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.