the back for being a thoroughly despicable cretin."

"Ah ... you don't know any of that," Gatsby sputtered. "That's bullshit and if you end up getting some poor girl killed, I'll make it my personal business to ..."

"Shut up," I yawned. "You don't want to make this personal with me. I'm not the citizen who believes you are fair, just, or struggling in my best interest just because you have a badge."

"We both know you are not. To me, the LVMPD is the largest and best organized gang in this city and less trustworthy and more entitled than most. Thomas, if you stay on your side of the line, it will guarantee we don't and won't have issues. You cross it, there is always IAB and there is me. 'Nuff' said." That wasn't even a threat of violence.

"We are not done," he rose. "If something happens, I'll come looking for you." I let him pass in silence. Once he was gone, I examined the five GCB officers.

"Just so we are clear, you let a fellow officer threaten me and did 'jack' and 'shit' about it. If you wanted to impress upon me your lack of professional standards, you have succeeded."

"He's allowed to set you straight, Vardanyan," Gor stated.

"Why? Because he's a cop and within your fraternity while I'm not?" I chuckled. "Which only increases my desire to not work with you in any matter."

"If the situation was reversed, you would want to protect your source," my guide tried to create some false empathy.

"If the person was my 'at-risk' source, I wouldn't bluster. I'd pull them out because Dabney told me this 'Pablo' character was a savage beast. If there is someone new in her life, this would be the perfect time to ease her out of the trade, instead of using them until she ends up as a Jane Doe no one really misses."

"How about we move this discussion along, Gor? Factoring reliability, past conduct and personal trust, why shouldn't I side with the Florencia 13," I asked, "over you, or the Playboy Bloods?"

"Why do you believe they won't turn on you in a heartbeat?" Gor said.

"I believe they will turn on me given the right motivation. I'm not going to join their gang. I wouldn't if they offered. They are also not going to ask me to do anything stupid and thus contrary to my survival. You want me to betray Ramone Garza, which is the opposite of aiding my survivability."

"What about the Playboy Bloods?" Gor prodded.

"I doubt Ramone is going to assign some guys to me to protect me. That means there won't be any people with guns that I don't know hanging around me to confuse with people meaning me harm."

"You can't keep running around, shooting up the city," a third cop spoke up.

"Funny, I see the amount of criminal mischief I've been involved with this week as more a failing on your part than any desire for violence on mine," I pointed out. "You didn't save the girl kidnapped by the Playboy's, I did. I didn't start that firefight at the Hilton, I was attacked ~ and you haven't made a single arrest despite someone hiring twenty-one losers to make the attempt to kill me."

"It hasn't even been twenty-four hours," Gor grumbled. "Besides, it is a Homicide case, not Gang Crimes."

"Yet you were more than capable of getting a vice cop over here, Gor," I shook my head. "You have your own agendas."

"No, we have one agenda - putting criminals behind bars, Vardanyan," Gor stated.

"Why would I want to help?" I countered. "You have proven to me this week you are not on my side."

"We don't work with Officer Shell, nor do we endorse his actions," Gor became defensive.

"Yet you let Gatsby threaten me, Gor," I skewered him. "It is that exact same attitude that lured Shell into thinking he could get away with framing me. Do you really believe Rothschild didn't have a clue what Shell was up to?"

"Neither officer works in this unit."

"Stop," I held up my hand. "You are embarrassing yourself. Let's get back to 'why' am I here?"

"Had we known you would be such a selfish, inconsiderate ass," Gor groused, "I wouldn't have invited you. You are the problem, Vardanyan. People ..."

Soledad walked into the GCB offices at that moment. She took in the long faces on her follow cops, then gave me a stern look.

"Vance, what's the problem?" she chastised me. "They look like you tossed their puppy in a wood-chipper."

"Gor here sicked Gatsby from Vice on me first things first," I related. "He's looking into Dabney's old pimp, Pablo. Apparently one of Pablo's ladies is one of Gatsby's CI's."

"... Treating you like an idiot again," she groaned. "Jesus Christ, Lieutenant, I didn't brief you on this guy because I enjoy hearing myself speak. He's a spook."




Ebb Tide Ch. 04a



I stood up.

"Been real," I mock-saluted the GCB crew. "Soledad, next time you decide to fuck me over and abuse my confidence in you, make sure you forget my address first." I strode out of their section of LVMPD's 400 S. Martin Luther King Boulevard HQ. I would have never fallen for such an obvious ploy.

Last night Soledad convinced me the past hour and a half was necessary because the LVMPD had a powerful rumor mill. To give her some cover with her fellow cops, I had to play the part of disgruntled curmudgeon, talk just enough to cause some trouble without giving anything away. Soledad would open the door and I'd slam it in her face.

Now five GCB officers would publicize my displeasure with her, giving her cover to help the Disloyalists (I swear if anyone mentioned codenames, decoder rings, or team costumes, I was burying every last one of them in the desert) gain access to anti-Vardanyan investigations inside the regional police force. We couldn't use TC because, as an IAB hot shot, she was universally distrusted.

It was our division of responsibility; I handled the covert side of things. TC would ask all the tough questions inside and out of the police force. Soledad would keep tabs on both homicides and any people looking into me. Reagan ... they knew she could do things like provide information and agreed to not ask where it came from.

The three aforementioned ladies didn't think much of the other two members of the team. G ~ a sexy, used up ex-trophy wife and Dabney, the ex-escort and star of every young man's virgin-killer dream. I hadn't bothered to inform anyone, even G, that she was about to become Georgianna Norquist, multi-millionaire and one of the 100 Richest people in the State of Nevada.

G would have worried too much, Dabney couldn't have kept quiet about it, Reagan would have tried to stop me from doing it, and, since it was technically robbery (in another country), the two cops might get pissed with me. Monday morning I'd give everyone the good news, provided we were all still alive.

The rest of my morning was 'fun', if you consider a primitive version of a root canal, or driving a nail through the arch of your foot to be 'fun'. I had to cut 80 square feet out of my living room to create a closet for all of Dabney's clothing. To make matters worse, my impromptu roommates decided to help me.

Absent either one of them having any kind of construction experience, I predicted this would be a bad idea. By the time I arrived with my rental panel truck and all the required materials (I'd already retrieved my required equipment, which I normally stashed elsewhere), they were awake, fed (on last night's leftovers), dressed and ready to help.

By dressed ... groan ... they meant racy pink boy-shorts for Dabney with a white, wife-beater and high top canvas sneakers. Skin-tight clothing - no bra, or underwear. I can reliably detect a thong. G wore khaki shorts (complete with pockets) sized for a third grader, an old, faded black 'Hard Rock Café' t-shirt that hugged her like a second skin and maroon slippers. She had panties (I could see the tops) and no bra, though she, like Dabney, clearly needed one.

G was self-conscious about her presentation. Dabney flaunted it. She ran up, hugged me and humped me playfully.

"I see the two of you are dressed to help me get the lumber and equipment inside," I grumbled.

"Oh pooh," Dabney pouted. I needed to find a way to convince her she didn't have to play Sex Kitten around me 24/7. Nor, am I one to ignore life's lessons. I reached out, lifted up G's right breast, rubbed my fingers under its weight and finished up my appreciation by tweaking her aroused nipple.

"Ah," she gasped. My sexual advance had caught her off guard. She smacked my hand away.

"Hey, stop that!" she protested. She was protesting with a smile.

"I told you going bra-less was the right thing to do," Dabney teased her.

"I'm not used to being pawed by young men," she teased right back.

"That makes two of us," I stated totally deadpan.

"Come on G, why don't we paw some young men this weekend?" Dabney volunteered to spend more of my money.

"Dabney, you need to get a job before we have a 'Girls' Night Out'," G reined the younger girl in. "We can't keep relying on V's money to get us by. You need to get a job and I need to get a better paying job so I can pay off my debts before I retire."

"V, do you really mind me borrowing a little money?" the young vixen turned to me, very doe-eyed and sweet.

"Yes, I mind. I'm not lending you money, Dabney. I'm gifting you because you're my friend, not because we have sex. My friendship doesn't have a price tag or expiration date."

"But you said you mind?" she was confused.

"Making you dependent on me isn't my plan, Dabney. I want you to be financially independent because you've been vulnerable long enough. With me, you have freedom. I want you to have freedom away from me," I explained, "so if you wish to stay with me you can do so without consideration for anything else but us."

Dabney jerked slightly while G glowed with happiness. I wanted to get to work.

"That's ... poetry, Vance," Dabney tear-ed up slightly.

"I think it is a wonderful sentiment, V," G added.

"None of this is getting Dabney's closet space built," I grumbled. "Let's get to it.

We brought everything outside then set up our work stations and chores. I would measure out and mark the wood in the lengths I'd need. G would cut timber and sand the ends. Dabney would lug the old wall pieces out to the van for later disposal. I'd break down the old wall and build the new one.

We worked surprisingly well. The two girls held up the new drywall once I finished the framework. The only snags happened at the end of the project. Dabney wanted a 'softer' color for the inside of her closet, a fancier light fixture and an air vent dedicated to ventilating the space.

Out we went and made the day for several Home Depot employees. Dabney teased me about these two far too young ladies ogling me ... I triple checked them for weapons and deftly evaded their phone's camera function. And, because Dabney is Dabney ...

"So, are you his sisters?" an ambitious Assistant Manager named Chuck inquired.

"Oh no," Dabney corrected him. "Me and my sister," she put an arm around G ... and her perky nipples, "are his sex toys. We feed his voracious sexual appetite and kinky erotic desires."

In a sane world, that would have been seen for the cock-teasing bullshit it was, but this was Vegas and Dabney looked capable of crushing lightbulbs with her cleavage and bending steel rods with her thighs. The combination of her provocative lip & tongue play while sucking hungrily on her thumb caused the guy to cum in his underwear.

It was also the first time I saw G loosen up outside our home. She allowed herself to revel in the male and sometimes female attention aimed her way. Dabney could be overwhelming with her vivaciousness ~ a passionate one night stand with you waking wondering who the hell just devastated your life. G's eyes and saunter promised a long, casual weekend in bed you'd never forget.

We dumped the trash in the landfill with a short detour to the site's main office so I could pick up the grid pattern and schedule of which district was used to bury what and when. After that, it was duct and electrical work, done and done, then the primer and the first coat of paint. We used two large fans to blow the fumes outside. Dabney got to the shower first while G and I prepared an early dinner. She had to be back to work soon.

The second coat of teal paint was drying before Dabney exited the shower. She was very pleased with the way her closet had turned out. I got the drop cloth and tape guards out of the way then it was my shower time. G gave me a minute then followed me in. Sex ... warm passionate, slow-burn sex.

It was G getting into the sensuality of the act, reawakening that spark within her that triggered the kiss, the muttered word, the gentle touch of affection that was the true art of lovemaking. Penetration came later, in an awkwardness enforced by my shower's limited dimensions. We still managed it. G did the equivalent of a standing split, facing me, before my cock penetrated her.

