Ebb Tide Ch. 02

Clearly he thought he could miss that shot in the less than two second it took me to draw, kill that bastard, then holster my weapon.

"Did you kill all those people?" he sounded fearful.

The TV showed the current (suspected) casualty tally: LVMPD -- 2 (the one on the lawn plus the one the sniper bagged), Playboy Bloods -- 6 (I only knew about Officer Lang -- maybe the F-13's driver), "Florencia 13" Sureños -- 2 (none I'd witnessed -- the dead guy on the lawn was killed by a cop), and MedicWest -- 8 (that'd be me). At least I now knew what gang Ramone Garza was in.

The projected Body Count was looking grim (based on the number of body bags). The killed/wounded: LVMPD -- 2/4, Playboy Bloods -- 11/1, Florencia 13 Sureños -- 5/2, Las Vegas civilians -- 2/14, and MedicWest -- 0/0... added because the media can be real dicks. Better yet, they were already bragging about how I'd killed Lincoln 'K-K' Sherman. K-K was rumored to be the No. 2 guy with the Playboys.

"Oh, there you are," a woman's exasperated voice declared. "We need to talk, Mr. Vardanyan." She was a suit, bureaucrat, what-have-you -- an Asian-Caucasian mix.

"I'm Ha Grenier," she gave me a false smile. "Officer could you give us a moment?"

"You would be with MedicWest?" I regarded her. 'Ha' was a Vietnamese name.

"Yes," she gave a clipped reply.

"Steve, give us a few minutes. I promise not to let her smuggle me out in her cleavage," I joked. Officer Markowitz gave a jolt -- that sounded like sexual harassment in his mind -- then smirked, nodded to me and left.

Ms. Grenier had a nice small B that was a good match for her petite physique. I had an impression she hit the gym once or twice a week, jogged when she woke up early enough and told herself she was in good shape.

"Are you MENTAL!!!" she screamed at me. I liked her furious anima.

"Is this about me noting your small, but perfectly formed breasts, or me not getting shot?"

"Wha..." she looked down at her cleavage for a moment. She'd sweated up a storm just getting here and little rivulets had made their way from her throat to her lacy magenta bra that was partially exposed. She clutched her shirt closed.

"Mr. Vardanyan, MedicWest is horrified by your behavior this morning. You murdered people -- on live Television. Can you comprehend what you have done to MedicWest's reputation?" she thundered. The few people on the far side of the lounge looked at her nervously. "What were you doing even carrying a firearm on duty? Where did that 'EMT' vest come from?"

I stared at her. She waited. I stared at her some more.

"Well?"

"Finished?"

"Can you..." she got out.

"The extra equipment was mine. I'll testify to that. I've got that part of the PR lecture already, Ms. Grenier. I comprehend that I made MedicWest look bad. It was not intentional. I know your employers, and mine, are a corporation who bases their profitability on municipal contracts and case approval ratings. I've tried to play it your way and I clearly made a mistake coming to work for this company," I told her in a calm rational voice.

Her mouth opened and remained that way for several seconds.

"Are you quitting?" she inquired tentatively.

"Oh Hell no," I chuckled. "I'm going to make you assholes fire me."

"We will," she threatened.

"Understood," I nodded. We waited a few more seconds.

"Oh...okay. I have prepared a public statement for the press," she handed me her iPad. I looked it over. The bare bones -- I worshipped MedicWest, but I had screwed up. No comment on how I'd screwed up. I handed it back.

"I need you to memorize the statement," she tried to hand it back.

"I have; all five lines."

"Are you sure?" she eyed me suspiciously.

"Yes. Do you like working for MedicWest?" I asked.

"Yyyess..." she was worried.

"Then don't let me talk to the Press," I suggested.

"Listen up, you Neanderthal," she groused. "If you make a scene, your career will be over." Did she miss the part where she already told me I was fired? I shrugged.

Between Sunday morning and noon Wednesday, I'd thrown my life plan away. I couldn't remain an unobtrusive citizen for a whole two fucking months. I hadn't made it seven weeks.

"Come on," she tried to pull me up. Setting aside her roughly 130 lbs. handicap, she had no leverage. So I stood up. "I'm going to say my spiel, you are going to do your part, don't answer questions and we should get through this with our lives intact." Her life maybe.

"Can't we avoid this farce?" I gave her a second out.

"No. Shut up and behave, you idiot," she hissed.

