Ebb Tide Ch. 04b

The non-talker edged back to take a look in the car. The bodies had all slouched over in dramatic postures, though the mangling the windshield had taken was a herald of the trauma within.

"Oh shit," the guy muttered.

"Take heed," I eye-balled the closest one. "I only kill people who come after me. Had your buddies Wednesday not tried to shoot me, or someone under my care, they would most likely be alive today." I shut the trunk.

"You sent four guys to kill me ... but I'm willing to let this faux pas pass, since someone else wanted them dead more than I did. You tell BB this for me, okay?"

He looked at me from my eyes to my hip holster.

"Please note ... a holster is made for a quick-draw while your pistols are in your pants' waistbands," I spoke quietly. "I will draw, shoot both of you twice and re-holster before you blink. It is what I train to do. Also note 'everyone I shot is dead'. I didn't come here to shoot anybody, just to deliver the bodies and the message."

"Fuck maaaannnn ... that's Lil Kuku," the other ganger sang out.

"Time for me to go," I advised the guy I was chatting with. "My name is Vance. Are we good?"

"Ah ..." was all he managed. He wasn't reaching for his piece, which I took as a good sign. I backed around to my car, got in and drove off. As I sped away, the other gang members were moving from the corner to the car with the dead guys on board. No bullets came flying – mission accomplished.

I gave it five minutes before making the call.

"This had better be important," some other chuckle-head answered the phone.

"This is Vance. Put BB 187 on the phone."

"What the fuck ... hold on," then the sound of a hand over the receiver.

Then, "Mother-fucker," BB hissed into the phone.

"Do you have any idea who killed your boys, because I didn't," I began.

"You ... fuck you!"

"That's not helpful. Am I to assume you are going to be a repeat problem then?"

"You talk a lot," he simmered.

"Words are less expensive than bullets, BB."

"I'll show you expensive, you fucker!"

"Nice to know. Know this too, BB. I know you, your family, your gang and your hangouts. I am not threatening you. I am telling you. If I find any of your other boys shadowing me, I will come after the people you care about and give you a lesson on what I consider expensive."

"Huh? You'd ..."

"Absolutely. I was a very evil man, BB. I gave that life up. You are asking me to revisit that life and take up my evil ways once more. Just between you and me ~ I will fucking exterminate your entire tribe ... because that is the way I think, BB. Every man, woman and child ... because I don't want to revisit our disagreement ever again." He said nothing. "Or, this stops now with you giving me your word, Man to Man, the Playboy Bloods are going to accept I'm simply a crazy nut-job and not worth pursuing."

"Just like that?" he murmured.

"I dropped off the car at your front door as opposed to sneaking in the back and exchanging lead with you and your houseguests," I reiterated. "I didn't kill Lil Kuku and his boys either. They died on my street and I didn't want the cops annoying me with a bunch of pointless questions, so I delivered them to you. Do you think I killed them?"

"No."

"Fine. I don't care who did. All I care about is that I don't have another hostile exchange with you, or anyone else in your gang, ever again. Do you give me your word, Man to Man, the Playboy Bloods will let this matter drop?"

He had to think about it for almost a minute.

"I think so. I'll need to talk to a few other guys to make sure," he rumbled.

"I understand. Oh, and drop the lawsuits too. That is shit I don't need to be dealing with. The law firms, who say they are helping you, aren't helping you."

"Oh ... okay."

"I'll call you tonight around nine. If this works out, I'll owe you, BB," I added.

"Why?"

"Do you think if I owe you a favor, I'll pay it back and my favor has value?"

"Yeah," he answered a few seconds later.

"Take into account ... I didn't kill everyone who got in my way in the past, BB. Sometimes I made deals – like you and me right now. I'm giving you something you didn't have, and you are getting the Playboys off my back."

"What are you giving me exactly?"

"The services of a seasoned combat paramedic, BB. In case you, or someone you value, ends up shot, or stabbed and going to a hospital would invite all sorts of unfortunate questions, I can patch them up and get them back on their feet – one time – free of charge."

"Oh ... I'll think about it," BB agreed. "Oh, and it is BB 187. It means ..."

"Blood Baron and 187 is the code for homicide. I've read your police file too. To me, the LVMPD is just another gang in this city, like your Playboys. I don't like either organization, but I will make bargains with a few members as individuals ... like you and I are doing right now," I lied somewhat. "Bye."