Several pulse-quickening minutes later, when I was close, we separated and G finished me off with a hand job. Fellatio would have been nice, but those space constraints would make the act more of a quick, face-fucking experience; not a thing with any degree of artistry or consideration.

"That was nice," G moaned contentedly as we were toweling off. She shot me a curious look. "It was more than nice. It reminds me that I'm a human being and I think you know what I mean by that." She was looking for confirmation. 

"People want to shed their masks and indulge in being themselves from time to time, G. That is something you were denied for a long, long time," I nodded. "I get it."

"Don't you be hogging my Man," Dabney gave us a nervous smirk when we exited the bathroom. I wasn't angry with Dabney's territoriality. She hadn't been free a week yet. Truly understanding independence and interdependence took time. In the service, it took me several months and I had skilled trainers to help me along that path.

The modern military is a dichotomy few outsiders understand. They want you to be part of a team that has a group cohesion, yet at the core of that trait is each soldier, marine, sailor and airman being able to do their job independently. Your officers and NCO's had other jobs to do, so you were pretty much on your own in fulfilling your task.

Rarely does anyone pat you on the head and tell you you've done a good job. Oh, you get yelled at if you fuck up, it's true. For doing your job - nothing. Because doing your job on your own, acting free of any direction, is what you are supposed to do. 

My very first combat assignment taught me and my Lieutenant that lesson. I had run to the sound of the guns to do my assigned task - taking care of the wounded. I hadn't sought out my commanding officer for permission since helping the wounded was my assignment. Only later did we both realize that.

His task was to place me where I was needed only if I wasn't doing what I was supposed to be doing. By acting independently, I had freed him up to do his job - ordering his shooters to engage the enemy utilizing his coherent battle plan. We both succeeded in our tasks. We beat the bad guys and got our worst casualty to the hospital facilities in a speedy and efficient manner.

Dabney and G were both in the Basic Training of this lifestyle. G was used to acting alone and unsupported. To do otherwise would have invited pain from her ex-husband. Now she had to learn to accept and work within a team ~ the Disloyalists (the name was growing on me) ~ who would back up her plays and expect to be backed up in turn.

Dabney had to learn that standing on your own two feet didn't mean standing alone. I had created a solid group for her to work with, not for. She'd have to pull her weight and discover what a wonderful feeling that was. She would come to know what it was like to be part of an organization that valued and trusted her. She would have to learn to be trustworthy and to trust others as an equal.

I had my work cut out for me. Step one was physical training. The more your body can do, the better you can deal with fatigue. And the more benchmarks, you conquer the higher your confidence becomes. Once your body reaches a certain progressive state, your mind is ready to embrace both positive reinforcement and new knowledge.

The girls hated me for putting them through this, shooting me evil looks and flaunting their sexuality in the attempt to make me relent. The only place we could exercise was in the back yard, which was blistering hot. We stayed hydrated. G followed Dabney's lead in pouring water over her shirt in order to distract me.

Nah, I was adaptive. My RDC's (Recruit Division Commanders) had given me multiple techniques to motivate trainees. Pinching, twisting and plucking nipples and slapping the available buttocks wasn't in that repertoire, but no future squid I'd trained with had dressed in their manner either. They flaunted their femininity and I turned that around on them.

Getting G to work was actually seen as joyous by those two after I informed them this was going to be their lives two times a day for the foreseeable future ~ and, as I assured Dabney, sex was not a substitute for exercise; it was extra credit. We grabbed an early bite to eat then I took Dabney out on our second date.

She was excited until we rolled into our destination, the Green Valley Range. Yes, Dabney was getting gun lessons. We initiated the process of getting her a Ruger III .22 Target Pistol and a Benelli M4 12-gauge semi-automatic shotgun. The Ruger would take a while to own legally, so I had her rent one from the range.

She exhibited some genuine displeasure until the third round from her pistol. The first one stung, the second was a bit of a surprise and then she fell in love. A .22 target pistol is a great starter weapon. It has a light recoil and is pretty accurate, so the shooter gets the rush of hitting (in general) what they aim at.

We did thirty minutes with the pistol and thirty more with the shotgun. She loved that too. Twenty minute of each period was basic safety with ten minutes of careful target practice. A person two lanes down went full-auto with an MP-5; lots of noise and damage down range. He knew what he was doing, as in he hit what he was aiming at, but it was really just macho bullshit for his date.

Dabney begged me for the opportunity, even getting playful. My glare told her I did not consider this fun and games. Dick-wad chose to intervene.

"Hey buddy, I don't mind," he chuckled. He was also eyeing Dabney with the intent of taking her home with him with, or without, his current hanger-on.

Perhaps my ear protection and shooting glasses disguised me, or maybe he didn't watch the news. Either way ...

"She has no firearms experience, you haven't introduced yourself as a firearm instructor and I don't know you, so you are not my buddy," I replied.

"I'm Oliver Jackson, trained marksman and former Marine Force Recon," he grinned. "You serve?"

"None of that is relevant to your ability to train others in the use of firearms," I met his gaze.

"Vance is a hero," Dabney proclaimed. Douche-bag's woman of the moment had wavy, black hair and a complexion of the southern portion of the subcontinent; tall and cute enough to be a model. Dabney would still be a major upgrade.

"Hero?" Oliver scoffed. He assumed I was playing his game of the bad-ass war hero and that would be one hero too many in this room.

"Dabney, this is not a conversation we are having," I told her. My lady was contrite. She knew I thought bravado was for the mentally deficient.

"Ah, come on Dabney, it will be fun," he attempted an end-run around me. I was given a reason to be proud of my companion by her response. She was merging her highly cultivated call-girl empathy and bullshit detection with her analysis of me and a sense for what Special Service operators were really like.

"Fun ... oh," she pursed her lip in an erotic 'O', "who are you?" to Oliver's date.

"Sara Patel," the girl said. "I'm in town at the International Wireless Expo," she smiled. "Oliver is in private security with one of the Canadian firms."

"Well, that's a total load of crap," Dabney giggled. "Conventioneers who bring their own private security with them - Sara is it - don't give them the night off."

"Those who can afford them definitely don't hire private security from out of the country ~ firearm regulations are different from nation to nation. Besides, the Las Vegas Strip has its own LVMD station. It is one of the most secure areas on the planet," she informed the new girl. "All the major hotels have their own private security forces ... who normally don't scout out guests at their place of business."

"Lady, you don't know what you are talking about," Oliver got defensive.

"Oliver, I'm a former professional escort," she shook her head. "I know my conventions, which people are the real deal and who are the conmen. Sara, did he tell you he'd come down with a client from Canada?"

"What's that got to do with anything ..." Oliver stammered.

"Yes ... yes, he did," Sara's caution was belatedly kicking in.

"If he was an out-of-towner on the job, Honey, he'd still be working. Real bodyguards would be on the job 24/7 for the three to five days their client was in town."

"I'm from Vegas, Bi ... Miss," Oliver evaded. "I handle overall security for ..."

"I cry bullshit," Dabney laughed at the guy. "Visitors don't need security during the day; they need it at night ... like right now." Sara was starting to get the creepy vibe from her 'pick-up' as Oliver shed his 'cool'.

"Celer, Silens, Mortalis," I said.

"What?" Oliver turned angrily on me. Anger and guns - not good. Even unloaded, guns are bad news. There was also ammo close by. There was something else getting 'closer-by' as well. One of the real gun pros who worked for Green Valley.

"Celer, Silens, Mortalis," I repeated.

"What does that mean?" Sara asked.

"Let's get out of here," Oliver put a hand on Sara's elbow.

"It is the motto of the United States Marine Force Reconnaissance battalions," the firearm's instructor answered for me.

"It means 'Swift, Silent, Deadly'," I added. "Oliver, I know some real Force Recon marines. I was a SARC and I served alongside them. Using their reputation to score a girl ~ that's low." Oliver paled. "Dude, no Force Recon marine I know would give a damn about you because you aren't worth the mud beneath their feet. You are a sleazy loser. Put the guns down and go home."

Oliver stumbled back to his stand. He flashed a look to Sara. Sara weighed her options and went to stand by Dabney. The instructor visually made sure I was calm before walking over to Oliver.

"Mr. Jackson, why don't we check you out?" he suggested.

"Ummm ... Sara?"

"I think I want to go back to my hotel," she shook her head.

"Buddy," Oliver glared at me, "I won't ..."

"Mr. Jackson, do you even know what a SARC is?" the instructor asked. Jackson didn't. "Those are the tiny handful of Naval Corpsmen who serve with real Force Recon Marines and SEAL teams and I know for a fact Mr. Vardanyan did both."

"I'm a former US Army Ranger ~ 2nd Battalion/75th Regiment," he stated.

"Tree-hugger," I muttered. He laughed. The 2nd Battalion was based in Joint Base Lewis-McChord, Washington State, thus the 'tree-hugger' crack.

"Little Green Man," he shot back. SEAL's were (rarely) called the 'Men with Green Faces'. I liked this guy.

"Sara, do you want us to give you a ride back to your hotel?" my date offered. "I'm Dabney Curtiss and my date is Vance Vardanyan."

"That name ... it sounds familiar," Sara mused. "Were you really an escort?" she asked Dabney. She swept up Sara while the instructor, 1st Lt. (ret.) Jase Carson, Oliver and I checked all the ammo and weapons.

It was dark by the time we exited to the parking lots.

"Ah ... Mr. Vanyan ... I was just playing around," Oliver prevaricated.

"You are a Marine, right?" I asked. That implied he'd left service with an Honorable Discharge. An 'ex-Marine' implied a dishonorable discharge. I didn't bother correcting him about my name.

"Yeah ... a 2800," he confessed. That was a Basic Data/Communications Maintenance Marine. Electronic systems didn't fix themselves and someone had to do the job.

"A piece of advice," I suggested. "Full-auto is Hollywood. Keep your eyes on the target and use three round bursts. A three round burst to center mass looks just as nice."

"Oh."

"That would require you to practice," I reminded him.




Ebb Tide Ch. 04a



"So, are we okay?" he couldn't make eye contact. "About that whole Force Recon thing?"

"I'm not the Marine Corps' Mother, Oliver. And Hospital Corpsmen aren't overly emotional types. You might want to think whether, if someone thinks you are a Special Forces Operator they will come at you accordingly, trying to make their reputations by kicking your ass. I'm not sure any piece of tail is worth it."

"Dude, are you looking at the girl you were with?" he scoffed.

"She's a childhood friend, Oliver. She is seven years younger than me and I used to babysit her when I partied with her sister back in High School," I exaggerated. "Dabney ended up with some bad people and I want her to be able to defend herself."

"I could ..."

"Oliver, if I disagree with the way you look at her, I'll break every bone in your left hand. I'll let you keep your right so you can drive your bawling ass to the hospital. Clear?" I stressed. He gulped, fumbled with his keys and quick-stepped to his Jeep Wrangler. I caught up with Dabney and Sara ... what was wrong with me? I didn't pick up hitchhikers - ever.

