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.