Ebb Tide Ch. 04b

Sadly, the dead fucker had an older sister who happened to be a hotshot with the People's Liberation Army Special Forces ~ Navy actually ~ the 'Sea Dragons' ~ and she came looking for us. I was sure her own people had told her to drop the matter. She hadn't listened. She'd fucked/threatened her way through the appropriate people until she figured out who we were ... and now she was giving me a phone call. Fuck her.

I was going through my normal morning workout routine when my phone let me know someone was trying to contact me. It was 7 a.m.

"Hello."

"So now you answer your phone?"

"My phone leads to various cut-outs, Jo, not to any electronic device associated with my home address," I answered. "You mentioned something about breakfast?"

"I'll meet you at Snow Mountain Smoke Shop in thirty minutes," she stated. She was real tight with her emotions.

"I've never heard of it. What's it near?"

"Go north up US 95. It is at the Paiute Golf Resort turn off."

"That's out in the middle of nowhere," I pointed out.

"I don't know what to make of you," was her response. Not helpful.

"What kind of food do they serve?"

"It is a smoke shop ~ tobacco products. They also sell beer and snacks."

"Okay. I'll see you there in thirty minutes," I agreed. "Bye." There was no need to say things like 'will you be armed?', or 'come alone'. We would both be armed and if she wasn't alone, I'd keep on going. If I showed up with company, she would take it poorly. Besides, Dabney slept late, G worked late last night and Sara didn't have to be at the Expo downtown at the Las Vegas Convention Center until 9:30.

Now to deal with the third caller. I dialed up Betty Grable, my former handler at the CIA, to update her about Lieutenant Commander Xi Baozhai ~ her name meant 'stockade of treasures' which was bad all by itself ~ at Betty's home number.

I'd let her tell someone else not associated with us (at the CIA) to let her bosses know I was retired in the same way I knew it wouldn't do any good – bat-shit crazy sister that she was. I followed that up with a call to my old SOG boss, Sylas, with the same news. He informed me Baozhai was also 'retired from active duty' with a valid passport and wished me luck.

I then called Captain Brassard of JSOC – he was handling the case of me shooting all those folks in Vegas – and gave him the heads up as well. He was halfway through a rant about 'how the heck (wife/kids nearby apparently) I knew his home number' before he recalled what I'd been doing the past three years. I updated him on my tale of woes.

Yeah, a grief-stricken, ex-Chinese Special Forces chick was coming to my fair city to kill me over shit I did in the CIA, which I couldn't tell him about, ... but I figured he would want to know, since she was reported to be exceedingly lethal and we might 'break some shit' before one of us dropped dead.

He asked me if I wanted to leave town. I told him I had just moved my girlfriend's clothes into her new closet. He chuckled. He knew the score.

Finally, I got to:

"Hey, Kristoff, it is Vance Vardanyan," I said when he answered the phone.

"V, how are you doing?" he grunted. My guess was he'd been working out.

"Tons of stuff I can't talk about. You?"

"Ha! Some stuff I can say and some I can't," he chuckled. "You had chow yet?"

"I'm actually meeting a professional killer in twenty-five minutes who is emotionally conflicted about how she feels about me, but if that pans out, I'm up. Where do you want to meet?"

"Damn {amused snort} ... Buffalo Wild Wings on Hualapai?" he suggested.

"I'll do my best," I replied. "Later."

"Later."

Considering the likelihood I'd make it to see Kristoff, I gave another friend a call and arranged a rendezvous. It would be a big surprise for both of them. I had some time. I called a car dealership in Los Angeles, gave them my order, account number and address where I wanted my new car parked. I liked my Corvette, but it was built for two, so cramming an adult in the back was cruel and unusual punishment.

I had considered buying a Cadillac CTS-V when I first retired. I had decided against it because it felt like a family car. Now I had a family. Of greater concern, Dabney was going to 'steal (in my eyes) / borrow (in hers)' whatever I got and I wanted to put her in something which could keep her safe. An 'up-armored', custom 2015 CTS-V fit the bill: 707 horsepower (the engine from a Dodge Charger SRT Hellcat), 0 to 60 in 4.2 seconds, 60 to 100 in 5 more, top speed of 204 mph and 2,200 lbs. of armor all around.

Sure, it got about 10 mpg in city and 15 highway ... which was why they added the extra 5 gallons to the fuel tank (up to 24). On the up side, you could throw a grenade under the damn thing and it would keep the driver and all four passengers safe and no one had shot at me in Vegas yet with a caliber large enough (14.7mm) to punch through an armor glass window, much less a side panel.