"Do you really have a new, black corvette?" Sara asked from the front passenger seat. Dabney had wisely taken to the rear so I didn't have a total stranger behind me. She wasn't impressed with my 1987 Audi 5000 Turbo Quattro.

"Yes. This vehicle is far less likely to get stolen by the local hoodlums for parts, or a joyride. Since I would like avoid utilizing the taxi companies as much as possible, I drive an outwardly crappy car."

"That makes sense," she nodded. She waited until we were back on the road before resuming her socialization. "Thank you for that ... back there. Normally I don't walk off with guys I've just met, but ... it's Vegas."

"No problem, Sara," Dabney chimed in.

"Yeah, there was no reason for that jerk to ruin your stay in our fair city. Where am I dropping you off?" which was my polite way of saying 'beat it' to the tourist.

"I'm at the Wynn Resort - room 5360," she innocently provided.

"Sara, you don't want to be telling strange people your room number," Dabney cautioned her. "I love my hometown, but we have more than our share of scuz-bags."

"Thank you, I think. I guess I wanted to get an early start on the weekend. I'm lucky I ran into you two. What is it you do again, V ... Vance, right?" Sara clumsily came on to me, and Dabney. She was truly trying to become submerged in the 'what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas' fantasy.

That ignored the fact that a Clark County conviction stayed on your criminal record and followed you all the days of your life (unless you knew the right people). The same went with New Orleans and Mardi Gras.

"I'm a paramedic," I enlightened her. "Dabney is reassessing her life at the moment. What do you do?"

"I'm an electrical engineer," she hedged her words. "I have a Masters in Electrical Engineering from Cal Tech. I've been working on a hardwired system that tracks and quarantines mal- and adware through wireless systems. Boring stuff, I know," she was already apologizing for her boring life. People should learn to appreciate 'boring' more often.

"Are you the team's project manager?" Dabney inquired.

Technology wasn't her thing. Getting people to talk about their 'thing' was her job, or had been. Professional escorts made their 'clients' feel relaxed and in charge. It was the social side of prostitution that earned escorts the extra bucks.

"Yes," Sara brightened up. "There were only three of us when we started the company ~ all Cal Tech people. We patented a few items last year and expanded to twelve employees. I know," she blushed, "it is nothing big. We'd like to expand out of our Southern California marketplace, so we came to the Expo looking for investors and partners," she stumbled through her enthusiasm.

She was unloading dangerous information to near-total strangers. She wasn't giving us secure information. Sara was confessing to us she had data worth millions. I could 'convince' her into sharing every detail in a matter of hours and I was far from being alone in possessing those skill sets.

Not wanting to care about stupid people was one of the primary reasons I hadn't ended up in private security, despite having been trained by the SEAL's in High Threat Protection Security aka body-guarding people other folks wanted to kidnap and/or kill. I soaked up Sara in my peripheral vision.

The divots on either side of her nose ridge were almost gone. What acne she'd suffered through had been cleaned up. Her boobs, butt and cheeks were all hers. That equated to some skin treatments and laser eye surgery. She was gawky, bright, socially-challenged, finally coming into money and wanted to change her life.

That also meant she had no 'man sense' ~ she was fuck-bait for the social piranhas. I hadn't developed the skills of a psychoanalyst so I could help people; it was my lie detector.

"What platform did you start with?" I began my questioning. That opened her up.

I explained to her my service required me to know a great deal about computers; both hardware and software. Her system went after imbedded hardware issues and she was a bit surprised the largish gun-toting grunt she'd met at the gun range knew what she was talking about, even if only in generalities. I didn't have her educational background and we were okay with that.

Dabney was lost in the minutia conversation, yet she contributed bunches by using physical contact and smiles to assure Sara she could 'geek-out' without the two of us minding. We arrived at the Wynn resort when everything began going badly. Dabney's phone rang ~ I'd retrieved her old number (the one in LA) to a new phone for her.

(And Back to Helping Kip out of a Jam)

The person on the other end was one of her former co-workers. She was frantic. Bad shit had happened and Dabney was trying to make sense of it all. I advised Dabney to set up a meeting place for a face to face. All this confusion and anger was going out over an open network.

Sara gave Dabney a business card with her private number on the back before exiting the car. She repeatedly thanked us and dropped a few Airbus-sized hints she wanted to hang out with some locals and would be in town until Monday morning. Dabney said we'd do our best, then off we went, which led us to Sunrise Hospital and Medical Center.

Kip Churchill, her replacement pimp she'd never used, was in the ER. His bodyguard, Leon Kramer, was in surgery. They'd both gotten their asses kicked. Adding to this 'pimp-tragedy' was another procurer named Lorenz plus two of his 'buddies' were also in a 'serious-to-critical' condition. We got this much from the four girls that had shown up to help Kip ... the how and why wasn't really clear.

The girls were useless to me, so I left Dabney with them and went to the source. The ER technician (the doctor was checking in from time to time) tried to shush me away.

"Barbara (the tech), unless you want five ladies running around frantically like chickens with their heads cut off, give me three minutes with the guy here," I said.

"You look familiar," her brow furrowed. Ugh.

"I'm Vance Vardanyan," I introduced myself. The lights came on.

"The paramedic ... um ... former paramedic. One professional to another, you do good work," she was honest with her praise. "Pity..." About me being fired, she meant.

"Thanks, but that's not the problem at this moment," I redirected her. "Please give me three minutes with Kip." Kip had been studying me. He was more bruised than broken. His left hand and wrist looked bad. Someone had stomped on it pretty bad while tenderizing the rest of his body.

"It's okay," Kip mumbled. Barbara left and closed the curtain.

"Why are you here?" he inquired. "'Care' and I are done." (Dabney = Care-Free.)

"I'm here because one of your girls is weeping to Dabney and she is under the misconception I can, or even want to, help the situation. What's the deal?"

"Bad shit," he grunted. His pain was real enough. "Another 'daddy' named Lorenz has this girl named Coal."

"Coal used to work in New York City before coming west six months ago. She had a close friend who stayed behind. That friend developed a stalker boyfriend ... a super-rich, control-freak, stalker boyfriend. New girl - Corona - ducks out on the bastard, comes out west and joins Lorenz's stable." 

"Tonight, a local 'party promoter' contacts Lorenz for a two-day long party - says she needs six girls - very specific looks. Lorenz tosses two slots my way. I sent over Natalie and Magnolia." Neither of whom had called Dabney.

"Fuck all if I know why you are here," he groaned. "I can't call in the cops."

"Situation," I sighed.

"The whole thing was a set-up. Corona was on the lookout for this scumbag and had already rabbited twice on Lorenz, so she was on thin ice with him. She figured being at a multi-girl gig would be safe. She was wrong."

"The client's people thought they had all the girls' phones, but I've given all my girls a back-up emergency 'stick' to warn me if they ever get in trouble," he informed me. How nice; a high-tech pimp who cares enough to give them a life-line (and an automatic GPS device should they 'get lost'.) "She gave me the call. I tried to get up there, but it's the penthouse. I called Lorenz, he had a 'guy' let us up and ..."

"Then his private security kicked our ass. They are hanging onto the girls as 'insurance'. I think they only let us guys go because they were afraid we might actually die from the beating we took," Kip frowned.

"Numbers?" I requested. Why was I requesting this? Dabney wouldn't let this go until I gave the rescue of her two pals a chance.

"Eight ~ funky accents and they spoke a language I didn't know," he recalled. "Bad ass martial artists ... and they had guns. I saw one ... looked like an MP-5. Aaahhh ..." pain, "We never stood a chance." Pimps aren't renowned combatants. Still, Lorenz probably carried around two sides of beef similar to Leon. I spoke a few words in different languages to Kip. The 'winner' was French.

The French produced all sorts of dangerous ex-military / para-military types.

"Name?"

"Chrétien Gris." 

I didn't know the guy, his resources, or any of his team, though odds were I was looking at French Foreign Legion, French paratroops, or former DGSE (their CIA, which included their dirty tricks crowd).

"What are the odds he's already fled the coup, boarded his private jet and is winging his way back east?" I inquired. Kip thought it over.

"The guy is a complete sociopath and obsessed with the girl. I think he's not leaving until he's punished her by working over all the other girls. Help me up," he grimaced. "I'm coming with you."

"What the fuck makes you think I'm getting involved with this fiasco. Call the cops," I directed. "They have people who handle this type of shit."

"The guy has billions, a tiny army and none of those girls will make a peep against him. Especially now their men have been broken down before their eyes. I get a bad feeling if he gets any of those girls on his private plane, we'll never see them again."

Fun-fucking-tastic. Would I go? I would. Trying wasn't in my creed. Would I talk a semi-crippled Kip out of coming along? No. He'd make a great secondary target for the French to shoot at. He'd also be able to corral the girls and get them out faster than I could because I was stranger in their eyes. Allies? I couldn't bring either cop in because Kip was right. None of the girls could make a credible complainant.

"Where?"

"You'll do it?" Kip seemed surprised.

"Yeah," I coughed. "We built Dabney extra closet space today. If she moves out, it will be a whole day's labor wasted." Bwahaha ... no one was buying that.

"The penthouse at the Venetian."

'Yay!' The top three floors of the Venetian Hotel and Casino. How the hell would I get up there?' My mind went into planning mode. I could get around their security surveillance and hijack the elevator going up. Coming back down would be its own set of issues I'd have to tackle before I could create a viable plan for rescuing the girls. 

Guns and steel knives would be detected. I would have no true back up. I'd have to be going in blind. Hacking the Venetian's systems would either be quick and messy, or slow and quiet and I didn't have time for quiet and couldn't afford to expose my friend to messy.

Thankfully, elevators are mechanical devices. I could black out the security cameras, short out the computer-assisted systems then manually order the elevator's electronics to send me up the last (restricted) levels to the penthouse. Setting off the fire alarm was pointless and way too loud. If you commit a terrorist act (pulling a fire alarm could be construed as a terror action) in a Las Vegas casino, the Big Dogs come looking for you.

I could tell my elevator that there was a fire though and that would take us straight to the ground floor, just like it was preprogrammed to do. The security office would get the alert, but the public would not. Security would be waiting in the lobby for me ... which was okay as well. At worst, I had vandalized their elevator and hopefully six scared women would make them want to make my indiscretion go away.

My tactical flaws were numerous. Superior enemy numbers, exceedingly skillful, I couldn't track their movements while they most likely had a system for tracking mine. They knew the layout, I didn't. They had guns, I didn't.

My tactical advantages: my enemy had three missions: protect their primary, maintain the women in captivity (a girl opening an emergency door would be unfortunate) and stopping me. I also had the element of surprise in both initiative and in enemy intelligence: I already knew they were professionals; they would have to discern my skill level the hard way.

I had steps 2, 3 and 4 taken care of. Step one was penetrating the Venetian in the first place. I needed a cover and I needed it soon - something that couldn't be automatically traced back to me. Monday morning she'd be heading back to southern California. Sara would do nicely. She was up for an adventure, all I wanted her to do was rent a room on the floor beneath the penthouse and no one would associate her with me. By the time she got cold feet, it would be too late.