He was agreeing because I wasn't immediately available to put some slugs in to avenge his gang mates and I was offering something of value. Without a doubt, he, or one of his buddies, was going to get shot one day soon and need someone capable of patching them up without the need of the hospital reporting the wounds to the proper authorities. All he had to do to gain this favor was stop his buddies from doing something he thought was stupid. I got the added bonus of not colliding with the unjust Justice system.

{THE COOKOUT}

Kristoff shot me a wicked look. What could I say? I had promised Lorenz I would show up with a roommate, but my roommates had bailed and I had to come up with a warm body fast ... and Jo wasn't a possibility ... nor was Kip the Pimp, or Rothschild the Sheriff's Deputy ... and that was the short list of folks in Las Vegas I knew well enough to even think about asking and who might actually say 'yes'.

"So, you fly jets?" Rosita, one of Lorenz's two sisters-in-law, preened.

"Yes, I do," Kristoff showered her with his machismo.

"How do you know Vance?" Valeria, the other one, kept eyeing the both of us.

"Oh, Vance and I used to kill things when we served together," he nodded grimly.

"Really?" both women cooed. I could tell; Kristoff was a pro – pro womanizer that was.

"Oh yeah," he kept nodding. "Really bad people, normally in places we can't talk about. Secret Warrior ~ Special Forces kind of stuff."

"Oh ..." they were eating it up.

"I thought he was a medic," Valeria's eyes wandered my way hungrily.

"Special Forces have medics, Valeria," he educated her. "In his case, Marine Recon and SEAL Teams and Vance served with both. My side are the Combat Controller on the ground and fools like me providing Close Air Support."

"Isn't that dangerous?"

"For him, or me?" Kristoff joked.

"For both of you," Rosita stroked his biceps. He was wearing a blue short-sleeved polo shirt with 'Air Force Academy' on it, khaki shorts and tennis shoes with short socks.

He was an inch taller than me, slender yet compact, and tan with thick, black hair kept in a Brad Pitt style. Sure, he was a decade older than the woman fawning over him, but he didn't work out 'regularly' – he worked out every damn day – intensively – and his body showed his devotion in the same way his easy smile echoed his leadership experience and his eyes sparkled with intelligence and learning.

"Yes Ma'am," he focused on Rosita. "Going Nap-of-the-Earth, exchanging 12.7 mm machinegun and RPG fire with my Vulcan, or Mavericks and SLAM-ERs ... it gets tight."

Okay, that was utter bullshit. Kristoff didn't fly anything slow enough for any idiot to even attempt to fire an RPG at. Besides, the SLAM-ER was a Stand-off missile with a range of 270 kilometers thus not something you would use in 'close air support'.

"Did you ever save Vance's life?" Rosita moved even more into Kristoff's space. Okay – she was about to start humping him.

"Multiple times, including right now," I gave a tight smile.

"Did you ever save Kristoff's life?" Valeria was deciding me being dangerous was 'cool', and 'temporarily unemployed' wasn't a deal-breaker.

"He's never been shot down," I answered.

"He means the few times my life has been in danger have been times we were involved in missions neither of us can talk about," Kristoff elaborated – lied like a Big Dog. "In matters of National Security and our oaths to our Nation, we are men of our words."

"Oh," they both exhaled, pushing their sweaty breasts forward.

"Why did you quit to become a paramedic at MedicWest?" Valeria pressed.

"I mustered out of the military three years ago to work as an agronomist," I began. "I still worked for our Country, just without a uniform ~ all peaceful-like. Sadly, spreading the knowledge of advanced farming techniques isn't universally appreciated. My list of enemies kept growing, my life expectancy kept decreasing, so I opted for something else."

"When you 'cancelled' that Pendejo who was threatening that pregnant girl ... you were so smooth," Valeria lauded me. Thank you Livestreaming Media.

"Well, Kristoff wasn't around with his Vulcan," I quipped.

"Or Maverick," he snorted.

"Or a B83," I offered an alternative. Kristoff nearly spewed the beer he'd been sipping.

"Damn," he choked.

"What's wrong?" What is a B83?" Rosita's head flipped back between the two of us.

"Something which would require some true pinpoint accuracy," I fibbed.

"Yeah ... considering it is a 1.2 MEGATON-yield nuclear warhead," he informed the ladies. "I'd have to bounce that 'gift' off the top of La Madre Mountain just right for it to have the proper effect in Vance's latest 'close encounter'."

"What's a Maverick ... and a Vulcan then?" Valeria questioned.

"A Maverick the terminology for the AGM-65 ~ an Air-to-Ground tactical missile with a 300 lbs. warhead ..." I answered.

"And a Vulcan is the M61A1 ~ a 20 millimeter, six-barreled Gatling autocannon," Kristoff continued.