I lucked out. I would have hated to buy a red car – they are begging for traffic tickets. I took a silver one and arranged for someone to drive it up for me with a drop off at the IHOP on Centennial Center Blvd at 3:30 pm. If they kept it off the books, I'd send the guy back in a 2007 Hyundai Sonata from the dealership up the street – paid for in cash. That taken care of, I went back to the bedroom, kissed the three sleeping ladies on their heads and departed since it's not wise to keep a killer waiting, much less stand one up.

[...]

On the road, I accessed my computer and did a directory search for Yíchāng Shì, PRC and the surname Xi. It took me a minute to recall the dead bastard's father's name. Thankfully there was only one match. I would have hated to wake up the wrong guy over there – it was midnight, his time. Next, I contacted a reliable translation service out of Taipei then made the call.

It took a few rings for the old man to answer. I told him, via translator, I was an American who had met his daughter in mutual service, extended an offer to come to the US and she had taken me up on the offer. She had called me, but failed to give me her mobile number and could he please provide it. He hesitated. Lifetime communists tend to be a bit paranoid. I told him not to worry about it then dropped the idea I didn't want her harassed by 'my' Homeland Security when she got here.

He coughed up her mobile after that. Xi Baozhai's problem was she was a sailor, not a spy like her brother. I imagine she thought by calling me, she would make me suffer in anticipation. A pro would have made me suffer in anticipation after they had surprised and neutralized me. I never gloated, but if I did, I'd do the gloating after the job was done, not before I even started. I gave her a call. It went to voice mail. I left none. It was time to talk with Jo.

[...]

There she was outside the Smoke Shop, leaning against her Candy Apple Red Suzuki Hayabusa ~ a damn fast motorbike. Shockingly grey-white wild hair, a red leather jacket ... red cowboy boots ...pale skin ... no makeup ... bloodless lips ... black, fingerless gloves, backless, black halter top for her tiny cone-like breasts (no bra), black butt shorts which look painted on with red chaps masquerading as leather stockings ... did I misread some clues about our get together ... or her line of work?

She was hunched up, carrying plenty of pent up aggression and unease, yet it didn't seem directed at me. Her lips were tightly pursed, her arms crossed near chest level. Though she was definitely cute and her twin shoulder-holstered, over-sized semi-automatic pistols were just out of view, no sane individual with even a smidge of self-preservation instinct would take a step toward her in this parking lot.

As a stranger to me and a woman, there was no right way to deal with her body language. As a fellow human traveler into some of the darker places ... I walked straight into her space, brushed an imaginary strand of hair off her upper left cheek, then leaned in for a gentle kiss upon her lips. A tender brush really.

"Good morning," I kept my facial expressions calm and unexpressive.

Jo had studied my approach and calculated her reactions to my every movement, but had been unable to fathom my intention because of its basic humanity. And human interaction was what she lacked and hungered for – thus her demanding a meeting here with me, a stranger, at 7:30 in the morning.

I didn't smile or hug her, because that might be construed as sexual. A brief kiss on the lips only meant friendship. On the lips suggested I saw her as a female to my male ~ I was seeing her femininity without demanding to stick my dick in her. Those amber, raptor-like eyes made rapid-fire decisions, then she ponied up a minute smile.

"Good morning, Vance ... or do you prefer V?"

"My actual name is Vardan. You can call me Vance until you get comfortable with calling me V," I suggested. She nodded. She was going to call me 'Vardan' because no one else did ... and I hadn't listed it as an option. Wait and see. Her eyes flashed toward the store. Wordlessly, we turned and entered together.

I held the door for her – which she wasn't expecting. She headed off for some packaged tobacco. I went for a V8. On the way to reconnecting at the counter, I spotted what I hoped would be an appropriate gift. I had multiple choices, but quickly whittled them down to the turtle and the badger before settling on the badger. Their lions were male, their cats pink, dogs – puppies and the other animals made no sense considering what I knew of her personality.

At the counter, "I got this," I stated.

Jo tilted her head slightly to let me know she was looking at me and wanting an explanation.

"First date. You picked the place, so I pay. Next time, I pick and you pay," I created our 'Ground Rules'. She nodded. I paid for her smokes, rolling papers, my drink and the toy.

"Here you go," I handed her the badger. "Happy First Date."