Step Five, the exit. I needed a cop. Soledad wasn't a possibility. This might turn ugly. TC would want to know what was going on and telling her my plan was a non-starter. I did have another fish on the hook though. I gave her a call, reminded her she owed me a 'solid' for not sinking her career when I destroyed her partner's and it was my word that was keeping IAB off her back.

Officer Rothschild agreed to be my unwilling accomplice. All she had to do was wait for me to appear in the lobby dressed in her LVMPD gear. When I exited the elevators with the rescued hostages I'd let the legal ramifications take their course. Venetian Security and Mr. Gris' thugs would round us up, even in public, if we were inside the Hotel & Casino. The Venetian staff would NOT challenge the LVMPD though. Gris' boys weren't likely to be too keen on shooting at a law enforcement agent either. 

All Rothschild had to do was walk us out the door. Once we were away from the Strip, I could use guns too and I knew the streets of Vegas, its chokepoints, cop hangouts and ambush sites a hell of a lot better than they did.

(Carnage at the Venetian)

Kip had his arm put in a brace, popped one, and only one, Oxycodone then checked himself out. We sent the women home with the definite threat that they had all better keep their mouths shut. I retrieved some gear from my trunk before sending Dabney home as well. She'd have to come back downtown to get G from work, but was otherwise to lie low.

Kip asked me what my plan was. I asked him if he knew how to use a semi-automatic pistol. He nodded. 

"Great. You won't be totally useless. Now shut up and do what you're told. I mean that. Not a God damn word. If you use my name, I'll kill you."

He decided to divorce his ego from the situation and obeyed. I dressed in a wet suit, he dressed in stolen hospital scrubs and then we redressed in our normal clothes. We'd use voice modulators and ski masks once we began the op. Next, I made a private call to Reagan and informed her of the 4-1-1. She wouldn't help directly.

Indirectly, her boss, the Vice Lady of Lust, was winding up her counter-punch to Mr. Gris. If Chrétien had asked Circe (through Lorenz) for Corona she would have handed the troublesome waif over. Circe wasn't in the compassion business.

Coming to Las Vegas, hunting down and abusing her girls and then thinking you could get away with ... that wasn't challenge she could let pass unanswered. This was 'out west', not the 'wild, wild west' and we had our own set of laws and lawmen. Six missing/dead high-end call girls vanishing in one night was an investigation she didn't need and she had two busted up pimps to account for.

Basically, Gris was rustling the wrong fillies in someone else's well-defined pasturage. Had he not decided his wealth and power allowed him to kick over someone else's sand castle ... but Mr. Gris had felt entitled and now Circe had to cut off his balls and burn them before his eyes.

Next I sent Rothschild in motion. She had been cautiously agreeable, since all she had to do was stand around in uniform and do nothing. She did want me to pay for the privilege of her support. I negotiated her down to $700. This was Vegas after all, you got what you paid for; and in the long-term being in the good graces of a patrolwoman might be useful beyond tonight's scheming.

Blackmail earns you resentment. A payday wins you continued interest. Kip used a false ID and paid cash for a rental van from one of Circe's front companies. He knew a valet at the Venetian who would keep it close by when we parked. Sara was gleefully giddy to jump back into the excitement.

I gave her the bare bones description: there was this evil, stalker boyfriend I would meet and convince to give me back the girl after a stern lecture on masculinity and the role of men as protectors. It was what she wanted to hear. I showed her we (Kip and I) had no guns, only a walking stick and a box of electronics gear plus a goodie bag of innocuous yet nasty tricks of the trade.

She would enter independently while Kip and I would hang about and join her waiting on the elevator. Our accessories would fit in nicely with her tech background if security decided to hassle her during the check-in process, seamlessly camouflaged as part of her luggage. 

I made sure we all wore gloves throughout the operation. DNA was unfortunate, yet not time specific (aka 'I brushed up against someone'), video was dangerous (time stamped), but fingerprints were damning if found in areas, or on things, you shouldn't have been around/holding. 

We rendezvoused at the first elevator that made itself available. I let Kip ward off some anxious tourists with his clever tongue and battered visage while I, a chance acquaintance, helped her with her luggage rack - no bellboy. From there, it was step by step.

(1) When I located the two security cameras, I had Sara use black electrical tape to cover the 'hidden' one while I did the same thing to the larger, public device, with the addition of a mini, egg-shaped vibrator to ruin the sound quality. We achieved the action so quickly, I was sure security guards, rarely omnipresent, had no cause to set off any alarms, or stop the elevator. They would assume a technical glitch, not criminal mischief.

(2) Sara was of real help rewiring the elevator console once I popped the cover. We fried the cyber safeguards using a sawed-off cattle prod then rewired the unit so that it thought it was three levels lower than it actually was. Ta daaa ..., we had access to the penthouse. Kip and I stripped off our outer clothes, packed them in Sara's luggage then put on our heavy body armor (with plate inserts) hidden in the panels of one of the larger pieces of luggage.




Ebb Tide Ch. 04a



(3) The third part of the elevator subterfuge was killing the entire system in the second before it registered reaching the lowest floor of the penthouse. That annoying little ping that announced our arrival would have been unfortunate. We were two inches shy ~ Sara had a deft touch for all things electrical.

"Oh my God," Sara gasp softly. She placed a hand over her mouth. "I'm really breaking the law, aren't I?" she belatedly realized. 

"You are helping bring law-breakers to the only justice they can't buy their way out of, Sara," I consoled her. Kip and I put on ski masks, booties and put on twin body spy cams (with audio).

Provided we survived, I would want to review this operation for further details I may have missed in 'real time'.

"You are making sure that six women will live to see the sunrise." That was a tad melodramatic, yet truthful.

"If you hear people approaching the elevator that don't identify themselves as me or Kip, hit the emergency button and that will take you automatically to the ground floor," I stroked her cheek. "And remember to remove the wiring stunt, or it will slam you into the basement." The elevator was three stories short of calculating what floor it was really on. Sara nodded, then kissed me briefly on the lips. 

First we listened intently for anyone by the door. So far, so good. Kip and I wedged the doors open enough for me to slide out. I removed the cloth faux-wood sheath from my walking stick which was a lethal weapon in its own right; colloquially called a 'Thumper'. {Thank you, Mr. C}

My 'Thumper' was a four foot section of heavy PVC, one with a sidewall over 1/4inch thick, sealed at both ends. Inside was a one inch diameter PVC pipe, also sealed. The space between the outer and inner pipe was filled with thirty weight motor oil. The VERY tightly sealed one inch tube was ¾ filled of mercury ~ dangerous, toxic stuff.

That gave me a four foot long walking stick which I could use (purely defensively) as a bokken or wooden practice sword, with a 'slight' difference. This type of tool could be used with great effect, crushing joints, dislocating limbs and causing a great deal of pain, damage and suffering.

When I swung my 'Thumper', the inner tube moved to the other end of the outer tube, thereby re-enforcing the impact point. That is why your seal had to be 100% effective. The material inside the smaller tube became compressed and very solid making contact with any body part, say a shoulder, hip, or knee... very bad news for the object on the receiving end.

To say I'd actually trained with a sword would be unfair to anyone who has actually pursued such disciplines with knowledge and vigor. I was firmly a child of the 21st century ~ I put bullets in people, given the weaponry and opportunity. Training in hand-to-hand combat was an extension of my desire to make people whose lives mattered to me easier by making other people 'less threatening'.

I stepped out into the entry way. No one was on guard. That wasn't unexpected. Eight men had to cover three floors and rotate their alert levels (bodyguards need to eat and sleep too). Why station someone at the door where they would be relatively vulnerable? They would rely on the hotel staff and the elevator itself for their front line of security.

Besides those eight and Mr. Gris, I was thinking four or five flunkies would be here as well. A concierge (criminally-inclined playboys couldn't get their hands dirty), driver, butler, personal assistant and a cook (if the playboy had a finicky pallet). This (hopefully) would be the weakness I could exploit.

Guardians protect the 'principle' not the staff. Interrogating a trained operative was time I didn't have. Professional staffers normally cracked a whole lot faster. After the elevator door was shut, we went searching for a kitchen. By cracking a few doors quietly and following my nose, I was able to point the way.

None of the smells were recent ~ it was past 11pm, so the room was dim. Keeping a staffer close to their post meant ... a small bedroom off from the kitchen. She was asleep when I ghosted into the room. I had Kip wait in the kitchen and set him to boiling some saltwater. Scalding water makes an excellent improvised weapon. Saltwater gets even hotter.

As for the cook - I wacked her in the shoulder. The pain was so intense that she gasped in pain instead of screaming.

"You are going to tell me what I want to know," I softly addressed her fearful eyes. "How much pain you go through is up to you, but trust me, you are going to tell me what I want to know."

"Please," she hissed through her clenched teeth. "I don't make me ..." and I broke her right tibia then followed through by clamping my hand over her mouth. That kind of injury would make a person cry out. I gave him this much, Mr. Gris sociopathic charm inspired slavish devotion on her part.

She told herself he was emotionally damaged, in need of succor and had been hurt by anyone he dared open up to. The surreal paycheck allowed her the illusion he secretly knew of her devotion and would one day reward her ... if she just hung around long enough ... and ignored the cutting remarks and the 'clumsy' girls with bruises.

She couldn't image she'd ever betray him ... I'd heard all the variations of why people excused the evil in those they worshiped, never blaming the monster in their midst - always finding someone / anyone at fault for what their living deity 'had' to do. Misunderstood, suffering at the hands of a wickedly cruel world, or a soul in need of saving ... I'd seen it all before.

Start to finish: seven minutes. This wasn't even a work out for me. She told me what I wanted to know. We had two men on single, roving patrols, three watching a soccer match in the main entertainment room, two were sleeping two doors down the hall. The eighth was outside the Master Bedroom on the third floor in case Mr. Gris needed anything. Gris had Coal and another girl with him.

The other four had been stripped naked and locked in the sauna by the concierge because she preferred hanging out with one the bodyguards watching the soccer match. The driver doubled as Mr. Gris' pilot. He gone to the airport to make sure the plane was fueled up and ready to head back to New York City in the morning. He'd be back around 3 am.

Mr. Gris' personal trainer (not a butler) was his extracurricular 'help mate', so he would be close to Gris. The PA was in the second floor office, probably asleep on the sofa because she was a workaholic who only took cat naps. The Venetian penthouse did NOT have its own security room, though it had a Panic Room adjacent to the Master Bedroom.

Last question; did Chrétien Gris have any weapons? Having broken both her arms with impact 'Monteggia' fractures, smothering her with a pillow was easy enough, and very frightening. She was in a constant shit-load of pain yet still ambulatory. The kind of fractures I inflicted were like that. The bones remained intact and, if you were careful, you didn't even need to go to a hospital.

First answer - 'no'; more educationally informed pressure, then 'yes'. Finally - 'no gun, but twin 4" throwing blades'. I gave her parting words to think about.

"I am only here to get the girls back. If you've been completely forthright with me, no one has to die tonight. If I run across a surprise, all bets are off."