"Don't you want to hear my version of events? What motivated me?" I mused.

"No. Shut up and behave," she glared at me. I felt I'd given her three opportunities to exit this fiasco with her hopes for living the American Dream still alive and thriving.

The police were getting ready to make some statement. Some high-ranking suits were about, even my current 'Doomed Henchman', Assistant Sheriff Mahaulu. He recognized me too. A cop I'd seen at the shootout saw me. That was fine. I hadn't been bashful. Then he started clapping. Shit. More cops saw me and began clapping as well.

Ha tried to head off this civil servant display of affection by standing in front of me and waving her hands for quiet. "Mr. Vardanyan is prepared to make a brief statement," she announced. "He will be available to answer questions at a later time." (A lie) She stepped aside. I thought there, at that last second, she finally realized I was going to be a vindictive shit.

"I have no regrets about what I did today. Ms. Ha Grenier," I motioned to the woman, "of MedicWest is about to fire me, so I'm probably going to take a few days to reassess my life. Any questions?" I remained solemn. Ha gave out a strangled gasp. Then the barracuda closed in.

"Mr. Vardanyan..."

"Call me Vance," I requested.

(1) "Vance, did you kill K-K Sherman?"

"What did he look like?" Someone showed me one of his numerous mug shots. "I recognize that man. I shot off his right kneecap, then put two more slugs in his chest when he hit the ground." Pause.

(2) "Once you shot him in the knee, did you need to kill Mr. Sherman?"

"I shot him. He may, or may not, be dead," I fibbed, I knew I'd killed him. "He had a rapid-fire carbine. I played it safe."

(3) "Could you have disarmed him?"

"Yes, I could have done that. I elected to remove him as a threat. I decided that he needed two .45 caliber size holes in his chest to ensure he would reconsider making life choices that were a detriment to me and the rest of Las Vegas," I sighed. KK would be doing his 'reconsider'-ings things in Hell. "I'm not going to apologize to his mamma either."

(4) "You murdered KK?"

"No, I shot KK. He had a gun and he'd fired it. Is there some reason I shouldn't have shot him?"

(5) "Are you worried about retaliation from the Playboy Bloods?"

"Yes, but such is life."

(6) "If he dies, doesn't that make you a murderer?"

"No, it makes me more lethal than Mr. Sherman, which his friends might want to consider before heading my way."

(7) "Why didn't you spare him?"

"It wasn't a matter of sparing him, or not sparing him. He still possessed the ACR-104 he'd used when he was shooting at civilians and police officers. The ACR-104 is a Russian-made carbine -- that's an assault rifle with a shortened barrel designed for urban warfare -- introduced in the 1990's; so it's very modern.

"It normally has a 30 round magazine firing 7.62x39mm M43 rounds. Translation: it puts really big holes in people, even people in body armor. In comparison, SWAT use CAR-15's firing a 5.56x45mm, or the Heckler & Koch MP5/10's which use a 10x25mm bullet -- essentially a pistol round. So, when KK was within three meters with a weapon that could blow through my armor, why exactly would I wait to see if he wanted to kill me or give up?"

(8) "Are you associated with Florencia 13?"

"I'm not much of a joiner. I know who the Florencia 13's are. I didn't know the jack-ass F-13 shooting his Mac-11 at me was one. He's going to need some extensive facial reconstruction, or getting a closed casket funeral...I shot him twice in the face," I explained, "So his buddies might want to consider my marksmanship before they start stumbling over the Playboys coming my way."

(9) "Are you threatening the two most powerful gangs in the city?"

"No. I'm reminding them of the facts in evidence. I don't appreciate people who point guns at me. Stupid people with guns don't scare me plus, today, I hit everything I aimed at," I stated.

(10) [To the Police PR guy] "Is the LVMPD going to provide Mr. Vardanyan protection?"

"We are still examining the shootings," said the highest ranking cop ~ the Under-Sheriff.

(11) [To Ha Grenier] "Why has MedicWest fired Mr. Vardanyan?"

"He hasn't been fired. Mr. Vardanyan is a trainee. He has been suspended while we conduct an internal review of this tragedy," Ha sounded a tad too shrill. Everyone knew that meant I was indeed being fired.

(12) [To the police again] "What set off this spate of violence?"