I saw what I came here to see ~ the combination of individual and situation.

"I've got to take care of something – ladies – Kristoff," I untangled myself from Valeria.

I sent a friendly look Lorenz's way.

He was flipping burgers and rotating hot dogs on his outdoor grill. He gave me a mock salute with his spatula then turned to respond to a guy he'd introduced as his uncle when we arrived. I went into his house. The person I was looking for was by the refrigerator, pulling out a tray of something.

"Mrs. Torrent," I addressed Lorenz's wife. Her name was Gabriela. She spun rapidly. I'm a quiet guy. Kristoff and I entertaining her familial relations hadn't made her like me one ounce more since my arrival. Undoubtedly it had to do with a) having her husband risk his life on the job at my request and b) him receiving a temporary suspension for doing so.

"Mr. Vardanyan," she clipped off every syllable. I walked passed her to the chair I'd slung my windbreaker over. I'd left it there on purpose, as soon became evident. I withdrew a thick envelope from an inside pocket and returned to her, my peace offering in hand.

"Here," I tried to hand it to her.

"What is it?"

"$9,995 in random currency – mainly $20's and $50's. At $10K, you have to report it on your tax returns. Anything less and it's just a gift."

"What!" she gasped. She put the Saran Wrapped food tray on the counter blindly, then gingerly took the envelope from me. She opened it up and began to rifle through the bills. "What is this?" she was a bit less furious with me and a tad more curious.

"I figured I inadvertently put a kink in your cash flow and Lorenz would never accept any help from me, but you might." I held up my hand to forestall the next part of this routine. "This is not to make you forgive me for what I asked Lorenz to do on the job. He's a grown man. I didn't ask him to do something I didn't think he could do. If you choose to be angry with me over that, so be it. This," I motioned to the money, "is simply me being aware of the difficulties my actions caused."

She tried to decipher my intentions. Failing that, she thumbed through a few more of the bills.

"This is real? Not counterfeit?"

"It's real. I made some money at my previous job which I don't keep in banks."

"Was is something illegal?" she sensed a trap.

"Not in this country," which wasn't either of the answers she was expecting. "Listen Mrs. Torrent ..."

"Gabriela. Lorenz likes you. Worse, he admires you," she scolded me. I was sure Lorenz had already been punished for his feelings toward me ... and would be again. It's a girlfriend/wife/{whose got the pussy}-thing.

"He's a nice, likeable guy. I think he tries too hard to be nice, but then I'm the type of guy who doesn't want friends," I shrugged.

"Why not?" as in 'why didn't I like her husband ~ wonder-fucking-ful person that he was?'

"Gabriela, if I consider a person a friend, there is nothing I won't do for them. By that, I mean there is no law I will not break, no person outside my close personal circle I will not savage, torture and even kill if need be. Unlike Lorenz, I am not a moral individual. Call me 'gray' if you like, or a monster. I don't care. I don't live my life to make others happy – he does."

"If ... if this causes problems for Lorenz later, could we ..." she attempted deep, meaningful eye-contact.

"Go to a pay phone you do not normally come across. Call my number – Lorenz has it. In as brief as possible manner, tell me about it. Never use that phone again. Never call me about that problem again."

"You really were a Navy SEAL, weren't you?" she whispered.

"No. I was a Hospital Corpsman. SEAL teams use specially trained Hospital Corpsmen, as does the Marine Corps and various other organizations associated with US Special Forces, Gabriela," I stated.

"Were you with the CIA?"

"Let's go back outside," I looked out the window to where the guests were.

"I don't know if that is a 'yes', or 'no'," she kept studying me.

"I'll take the platter outside while you hide the money," I suggested. "I wouldn't want to hurt your husband's feelings."

"Is your friend ...?"

"Kristoff is completely legitimate ... except for the fact he is not my roommate," I grinned. "He's a fighter-jock with all the accompanying pitfalls and tragedies."

I left her to figure out what that meant as I scooped up the food and escaped this 'normal people' bonding moment. Fuck, I hated small talk. Sadly, I liked Lorenz as a decent human being. Since I'd made his work and domestic life difficult, I had the desire to make amends.

As we were leaving, Lorenz pulled me aside and thanked me for my little 'pep talk' with his wife. He was sure I'd won her over with my sparkling personality. I let him go with that delusion, because believing the person he loved most in life had responded to a bribe could be heartbreaking for those who underestimate the power of money to buy happiness.