"I'll beat to death anyone who gets in my way. I have impressed upon you how violent I can be. Do you want Mr. Gris to go through things far worse than what you've endured? Or, is there something you haven't told me?" I let my eyes bore into her soul.

"I ... I have a Bluetooth," she whimpered. "We are all linked to the same network. Don't kill him. Please, promise me you won't kill him?"

"I was never planning to kill either of you, cook," I glared. "I fed upon your insane obsession with that sick freak to make you betray him ... and I'm going to let him know how helpful you were. I'll let him determine the appropriate reward for your betrayal. Good night."

Was that uncalled for cruelty? Yes. With four girls trapped in a sauna and a fifth being tortured so the sixth one would 'realize' how much he loved her, controlled her, would make others suffer for her wanting to be free and not returning his twisted version of love, all while she didn't call 911; I felt okay with it.

I suffocated her into unconsciousness, secured the Bluetooth and slipped back to the kitchen. Kip had a large saucepot of water boiling if we needed it. He also had accessed the kitchen's POS system and that had given him the three-story penthouse layout. I told Kip to stay put; I'd be back. I was going for the bodyguard on the first floor.

I didn't know where he was, but there were only so many routes he could travel. My best guess was he'd transit the main atrium off the elevator entryway, so I headed that way. I had the right idea, but bad timing. He was more surprised to see me than I was to see him. That allowed me to cover the distance and break the forearm attached to the hand quick-drawing his HK USP Tactical.

There was no manual safety on that model. A shot ricocheted off the floor followed rapidly by the sound of his pistol bouncing off the wall. The Frenchman was kind enough to have a Brügger & Thomet sound suppressor attached. He instinctively reacted, pivoting into a piston-kick at my hip. He was good ~ I was just way better.

Savate is rather nasty martial art. The kick was meant to displace, perhaps even dislocate the joint. He was also trying to distract me from noticing him yank out a flip knife with his left hand. I drove my knee into the kick before he could get any power behind it. His left hand was coming around with the blade. I noted he had one of those hyper-expensive ballistic undershirts on. It wasn't an issue for me.

Instead of swinging my 'thumper', I stabbed up with the 'hilt' into his Vagus nerve right below the jaw right before his knife deflected off my body armor's ceramic plate. My blow wasn't 'light's out'; it was an epileptic seizure that left him helpless for the follow-up concussion delivered to his cranium. I could have cracked his head open like a melon if I had wanted to kill him.

His holster went on my hip. I recovered his weapon, checking the mag before putting it up. I hooked the unconscious ex-trooper by the back of his collar and dragged him back to the kitchen. Two slip-ties trapped his hands behind his back and his ankles, while duct tape went over his mouth. Time for the two sleepers.

Taking Kip with me, we discovered they were asleep alright. The Bluetooth related quietly into my ear:

[French] "Germaine, I'm coming down for a coffee," the speaker on the other end communicated. As they say, 'when opportunity knocks ...'

[French] (cough) "... they drank it all ... I'll wake ... Jean (the cook)," I replied in a gravelly whisper.

[French] "Why bother?"

[French] "Do you want me to make it?"

[French] "I choose to live," he laughed. "I'll make one more circuit then be down." I didn't hold his lack of caution against him. He was in a secure location on a security network. Even professionals can get careless.

I opened the door in a casual manner. If either of the two men were light sleepers, I didn't want to spook them by acting sneaky. A man strolling in was groan-worthy, not a clarion call for danger. I waltzed in and shot them both in the upper left torso, putting the first bullet to the quickest man to react. The second man wasn't even awake when I shot him.

The wound would be fatal if they waited too long in seeking attention. A centimeter off and their perforated lung would have added a nicked aorta to their list of woes. If I treated the existing wounds they could wait half a day before needing a hospital's urgent care ward. I wanted them to leave Las Vegas.

Kip shut the door behind us. I didn't want anyone to get the bright idea to start screaming for help.

[French] "Now that I have your attention, roll over onto your stomachs, cross your wrists behind your backs and after I cuff you, I'll plug those holes that are quickly killing you."

[French] "You have no idea ..." he threatened through grinding teeth. I blew off his left ear. He screamed. I wasn't worried. They had spared no expense in the construction of the Venetian. Ensuring the privacy of the penthouse had been at the top of their list of 'must does'.

[French] "I'm on the clock, my friend," I looked at the second man.

With hate in his eyes, he struggled over onto his belly, complying with my order. Kip was over-eager so I warded him back. First I cold-cocked the screamer then circled around so when I let Kip slip-tie the guy the civilian wasn't in my line of fire.

[French] "Who are you with?" he struggled to keep his cool.

[French] "Easter Seals. You failed to mail in your yearly pledge."

[French] "I'll remember you," he made a pledge of his own.

"Qui Ose Gagne," I read off his tattoo. Kip went over to the unconscious guy to bind him as well. I applied a trauma patch to the man. I wasn't a man of my word. The wounded could explain their mishap far better than a corpse could.

"You know what that means?" he grumbled.

"You were in the 1er Régiment de Parachutistes d'Infanterie de Marine - 1er RPIMa and your motto, 'who dares wins', sounds pretty fucking poignant to me at the moment," I answered.

"Tonight, I let you live. If I catch you west of the Mississippi next week - or ever, I'm going to give you an IED you'll never forget. Tell your buddies," I explained the new reality to him. I was deadly serious. I knew their faces. They didn't know mine. If I saw them again, I wasn't going to run, play fair, or give them a second chance.

I'd blow them sky-high without warning and the look in his eyes conveyed that he read me loud and clear. A sharp tap to the back of the head put him out before I did my emergency trauma to the chest wound of the one-eared prick. Without orders, Kip applied the duct tape to them both.

"Scrounge up any weapons you can find," I ordered Kip. He was the first pimp in my entire life I had the slightest bit of use for. The man hit pay-dirt. Two more HK USP Tacticals with suppressors, two balanced blades and two 'hell hath no fury like the ATF' HK416Cs. He also came up with a rucksack full of extra magazines for both beasts.

The HK416 was a favorite of French Special Warfare types. These two were ultra-compact variants; 5.56×45mm NATO-firing submachine guns only 22.0 inches (560 mm) long when their stock was collapsed. I had little doubt these little ladies were full-auto, thus my reference to the ATF frowning on their existence in private hands. I snatched a HK416 for my personal use. I had to hurry up.

The layout had three other rooms devoted to Chrétien's guardians. I sent Kip to gather up the booty from the other rooms the bodyguards were using while I went to ambush the second patroller. I even put the coffee-maker on percolate while keeping the lights dim.

I wasn't much for talking with this guy. He came through the door with a tired smile and words on his lips that ended abruptly with a yelp. My first blow with my 'thumper' fractured both of his kneecaps, swept out his legs and flipped him face first to the floor. I planted the second blow on the back of his head before he hit the ground. I had to double-check to be sure I hadn't snapped his spine.

Nope. He'd be able to roll his wheelchair to the plane in a few hours. I had previously relieved Germaine of his knife, pistol and submachine gun and began his binding procedure on this guy when Kip showed up with three more HK416's, no pistols or knives, but plentiful ammo.

That meant I had one HK416 unaccounted for; I wagered that was with Mr. Gris. All four had their HK USP Tacticals and the Brügger & Thomet sound suppressor appeared to be standard issue. I now had a small amount of breathing space. Germaine's comrade had announced he was heading for coffee, so he wouldn't be immediately missed. Germaine was theoretically with him.

I took Kip back to one of the bodyguard rooms and tossed the two twin mattresses (each servant room had that set up) against the built in closet.

"Okay, impromptu firing lesson," I told him. I gave him the bare-bones. How to reload a magazine, how to aim and lastly, what firing both weapons felt like. I wanted him to hold the gun with confidence.

If the upcoming combatants decided to stress his resolve I wanted him to put the round in the general direction he was aiming at and to not have the recoil surprise him. I stripped down the guns we weren't using, dumping key components into the garbage disposal then we went hunting.

We went after the PA first. Pattern dictated she was either up, (she wasn't - the lights in the office were off) at the desk working on some sort of computer, or reclining on the sole sofa in the room. She swung up from a full recline to a standing position with the fluid grace of a minion who often found her boss barging in on her private time.

She ruined that millisecond of advantage by gawking at me. I dropped her like a bolt-gunned heifer. Kip was on her in a flash. He wrapped her up while I searched her for any surprises. None - good. We could hear the game from the next room. Two voices were prominent. I let my audio-spatial perception get a sense for what awaited us.

Big Screen TV - 1st target: single chair (minimal movement on his part) to my left if I entered the room from the office. 2nd target: straight ahead on an expanded sitting platform (sofa, or love seat). 3rd target: far side of second target - far less vocal and occasionally spoke in a low voice. I had to imagine the female concierge, the 4th target, was beside him - which side was uncertain.

That put #3 and the woman in a love seat from the room's most ergonomic set up, thus # 2 was on the sofa. I walked Kip through my attack plan. I was coming at them through the office door. Kip was to circle round and take up a position from the behind the bar using the HK416, shoulder stock out and eyes tracking down the gun sights.

When he heard me launch my attack, he was to rush the room, get behind the bar and keep everyone covered. I preempted his question.

"If I go down, fire and keep firing. Kill them all. You have three mags ~ 90 rounds. If you haven't killed them by the 90th round, you'll be dead too," I told him.

I didn't ask him if he wanted to do this. I didn't appeal to his bravery, or ply him with threats. This was remorseless violence and if he didn't have the fortitude to follow through, there wasn't a damn thing I could say to make a difference at this juncture. I gave him fifteen seconds. He slunk off, scared down to his tighty-whiteys. Fear is a good thing if it doesn't unman you.

Normally I'm a one-weapon combatant. I can shoot, punch, stab with my left with 95% of my accuracy with my right. Both my arms hit equally hard. That being said, I don't recommend to anyone not earning a stuntman's wage to do what I was about to do in a life-and-death situation. I strode boldly forth through the office door.

With my left hand I pumped two bullets into the man across the way (#3) with a HK USP Tactical in his center-mass. The 9mms weren't going to punch through his vest, but they'd hurt like hell and keep him in his seat. My 'thumper', in my right hand, started out resting on my shoulder; now it swung up in a lightning arch over my head and caught #2 in the face. His reaction time didn't do him any favors.

He had been springing off the sofa, clawing at his pistol and turning to face me all at the same time. The second he began pushing upwards, he lost control of his momentum. The only difference was that instead of landing the rod across his eyebrow ridge, I caught him across his the bridge of his nose and right eye socket.




Ebb Tide Ch. 04a



Odds were I'd fractured his ocular orb. His nose exploded in a shower of blood, cartilage and skin. I wasn't going to shed a tear over his blindness, or serious need of reconstructive surgery. The angle of my blow and the height he'd reached meant he almost ~ almost went sailing over the back of the sofa. I don't advise turning your back on an active opponent either.