"Oh, that's sweet," the congenial female counter clerk commented.

Jo stared for a few seconds before taking it. Then back out into the parking lot we went. Jo rolled her own cigarette, taking her time. After a few puffs,

"I've never been given a present on a date before."

"Me neither. I don't date much. I never did in service. Nothing serious in High School and one of my two dates since leaving was to a gun range," I broke the ice.

"Oh ... I'd like that. I have a private gun range I use ..." she left the invitation hanging. I'm not the 'invite myself along' kind of guy.

"Date much in High School?"

"I don't recall – amnesia," she put in an excellent effort in watching me while pretending to be looking elsewhere.

"Well," I opened my V8, "here is to hoping it was fucking horrible," and I took a swig. I handed it her way. She took it, sniffed it then took a tiny sip. Her nose wrinkled. V8 isn't for the uninitiated.

"You get used to it."

"They say the same thing about these," she motioned with her cigarette. Another puff. "Do you have a vice?"

"Hand at your 4 o'clock," I cautioned her. I was moving to her left side and putting a hand around her waist, reaching for her ass. "That is hard to qualify. I might be egotistical ~ well 'prideful' ~ because I'm proud of some of my accomplishments and capabilities."

"Like what?"

"Bringing every teammate back alive is the biggest. The rest is mostly courses passed and certifications achieved. I like learning stuff, so that makes me prideful of my intellect."

"Not killing people?"

"I've known far more kick-ass killers than me," I offered. "But defending myself and others has always been a built in peripheral to the other things in my life. I grew up poor and didn't like taking shit from others, so I fought a lot. Career-wise, I didn't join the Army, or Marines – I joined the Navy. I tested pretty high. Hospital Corpsman was one of the avenues the Navy offered. I figured I could make a living post service doing medical stuff, so that was the path I took."

"At the start of Naval Hospital School, one of my instructors asked if any of us wanted to jump out of a fully functional aircraft. I raised my hand – the only one. He told me to chat with him after class. Four months later I was in sunny San Diego – Camp Del Mar – learning how to keep up with the Marines."

"Marines jump out of airplanes?"

"That was a trick question," I grinned. "That part of the training came later ~ Fleet Marine Reconnaissance Corpsman ~ which taught me the normal Army Airborne deal. While getting my Fleet Marine Force Reconnaissance Independent Duty Corpsman certification, they taught me how to HALO. That's ..."

"High Altitude, Low Opening," she interrupted. "Was it fun?"

"The first few times – then it became work. That's how most of my life has been: I learn to do something, then it becomes the norm and I look for something new," I told her.

"Is that why you quit?"

"No. The opportunity rose to exit my former employment in a respectable manner and I took it."

"There is a great deal you aren't saying," she studied me.

"Yes... Yes, there is."

"Is this the part where you expect me to share with you?"

"No. You told me you have amnesia, so your 'abandoned' childhood and shit I did before I grew up is off the table. Both of us aren't talking about our current close personal friends, or our day jobs. That leaves hobbies and nightly diversions."

She finished off her smoke. I killed my V8 can and recycled it.

"I like you," she finally confided.

"Why?"

"Don't you think you are a likeable guy?" she asked in all seriousness.

"No. I'm purposefully difficult to deal with. I avoid singles bars, social media and smiling on a regular basis," I enlightened her.

"That's why I like you," she seemed positively ecstatic without straining a single facial muscle. "You are no-bullshit."

"I consider lying to be a professional instinct, expect people to avoid telling me the truth for the most trivial reasons whenever it strikes their fancy & for no other goddamn reason, and rarely find integrity in others. I'm a dishonest fellow."

"The shootout ~ that old guy ..."

"Gunrunner ..."

"You two most likely hadn't met in years, yet when strangers began firing, he began killing the ones who were trying to retire you. That's pretty rare," she began to work out her conflicting emotions concerning me.

"He's an excellent judge of character and a better shot. We never served together, but some of the guys who trained me were trained by him. And we'd shared a few beers a while back. Blame him, not me."

"If he called you one night and asked you to show up somewhere to patch someone up, you would, wouldn't you?" she tested me.

"Sure. The thing is, if he was desperate enough to call me, I would know he was in some deep shit and he was pretty much out of options. It is not a matter of knowing each other, it's a matter of integrity. People without a certain level of consistency and reliability don't progress far in our line of work."

"The other guy?" she quizzed.

"I never met him before, didn't exchange digits and haven't seen him since."