{CALAMITY, HONEST ACQUAINTANCES & THE TEMPEST WITCH}

I had installed cameras which looked out over every angle of approach to my house, including each door and window, so if anyone tried to get in, the person or persons in the house could see who they were and respond appropriately. It wasn't like I hadn't continuously briefed both ladies on the process. I was getting dressed in my tuxedo ~ I had attended a few weddings while in Service ~ when the front doorbell rang. Dabney went for it.

G and Sara were in the living room, sitting on the sofa, super-pleased with the success of the Expo. 'Low and Behold! Geeks had flocked to two gorgeous women of G's and Dabney's unobtainable (outside of actually accessing a top flight escort service) stature. Sara had coached them on the correct terminology to get the conversations started and Sara's Team's product had done the rest. Oh look ~ Record sales! I appeared to be the only one NOT surprised by this.

Their conversation turned to tonight's mysterious activities. I would have loved to leave them at home, except I had a real concern if Lloyd's people knew I was at this illegal function, they might make a run at the ladies ... so G and Dabney were coming along. Sara was tagging along 'because' ... accompanied by Dabney pouting ... and G telling me the final decision was of course mine while her body language was dictating I'd better bring Sara along, or my home life would get even shittier.

I swear to God, I had the sneaking suspicion I'd gotten married in my sleep with the added bonus of me becoming a polygamist. Dabney and Sara had hugged me when I said 'okay, she can come with us – IF she obeys my every command'. I doubted they were listening. G told me 'thank you' and gave me a hug when the other two left ... which I put down to 'on the job experience' as a wife already.

Anyway, the doorbell rang and Dabney answered it.

"Hello," came from Dabney.

"Who are you?" was voiced by a semi-delirious Chinese-accented female.

"I am Dabney Curtiss. Who are you?"

I grabbed my Mk 18 Type 2 Close Quarter Best Friend and quickly and silently moved for the door to the hall. The outside lights were on. When I reached the hallway control panel I'd kill the inside lights, silhouetting the Chinese ex-Spec Ops lady who'd come to kill me then shoot around Dabney – neutralizing the threat. My Mk 18 had a sound and flash suppressor too.

"I'm looking for Mr. Vardanyan," she mumbled. Something wasn't right. I stealthed down the hall, happily realizing Dabney hadn't opened the steel mesh outer door. She had some protection.

"Wait – are you bleeding?" Dabney gasped.

"Open the door!" the visitor demanded.

"Fuck that!" Dabney squawked. I heard movement and three sounds of suppressed fire and metal tearing then a body hitting the floor. "Ow!" from Dabney. That was a 'boo-boo', not a 'fuck, I've been shot' noise.

I came to the end of the hall to see Dabney, on all fours, crawling away from the doorway, and former Lt. Commander Xi Baozhai using a standard issue Chinese subsonic QSW-06 pistol to shoot out my lock. Good luck with that. Her 5.8x21mm subsonic rounds didn't have the power to do shred my titanium alloy.

"Kick over the coffee table," I barked at G and Sara ... who were simply sitting there. "It's armored." Like everything else in my place. By some minor miracle, they did so. I now had another problem – one of ethics. My 5.56x45mm WOULD shoot through my screen door. I had her dead to rights ... which made no sense. She knew better. Her tactical situation was beyond stupid. I took aim.

"Don't move," I said instead of putting a few bullets in her. Now she had a chance to move to cover. My round wouldn't penetrate my walls. Then we would have a stand-off.

"No ..." she growled. Her gun wavered.

A second problem presented itself. Professionals, whenever they could, went for a two-handed grip when using a pistol to make extra damn sure your bullets went precisely where you wanted them to go. She wasn't doing this. No, she was using her left hand to shoot while her right was inside her light jacket, pressed tightly against her left side.

Someone had already put a bullet in Ms. Xi and I was willing to bet it had been her racial compatriots in San Francisco ... probably ten hours ago ... when they realized she wasn't going to be rational and was going to keep coming to Las Vegas to kill me.

Being rational people, the Ministry of Security people at the People's Republic Consulate in San Fran had tried to kill her ... because either one of us killing the other publically might cause some pesky American investigative journalists to revisit her dead brother's 'suicide' in Macau, which might lead to that dead American researcher in Singapore. That was thirteen cases of suicide ... which was suspicious in anyone's book.

Nah ... they'd told her to get on a plane and go home. She'd said 'no', so they'd tried to kill her. I had to believe there were some dead Chinese diplomats back in California ~ so definitely no return trip for Baozhai. I certainly admired her familial dedication. I was also letting emotions cloud my tactical judgement, which I knew was a serious mistake.