Professionally, I would have popped the office door open, crouched in the doorway and fired three-round burst into the lot of them. I wasn't operating under my normally loose rules of engagement, fuck it all. I let the torque of my 'thumper' spin me around in a full 360 degree. #1 was suffering from his opening position of being both seated and starting with his back to me.

The 'thumper' caught him in the C7 vertebrae, rupturing it. Unlike my earlier spinal impact, this one was intentional. He could still breathe and his heart would still beat, yet that was pretty much the extent of his mobility. Until he got a spinal adjustment, he was paralyzed from the neck down. Honestly, I'd rather take birdshot from a 12 gauge than be hit by this thing, it is that nasty a weapon.

Nerveless, #1 stumbled forward to the ground unable to arrest his fall. I finished up the 360 kneeling as I fired two more bullets into #3. The concierge's mouth opened in shock, her lungs inflated and someone coughed to my right. I kept my eyes on the two of them; #3 was trying to focus on me while she looked toward the noise and found a masked Kip pointing a submachine gun at her.

"So much as a peep and this goes from an assault no one is going to talk about to a mysterious case of multiple murders," I menaced. Charisma and tone are more important than the actual words spoken. The guy looked like he was going to say something, so I tilted my pistol's aim so that he was staring down the barrel. "Nod slowly if you understand."

"Please don't kill me ..." she got out before she realized her mistake. That was okay, I wanted to club #3 like a baby seal anyway. I may have dropped him by 20 IQ points and, again, I didn't care. She squeaked as blood shot out of his nose then he slowly slumped over.

"Ssshhh ..." I cautioned her. Now she was whimpering.

I did a quick plan reassessment. The concierge was a selfish cunt. I could use that. I removed her Bluetooth then waved Kip over. He began the bondage routine starting with the paralyzed asshole.

"Roll over," I whispered my command.

Her eyes begged for mercy, mine were pitiless so she turned around on the sofa, face on the cushions and her knees on the floor. She gave a startled 'eeep' when I stabbed her in the butt with a small 'flu' syringe.

"I have injected you with a slow acting toxin. In ... 18 minutes from 11:24 pm your lymphatic system will break down the benign compounds in your blood, releasing Arsenic into your system. After that, you will have about five minutes of agony before your heart stops."

"No," she groaned as she looked over her shoulder at me.

"I have an agent in the lobby with the antidote. They don't know you and I doubt you know them. Unless I show up in the lobby before your deadline, it's Final Judgment time for you. Do you want to live?"

"Yes," she begged.

"Understood. Go with my associate here. Go to the sauna, gather up the girls, get them something to wear, take them to the elevator, help them get on, get on yourself and then wait for me. Oh ..."

"Yes," she gulped.

"Pray for me. If your boss kills, or delays me, you're not long for this world," I let my eyes transmit my upcoming joy at her painful demise. She nodded.

"There is a pool table upstairs," she volunteered. "Those two often play a game when they've got nothing better to do ... Mr. Gris likes to be left alone ..."

I didn't give her an award for treachery. Of all the staff, she had to be the most cognizant of her employer's true nature. I assisted Kip in securing the latest haul, broke down their pistols before sending Kip and the woman on their way.

"What about ...?" he inquired quietly. I shook my head - no talking.

"Don't let her look, or get in the elevator. Tell our cohort to change clothes as well," I directed. They left. Before I headed for the third level, I did a spinal adjustment on the #1 guy. Leaving him in that helpless state would have fed into my sadistic impulse.

For my plan to reach the End Game, Gris had to have enough people capable of hustling the rest of his ensemble to his private plane so he could split town without drawing attention from the police. I mapped out the location of the pool table in the game room from the map in my mind. The elevator was a 'no-go'.

The main staircase dumped me out in the atrium on the third floor, which had an open view of the game room. That was too much distance to cover for hand to hand. I had no idea if the 'physical trainer' had body armor, or not. Hitting a moving target with partial cover wasn't my best option since I'd have to hit the final bodyguard first.

There were three alternate routes; two fire escapes and the access from the kitchen to the Master Bedroom's side room. There was undoubtedly a serious security device between the room and Mr. Gris. The cook's keycard would handle that nicely. Other security measures were unlikely.

All Gris' flunkies knew to leave him alone during his 'private time', even when that private time included 'guests'. Most door locks are meant to stop surreptitious entry, not brutal force. I didn't have to take on the last two. I'd grab Gris and force their acquiescence. I retraced my downstairs for the large saucepot.

Coming up the backside, I put the pot on a service tray, put the gun on the left side and my 'thumper' to the right. On the down side, I couldn't make out any noises from the Master Bedroom. On the plus side, no one else not in the room was going to hear what I was about to do. There was a small dolly which would make a wonderful platform.

I slid the cook's key card in. Had the door not opened, I would have swung the HK416 around and shred the area around the lock ~ cutting it out with lead. It worked, I pushed the door open and let my senses soak up the sounds and smells. I detected muffled sobbing and the scent of sweat, urine and the particular odor of fear.

"I requested to be left alone, Jean," came this cultured male voice.

I could sense the reek of this sicko's charisma and confidence without laying eyes on him. Since I was laying eyes on him, I was able to see his mask go from coldly cruel to authoritative disapproval and then to an irate cool. He wasn't afraid; he was simply far too invested into his 'I am the Master of my Universe' to give-in to something that rational.

Had he done the smart thing, he would have dismounted the California king-sized bed away from me instead of toward me.

"You have made a very seri ..." he threatened as I grabbed the deep saucepot and propelled its contents at his bare face and torso. He did have some truly fashionable tailored slacks on - no socks or jewelry.

The near-boiling salt water was on the mark, right between the nipples of his well-defined chest. He was model-sexy, with a physique meant to entice every woman he sought after; he would then deny them the pleasure they anticipated. For whatever reason, Corona had rejected his psychological and physiological mystique. That was why she was sitting in a chair off to my left. She was unbound ... by any physical restraints.

Behind him, on the bed, was a very black, black-girl, tied naked and spread-eagle on the bed with a ball-gag strapped to her head. Her flesh glowed like hot embers from the thrashing she had taken. It was her terror, piss and sweat that permeated the room. I had taken extra care, taken that extra step, to make sure none of my improvised weapon splashed a single drop upon her ravaged flesh.

"Ah," he gasped. He was hissing through his horrific pain instead of crying out. Chrétien Gris kept his wits about him. Screaming was pointless as he'd rendered himself friendless in a room with high tech sound-baffling construction. His confidence hadn't allowed him to even consider locking his doors. Now his willpower drove him to stagger for the main door and the help beyond.

His eyes were stinging - he'd brought up a warding arm to take much of the pain. Had he been thinking, he would have shut his mouth too. The three, or four seconds he needed to recouped that air and clear his eyes were two more than he had. I swung my 'thumper' so that it connected with his right kidney. When he fell to his knees, I gave his left kidney the same treatment.

Both blows were designed for debilitating pain and permanent damage. The only pity was that he'd be able to buy a black market replacement a few years down the road if his ego let him live that long. I was on the clock ~ I'd earmarked three minutes devoted to him for intense trauma to his internal organs and major muscle groups. No broken bones for him.

"Corona, untie your friend," I urged her with steady, strong words. "Your ordeal is almost over." Chrétien was in too much agony to interfere. Corona remained glued to her chair. I didn't press her, opting to work the bastard over instead. "Free her, Corona," I kept with the soothing tone. "It is time for you to say good-bye to this pathetic creature. Your running days are over."

Fifty-two seconds in, she got up and stared at him. I let Chrétien look at her, form the words to countermand me, then nut-shot the cretin. I'd mangled my share of testicles in my career. Mr. Gris' odds of making little 'Gris-lettes' was plummeting toward zero with ever wack of the 'thumper' that was applied to his groin.

The penis is a muscle as well and every erection he was going to have over the next two weeks was going to bring him back to this time and place. My years spent with disreputable people doing unspeakable acts in the name of freedom and democracy was paying dividends for my fellow citizens now.

At 103 seconds he finally managed to eke out a question.

"Why?"

He didn't get an answer. Dehumanizing your victim - Chrétien was going to be left with no doubts that he was my victim tonight - could be accomplished in a variety of ways. Not using a person's name was one tool.

Not talking to them at all was better. Going about your task with the same enthusiasm you show while shoveling some else's walkway for $5 was better than the first two choices. I was convincing him that he was a nameless, faceless task to me. Three of the four people in this room mattered and for the first time in his narcissistic life, he was absolutely the odd man out.

Corona was the key. As she threw off the shackles he had been creating in her mind, she had reduced him in her mind ... and he knew it. His investment in her was being squandered by another man who didn't give a damn about him either way. At 180 seconds, I stopped. Now it was time to get Corona and Coal out of here. The main exit was the double doors, teak and solidly built.

They'd make excellent shelter for the girls if the two men outside got stupid. Corona had Coal standing, but the black girl would have collapsed if she let go. I secured my 'thumper' behind my back to my haversack. I retrieved my pistol, applied duct tape over poor, long-suffering Mr. Gris' mouth. Once I had hefted him up with an arm around his waist I signaled Corona to make her move.

The portal swung open and I shuffled into clear view of the people outside. They were right where the concierge said they would be - playing pool. Their looks went from attentive to ... the physical trainer face showed horror; the final bodyguard showed steely resolve. I had my purloined pistol pressed against Chrétien's temple and was using him as a human shield.

"This side of the table - face down arms behind your back, or I start shooting at you," I commanded. "En commençant par vous, de Parachutistes d'Infanterie de Marine," I directed to the Frenchman.

[French] "Team, Delta," the man muttered into his Bluetooth.

I shot him in the left hand, between the thumb and forefinger and traversing his palm before exiting out the other side. Had it been something bigger than a 9mm, the bullet would have torn his hand in two. You have to be a fucking Iron Man to shrug that kind of wound off. He didn't.

Before he could react, I shot him in his right hand as well, putting the round a centimeter up from his middle finger into his palm. He was about to find out if his health insurance was sub-par.

"Your move," I pointed the gun at the physical trainer.

"I don' think ..." he started his own cautionary tale to me.

I shot the bodyguard in his right foot. It was that whole Savate thing - I didn't want to mess with that arrogant prick trying to reverse his fortune.

"What! Why did you ...," the man just wouldn't shut up and do as he was told, so I shot him (the physical trainer) in the shin. He screamed and fell over.

"This was easier than I thought it would be," I told Corona.

"Get some clothes for Coal and make your way to the first floor of the penthouse's elevator. Everyone will be waiting for you," I explained. "I'll be with you in roughly two minutes. Go." I smashed the butt of the pistol against the back of Chrétien's right ear in a manner designed to rupture his inner eardrum and disrupt his equilibrium for the next few days - a parting gift as he slumped to the ground.

The physical trainer was suitably cowed. Wrapping him up was easy. The ex-military Frog attempted to be more difficult. He glared hate my way, but I ignored him. I took his gun and knife, 'thumped' them both unconscious, and made my way to the elevator. Kip was attempting to be a warrior, so I called ahead so he wouldn't accidently shoot me.

To his credit, he didn't talk. By this time the concierge was frantic. She had less than two minutes left on her supposed deadline.