"Yet you both knew who to shoot ... and not shoot. He trusted you instinctively."

"My guess is this wasn't his first impromptu rodeo. With his mixed luck ~ most likely not his last," I divined. She wanted more as in 'why didn't I shoot him'.

"You get a sixth sense about some people if you continue along my career path. Some you need to shoot right now, some you can shoot later and some, if you figure you should be shooting at them and aren't, there must be a reason, so you don't."

"If I had a clear shot at him at the start, I would have killed him," she said.

"His hip holster to your shoulder rigs ~ he'd have killed you first," I pointed out.

"Why didn't he?"

"Professional inclination on his part, no doubt," was my suggestion.

"I notice you don't use the word 'honor' much," she gave the tiniest of smiles.

"It is highly overused and abused."

"I agree."

"Want to go to breakfast?"

"I thought we were?"

"Not really. I am meeting with an old buddy from my days here in High School and Reagan."

Jo frowned.

"I don't like Reagan."

"I doubt you know her."

"And you do?"

"I'm not as biased as you."

No response.

"I knew Reagan fifteen years ago, before all her social armor was in place. I'm inviting you to breakfast because I'd like you to come. You don't have to, if you don't want to."

"But you made the arrangements already."

"I didn't tell them I was bringing a date. I didn't tell either of them about the other either. We were all friends back in the day," I explained.

"Where?"

"The Buffalo Wild Wings on Hualapai. Kristoff, my guy-friend, picked it."

"Oh ... I'm not sure where that is."

I bet that was because the southwest side of Las Vegas wasn't a portion of town she frequented all that often.

"Kristoff's family's home is in that neck of the woods," I offered. Jo mulled her choices over.

"Okay."

"Thanks," I nodded. I capped that off by reaching a little farther down and squeezing her ass while kissing her on the lips again. Nothing too heavy. Again, as I withdrew, she tried to analyze my intentions.

"Thanks?"

"Yeah. Getting those two back together will be much easier if I have a lady-friend present, as well with the double bonus of it being you." Jo waited for the explanation of the 'double bonus'. It took ten seconds for her to get the message. She rubbed a hand over my chest then along my neck and chin before reciprocating the kiss.

"You meeting Kristoff will worry Reagan, so she will work extra hard to keep him close ... out of the misplaced fear you will irrationally hurt him ... and you look very sexy-hot right now ... well, especially right now and that will both draw Kristoff's eye and make Reagan even more jealous."

"More jealous?"

"Reagan has insinuated there might be an 'us' ~ me and her ~ and I want to nip that in the bud as soon as possible," I elaborated.

"Oh."

I fondled her ass cheeks with more generous strokes this time.

"Like taking liberties?" she frowned. I swear to God, why did He make ladies buy into this passive-aggressive crap? Every other physical indicator showed she liked my actions, except her language and lips. She was wearing black butt-shorts and chaps which might as well be stockings and a garter belt ... and she was getting pissy I was showing some ass appreciation ...

"No, I am not treating you like any other woman in my life," I displayed my own annoyance. "Historically, when I went to bars for one night stands, I picked up older women because I don't like messing with immature attitudes and hang-ups. I don't date 'girls with guns' either. If I had a type it, would be 'the one who would be gone in the morning'. Is that what you wanted to know, Ms. Grumpy?"

"What about the other two women I saw you with?"

There was no verbal apology. What I got was her sashaying against my hand – her version of my butt massage.

"Have I mentioned how my life has gone totally off the rails in the past week? Reference that and then we can begin to discuss my two female roommates and me sleeping by myself on a cot in my own damn living room."

"Because you like to sleep alone ..."

"Correct."

"Breakfast?"

"Sure," because I clearly wasn't getting a damn apology. Maybe I should just let Ms. Xi kill me.

{REUNION}

Lieutenant Colonel Kristoff Declan had been a Playa during the day and becoming an Air Force jet pilot hadn't dampened his ardor down one bit. To his credit, he was suitably impressed with me showing up with Jo on my arm ... so to speak. I introduced her as a former Special Forces operator from Croatia working for a private security firm here in Vegas.

He said something to her in a language I didn't know, she responded and he nodded. I guess she knew enough Croat to get by. I lied because I couldn't tell him the truth. Telling him she was ex-Special Forces meant he could talk 'shop'. Being from another country didn't mean much since we shouldn't be talking about classified stuff anyway – me being 'retired' and all.