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.