"Let's get going," she pleaded. I sucker-punched her. That made Kip edgy.

"I gave her a strong dose of Narcozep," I explained. He almost spoke then mouthed 'roofie'? I nodded. I broke down the last of the firearms. "Let's go."

As soon as I shut the doors, Sara reactivated the elevator and down we went - one floor. She looked at me with fear filled curiosity. Five of the others looked fearful. Coal was still semi-comatose.

"You seven will get out and go to your room. No talking and no names. My associate and I will leave," I explained.

"Wait fifteen minutes and take another elevator down. You should be okay from here on out," I added. I wasn't planning to wait that long. I wanted to give them something to concentrate on - the clock in this case. They filed out reluctantly, Sara in the lead. I held one (my) piece of luggage back. I shut the door, then began stripping out of my wet suit. I then redressed in the clothes I'd been seen arriving in. Kip followed my lead. 

The only thing left to do was cover up the evidence of our elevator tampering, remove the vibrator egg and spray a reagent on the electrical tape. It would fall off in about ten seconds. The door shut behind us as we made our way to Sara's room, suitcase in hand. Sara actually answered before my second knock.

"Funny meeting you here," I smiled. "Ready to go?"

"Now?" she sighed with relief.

"Sure."

"Ladies," Sara looked over her shoulder, "time to go." Sara was back to being ecstatic, reveling in the criminal conspiracy that, on her end, equated to little more than vandalism. The rest of the hookers were befuddled, yet eager to leave.

The moment they saw Kip, Magnolia and Natalie rushed and hugged him. He winced but took his punishment like a man. He shot me a look. I nodded.

"Ladies, it is good to see you," he greeted them. Kip had held his tongue until I gave him permission to speak - smart and disciplined for a pimp. I had to decide if that was a good thing for Dabney, or not.

We brought two elevators up this time. Sara and I would take the first one down. Ten seconds later, Kip and the call-girls would follow us. Sara was incredibly jumpy.

"Are we going to get away with this?" she whispered.

"Thanks to you, Sara," I replied smoothly.

"You not only helped with the technical side of things, you made sure we can separate those ladies from any trace of the crime. If those bastards clean up the scene, any criminal case won't hold water. Juries and DA's hate rich people prepping a crime scene before the public servants show up. All you have to do is go back to your original room at the Wynn," I outlined for her.

"Later tonight, I'll send someone to pick up your luggage around 4 am. Then you will be gone. If anyone flashes a badge, double check their ID. If they ask you about the girls, 'you met them in the elevator, you didn't ask where they came from, the group of you went back to your room, then you agreed to meet with them later at Caesar's, but they didn't show, so you went back to the Wynn." 

"Repeat it to me." She did. I made her do it five more time until she was calmer and I was sure she could pass a curiosity police check. The door opened. "You wait outside. I will make sure the others leave, then I'll drive you back to Wynn's."

"Is ... is this it?" she stammered. I studied her. "I mean is this the end ..."

"What do you want to do?"

"I ... I don't know. This has been ... ah, more exciting than I thought it would," she panted. "I was ..."

"We will talk in a minute," I directed her toward the door as I spotted Rothschild, dressed in her distinctive LVMPD garb. I went her way, keeping my perceptions alert for Kip's crowd trying to move from the elevators to the exit.

She spotted me, saw my head toss in Kip's direction and off she went to intercept his group as the Venetian security guards were moving their way as well. Normally a call-girl, or three could pass unmolested. This group already had a history - the brutalizing of the pimps - and the security team didn't want to be embarrassed. As the closest two stopped Kip, Rothschild made her move.

Casino & Hotel types didn't like the LVMPD treading on their turf, but the Law was the Law. Rothschild turned on the rational that she couldn't countenance the private cops holding seven people without due cause. They couldn't confess that they'd let some billionaire bully boys dump some battered panderers in their lap before sending them to the hospital. Things like that happened all the time. It didn't make it legal. 

I meandered ahead of the group while keeping close enough to double back if anyone got antsy. No one made an issue of Rothschild's random appearance, so the final stage of the operation ended smoothly. She would stick around for fifteen more minutes 'looking for someone' who wasn't us. 

Kip and the ladies got in the van and drove off. I flagged down a taxi and 'offered' to share it with the lady I'd met at the Venetian.

"Where to?" she, the cabbie, asked. I had to nudge Sara.

"Oh ... um ..." she mumbled. I clearly have developed the ability to drive women mad. That was my only explanation for Sara Patel 'deep-sixing' my 'I don't know her - she didn't know me' plans. "We are going to your place ... um ... a ... Mr."

"Vardanyan," I confessed. Cabbies are notorious for noticing everything and nothing. "Up to the North Vegas line. We'll walk that last bit and get to know one another."

"I knew it," the cabbie laughed. "You kick ass ... Vance?"

"Yeah, I prefer to use first names. Call me Vance. I found Sara here wandering around horny, alone and in dire danger of falling for one of our dangerous urban predators," I lied to our driver.

"I'm going to take her home and spank her kitty for the next three days," I kept going. "You know ... bondage ... S&M stuff ... all those things out-of-towners come here looking for." Our driver, Ebro, laughed so hard she snorted.

"I love you, Man," she chuckled. "I wish I could talk to tourists like that."




Ebb Tide Ch. 04a



"Are you two joking?" Sara wondered.

"I'll let you figure that out," I responded. Ebro chortled yet again.

"I was hoping for a little chatting and something to drink," Sara hedged. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind she was realizing she had broken the law, she'd been dealing with some bad people, and now she was driving to my house, ... driving 'out' of Las Vegas.

"Remember, you wanted to see my place," I patted her hand. I didn't need her wigging out here at the last second.

"I ... yeah, you are right," she admitted.

"Besides, I have two roommates," I consoled her.

"Oh yeah ... woo ... I won't be alone with you," she babbled then blushed.

"If you have to be alone with a man, you could do worse," Ebro pointed out.

"I'm unemployed, I have trouble with authority and I've been in two shoot-outs in the past week," I countered. "I'm hardly GQ material."

"But you are real," Ebro teased me.

"Yes," Sara leaned into me. "You are."

I had several difficulties ahead of me. Sara was a talker and prone to open her mouth before thinking things through. I needed to keep things quiet until Sara had a chance to calm down and let her scientific/engineering mind return to the fore. 

Engineers (specifically my favorite engineers ~ combat engineers) are great people. They can be sour, jokers, happy, or sad. The big thing about them is they tend to be thoughtful and introspective. If they aren't, they could end up pleasuring themselves with less than five fingers. Or, they could build a bridge that collapses, killing people; set up a camp, only to have it wash away; or have their vehicle conk out when their lives are on the line. They take a few extra seconds before they act whenever the opportunity presents itself. All Sara needed was to realize she had those few extra seconds with me.

I kissed her. I kissed her on the lips, our mouths tightly closed.

"You can spend the night if you like," I suggested. Her eyes grew wide and she gulped.

"Oh ... okay," she nodded. She was living out her 'Vegas Experience': the rescued damsel, the white hat criminal and now the torrid affair.

I grew up in Vegas and heard all the stories about what tourists think Vegas should be like and what they can suddenly get away with. She was rich enough to not need to 'break the bank at the Mirage'. Snookering a 'whale' (big spender) in a sinister game of baccarat would do nicely for her. She wanted to come out of this weekend feeling like a winner. 

We were falling into an uncomfortable habit of helping one another. I was a loner who was never alone. The next kiss had a touch of tongue on my part. She was coltish - eager and uncertain. The third kiss was a full-blown French invasion of the Subcontinent.

"Wow," she grinned. "You are a great kisser." A moment later she recognized her statement as a token of her inexperience as much a praise of mine.

"He was an NCO," Ebro play-mocked me. "They are great at kissing ass ... and face."

"Don't insult Vance," Sara sighed. "He's wonderful."

This was going to be tougher than I thought. I hadn't wanted a live-in mate. I didn't desire having two live-in girlfriends. If I developed a fan girl, I was moving back into Hell. I knew I could get back my old job killing shit.

{Epilogue One}

The mid-afternoon Las Vegas Sun managed to eke streaks of luminosity through the venetian blinds. Gris was avoiding the warmth of that light. The two members of his legal team - one from his New York offices and the other, a licensed practitioner in the State of Nevada - sat, waiting for the Las Vegas ADA to arrive and give them the news that was too important to relay by phone, e-mail, or personal courier.

The two women and one man who entered the room were not who he was expecting. He gazed at them briefly, rated their influence, then looked away. The Nevada attorney was weighing her words while his mouthpiece talked.

"Excuse me, this is a private meeting between Mr. Gris and ADA Mitchell," he loftily informed the 'locals'.

"Yes, you are correct that this is a private meeting," the lead woman nodded. She was English, in her early fifties and someone used to wielding real power. "I'm Sandra Cho. My companions are Margo Inara, of the Nevada Women's Legal Defense Fund and ... the man's identity is not relevant."

"What are you doing here? Mr. Gris' time is valuable," his lawyer bristled.

"Hush, Mr. Kowalski, while you are perfectly safe in this building, the route of any egress from this city is fraught with peril," the woman purred.

"Are you threatening us?" Kowalski uttered derisively as he stood up.

"Take a second look at your client and weigh my words accordingly," she replied with a cruel twist to her lips.

"You are responsible for that unwarranted attack on me?" Gris asked in a cold, remote manner that Sandra noted was belied by the hate-filled depths of his eyes.

"Oh no," she laughed. "Someone got to you before I could. From what I've heard, and now see, I can't fault them on their workmanship. So I suppose I don't begrudge their impertinence. Those people, I forgive. You, on the other hand, I do not."

"Back to the threats," the female attorney from Las Vegas chided Cho's legal counsel. "Margo, I would have thought better of you."

"This is the first time I have ever met Ms. Cho, Alesia," Margo Inara countered. "I'm here to represent my six clients, if any civil and/or criminal actions are pursued from this point forward."

"Who would that be?" Kowalski sneered. "Six hookers with multiple counts of prostitution hardly make credible witnesses against a man who donates a serious portion of his wealth to charities every year. I will forward my request for your work product to date so that I may contact those six women as pertains to my client's and his guests' assault. Thank you for the assistance."

"Do you want the testimony of the four men your client's guests hospitalized earlier last night? The fifth is still in a coma," she reposed. "Or, would you prefer the copy of the video of the actual crime perpetrated against your client last night. I have seen it ... the whole nasty thirty-seven minutes ordeal, with some edits before it came into my possession."

"Thank you for the warning. I'll prepare a court order to squash that bit of evidence," Alesia countered.

"By all means," Margo chuckled. "I have to admit, I was getting ready to rip Ms. Cho a new asshole the moment I stepped out of this room, but I'm now rethinking my stance on that. I said copy and have seen for a reason."

"One of Ms. Cho's groundskeeper found this in the mail box this morning along with a note, - she also provided me with a copy of that. It spells out the motivation behind last night's incident. Those four men's - we will call them what they are ~ 'pimps' - those four pimps' affidavits confirm that motive. Ms. Cho reviewed the DVD, then contacted me with her concerns that those six women would be unrepresented."

"Margo, since when do you represent panderers?" Alesia shot back. "Normally you are trying to put them behind bars and out of business." 

"I'm not representing them. I despise them. Seeing them all broken and bandaged up did my heart good. Watching one of Mr. Gris' female employees being tortured for five minutes was rather grueling."

"The validity of her testimony only made it worse, as I abhor torture and believe it is never justified. Watching the rest of your staff getting the shit ..."

"We'll want that DVD handed over immediately," Kowalski interrupted.

"Sorry," Sandra Cho sighed. "It has been stolen. I left it out, my daughter mistook it for another DVD, took it out with her to lunch and it was stolen out of her car."

"I have her written statement testifying to this mishap," Margo informed them. "She's an outstanding citizen, had constant access to her mother's study and had borrowed things from her mother numerous times before."

"And you imagine that if you go forward with this farce it will magically appear again?" Kowalski sneered. "How convenient."

"You said it; I didn't," Margo taunted. "When no charges are filed against your client ~ it would be a matter of public record ~ I am counting on it to show up again, both at my offices and on the internet."

"Conniving with violent criminals is even less like you," Alesia said.

"Sadly, allowing rich clients to beat the system is very much like you," Margo shot back.

"I am not a lawyer and, like Mr. Gris, my time is valuable, so I'll let know how I view the situation," Sandra stated.

"I theorized that Mr. Gris is going to drop the charges, get on his plane and exit this state, never to return - neither him, nor his minions. If he does that, the matter will fall into a deep slumber, hopefully never to reawaken."

"That's not going to happen, Ms. Cho," Kowalski condescended. "Though I am going to make sure we investigate you thoroughly."

Sandra Cho leaned forward, placed her elbows on the table and steeple her fingers.

"I don't mind your insolent challenge one bit," she met his threat unflinchingly. "I'm not a lawyer. I'm a rich, socially-conscious libertine with a wide variety of friends."

"We will see about that," Chrétien spoke in is normal, emotionless tone. He even looked slightly aggrieved by the whole ordeal.

"I'm not concerned, Mr. Gris," Sandra grinned. "As I said, I have a wide variety of friends. A few of them are the most dangerous predators of all. They hunt other predators - men like you."

"We are done here," Kowalski announced.

"Do what you wish," Sandra shrugged. "Mr. Gris, Mr. Kowalski and Ms. (Alesia) Morton, I'm letting you all know right now, the girls, Ms. Inara and everyone she puts on this case will be aggressively protected and not just by lawyers. The people defending them can be very proactive in their zeal."

"I think I will let ADA Mitchell be aware of your 'suggestions', Ms. Cho, Mr. Kowalski," Margo said smoothly, "along with a detailed accounting of this meeting.

"In that account, I will report Ms. Cho having a theory about the crime. That is the sum total of her confessed knowledge about the assault on your client ~ a theory that she, a longtime resident of Las Vegas, is allowed to have," Margo chuckled.

"Besides that, she is letting you know that she will be paying for highly rated private security because people bringing charges against your client, Mr. Gris, have had numerous misfortunes ~ careers ruined, names smeared, fearful retractions, rumored pay-offs and even a few disappearances," Margo enlightened them.

"Personally, I heard her declaration and felt comforted by it, because I have no intention of violating the legal process. Her words clearly expressed a desire to remove the possibility of outside coercion without expressly stating she thought anyone in this room would do such a thing," the female defender added.

"Ms. Inara, this may be how you handle things in the Bush Leagues, but if I have to see that an army is brought to bear in order to clear Mr. Gris of any wrong-doing, I will see that justice prevails," Kowalski blasted back.

"Bush leagues ... boondocks ... Mr. Kowalski, in Nevada ... in Las Vegas, we rely on the modern judicial process," Sandra said.

"We also haven't forgotten our roots in Old World, Biblical justice ~ Code of Hammurabi, 'eye-for-an-eye' ~ 'no one gets away with it forever' kind of stuff. I don't think it will come to that," Sandra gave her Cheshire smile. "Mr. Gris, it is not too late for you to scurry away like the insignificant, abusive, narcissistic sociopathic beast you are."

"I promise you," Sandra pledged with utter conviction, "if this goes to trial, you will not be able to escape your well-deserved fate."

"Ms. Cho, I wasn't aware you had such undue influence with the Nevada judicial process," Alesia sniped.

"Ah, Ms. Morton, I leave the perversion of the legal process to your boss, Mr. Pharris," her gaze on Alesia would have made a barracuda balk. "What I'm promising everyone in this room is that justice will be done. If Mr. Gris knows he's done nothing wrong, he has nothing to fear. If you and Mr. Kowalski believe he is innocent, you have nothing to fear as well."

"Personally, I suggest you treat Mr. Gris as if he is gangrene. The only cure for gangrene is to cut out the tissue as well as the healthy tissue around it. 

"Chrétien, you know why you were attacked last night. You saw how effective your elite team of mercenaries were in keeping you safe. You also know that if there is a next time, all of you are going to die. You have been warned of that," she finished.

"It was on the DVD," Margo hastily added.

"Margo," Sandra stood, "I suddenly no longer feel all that safe being in the same room with Chrétien. Bad things happen to people around him. Last time it was only people in his employ. Next time, it might be harder on any innocent bystanders standing too close."

"Ms. Inara ...," Kowalski prepared his offense.

"Facts already in evidence," Margo pointed at Mr. Gris as she stood. "Standing around him clearly is not safe. One of his assailants tortured his cook for information she quickly gave up ... and she clearly liked your boss. Eight armed former-French paratroopers ended up getting beaten half to death."

"Had it not been for the six women he was there to rescue, I have little doubt the police would have been investigating thirteen deaths," Margo pointed out.

"Fourteen disappearances," Sandra corrected. "The criminals would have dispatched the chauffeur when he returned, smuggled the bodies out and disposed of them somewhere. That's what I would have had them do, if they worked for me."

"Do you know people like that?" Margo asked Sandra as they were both heading out the door.

"I know all sorts of interesting people with unique approaches to life, asymmetrical problem solving abilities and who are paragons of the highest order."

"That's good to know," Margo responded as they departed.

Inside the room, Kowalski turned to Chrétien.

"What do you want me to do, Sir?"

"For now ... let it be. We are going back to New York to regroup. I have unfinished business here that will have to wait," he gingerly touched his scalded cheek. "I will conclude matters here at a later date. Keep tabs on Corona."

"Ms. Morton, find out everything there is to know about Ms. Sandra Cho," he commanded.

"Yes sir," she nodded readily. She thought he was obviously a troubled soul.

At the same time, outside, walking down the hall:

"I don't know what your game is, Ms. Cho, but I don't like being thrown in front of the lions like that," Margo growled.

"Ms. Inara," Cho talked while she strolled through the back hallways of power, "I am not abandoning you. I do not regard you as expendable. You have served my purposes admirably. In turn, if you need something you think I might be of assistance with, let me know. After all ..."

"You know interesting people," Margo finished up. She didn't trust Sandra Cho. She wasn't even sure she liked her. Still ... she found Sandra alluring as a woman who exemplified influence and menace in equal measure. She wanted to know more.

{Epilogue Two}

"Well Mother," Reagan ask her mother over their after dinner tea. "How did it go?" Talking business at home wasn't forbidden, though it was frowned upon. They had secure offices for that.

"You really do like that man," Sandra mused. "I looked into the matter. I met Mr. Gris ... oh, he's going to spend over a year with a plastic surgeon trying to repair what happened to him."

"Was it that bad?" Reagan murmured.

"No. Whoever beat him did a masterful job. The application of force was exceptionally well played. The fault lies squarely with Mr. Gris and his obsession with his own perfection. Pathetic actually. He was beaten clear down to his ego and no laser scalpel, or skin treatment will fix that."

"He is a control freak extraordinaire. He will definitely come gunning for us; of that I have no doubt. I've put Jessup on the matter. It will be expensive, but I so rarely get to mix business with pleasure," she smiled affectionately at her daughter. Sandra knew that her daughter was happier than she'd been in years. She was approaching her job with a new sense of direction and relish.

She doubted Reagan loved Vance. Vance wasn't a problem - he was a resource and the right person to put her daughter and the man she should be with back together. At that moment, Sandra missed her husband and regretted how he hadn't lived to see Reagan blossom into such a wonderful young woman. He could have talked some sense into his little girl.

He never would have allowed her to drive away the one man she truly loved, who truly loved her and most of all, she was sure she and Reagan could trust.

"What if it becomes too expensive?" Reagan worried.

"We ask your friend to finish what he started," Sandra touched the back of her daughter's hand. Reagan smiled at that. They were both sure Vance would get the job done. 

 Appearance of Principal Characters 

 Vance (Vardan) 'V' Vardanyan - He has thick, black hair kept short. His skin is a dark brownish-olive complexion. Medium brown eyes. Square jawed. Broad chested with powerful arms, a thick neck, more body-hair than the norm. A stocky frame (six foot tall, 240 lbs.).

 Dabney Curtiss - She has long, wavy light-brown hair with blonde streaks and highlights. Her skin is fair and lightly tanned, it feels silky to the touch. Golden-brown eyes. Heart-shaped face. 34DD sized breasts with pale, broad areolas and puffy nipples. Athletic body type with robust buttocks, thighs and calves.

 Georgianna 'G' Norquist - She is a natural honey/amber-blonde. Her skin tans easily and is currently darkly tanned and smooth. Oval-shaped face. Clear grey eyes. Her body is fit, toned and statuesque; a smidge on the slender side, which suggestively renders her 32D-sized breasts looking bigger than they actually are.

 Detective Lieutenant Trixie Crowe Buchannan (LVMPD Internal Affairs Bureau [IAB])  -A fit, attractive woman with the quick-eyed, coltish gaze of a classic over-achieving misanthrope, hazel eyes, set in an oval face; brown hair normally worn in a ponytail that drops to the bottom of her shoulder blades. She is 5'9" and 120 lbs. with minimal exercise.

 Detective Sgt. Soledad Moreno, (LVMPD Robbery/Homicide - Homicide) - Hispanic female, attentive blue-grey eyes set in a slender rectangular face. Her long black hair is thin as silk, shimmers in the light as it cascades loosely down to her mid-back. She is 5'8" and 117 lbs. with a physique chiseled by a strict and diverse physical training regimen.

 Reagan Cho, daughter and designated successor for Circe, Vice Lady of Lust - She is tall, fit, with dark tanned skin hinting at Asian origins. Long black hair and black-rimmed glasses. Very serious and intense most of the time; taut in mind and body, but has a witty sense of humor about her when in good company. (If she has a flaw, it is her willingness to let less gifted people know she is smarter than they are.)

The Vice Lords

Circe Lust; 

Sycorax Gluttony; 

Archimago Avarice; 

Jareth Sloth; 

Thulsa Doom Wrath; 

Baphomet Envy; 

Xaltotun Pride;