"Two LVMPD officers came across a kidnapping in progress. There was an exchange of fire between the Playboy Bloods, Florencia 13 and our responding officers," the Under-Sheriff supplied. I began to wonder why the Public Relations Officer was there.

(13) "Mr. Vard ... Vance, what do you think of MedicWest's response?" .

"I understand their reaction. They are a corporation based on a profit motive, not the public welfare. They are fully within their rights to take into account the liability I exposed them to and terminate my employment. This is the reality for any municipality that has privatized social services.

"I acted based on my desire to save the people caught in the crossfire. My personal desire to save lives is not what MedicWest is all about. If they don't make a profit, employees could fail to get scheduled raises, or even lose their jobs. Critical equipment isn't updated. Stockholders don't get their premiums."

(14) "You seem to be taking this rather well? Aren't you the least bit bitter?"

"Bitter? I'm bitterer about you people asking why I kept shooting at KK while he was still armed. KK, and all the Playboys with him, all made the choice to put other people's lives in danger.

"Had any of them surrendered, I wouldn't have shot them. They did have weapons and were possessed of deadly intent. I held them accountable for their actions. In a similar manner, MedicWest is holding me accountable for the choices I made.

"I see the LVMPD is ready to do their thing," I looked over at their PR cop-guy, "and this is their show anyway. It is time for me to exit -- stage left. Have a nice day," I gave a casual salute and followed my own advice -- I strode passed Ha and went back to the lounge. Officer Steve was waiting for me. Thirty seconds later, Ha came storming after me.

"You made me look like an idiot!" she yelled. She was rather vocal.

"I warned you not to take me out there -- three times," I reminded her.

"You made us out to look like soulless corporate monsters," she wailed.

"MedicWest is a soulless corporate monster, Ha," I pointed out. "But you shouldn't worry about it. They are going to shit-can you too. You were supposed to keep me in line and failed spectacularly."

"Since the junior PR slot at a medical service corporation is not the normal high-profile job for top graduates in your profession, you might want to seek out your next employment opportunity in another field of endeavor," I added. She slapped me. Okay, she tried to slap me. I caught her wrist. She was already bawling like a baby.

Her phone rang, the sight of the number caused the blood to drain from her features.

"Hello. Mr. McKinley, it wasn't my intent to..." she blathered. Sob. "I am...I can...but..." and broke down into tears. I beckoned for her phone. Faced with an utterly hopeless future, she handed it over.

"McKinley, Vardanyan here. Do us both a favor and let the buck stop here," I cautioned him.

"Mr. Vardanyan," he grumbled. "You have no idea what you've done to our position in the Las Vegas market."

"Mr. McKinley, I do know what I've done. You sent Ms. Grenier here pedaling your PR crap.

"For some reason you convinced her that I'd fall on my sword. Ms. Grenier is too young to know better. You did know better, so you sent her because you were afraid you would fail. Stop being a total douche and we can wrap this up off screen. Give Ha her PTO and two week bonus. Me? Send me a check for my two and a half days and you'll never hear from me again. Deal?"

"Why shouldn't I simply fire you both?"

"My suggestion would be the kind, humane thing to do, Mr. McKinley. Be a man. Ha did what you instructed her to do. This is not her fault. You have to terminate her employment, or hand in your own resignation. The later isn't going to happen. Please consider my suggestion. I would like nothing more than to wipe this day out of our collective memory."

"Retract your statement about us firing you, then resign quietly at the end of the week and I'll consider it," he offered.

"You fire me, give Ha her severance and I won't do any more interviews where I remind the city that you are concerned about liability first, profitability second and quality healthcare a distant third... and only when it effects with your bottom line," I counter-offered.

"If you mention MedicWest one more time, or wear any of our uniforms or identifying items, we will sue you, Mr. Vardanyan," he menaced.

"Good idea. I'm sure when I say 'my former employers who fired me for saving a dying policeman and a pregnant woman' it will totally fool them," I replied.

"If you mention any part of today's activities..." he began.

"By all means, sue the four networks who took the footage currently flooding the 24/7 news cycle. Then we can look at the fact that your contract with Las Vegas is to fulfill a public service, thus voiding most of your private corporate practice protections and any gag order is going to look even worse."

"Knock yourself out, McKinley. I've shown you a way out. Stop being a stooge," I chastised him. "Neither one of us wants the publicity nor the notoriety." I was interrupted by Ass. Sheriff Mahaulu and Robbery/Homicide Detectives, Sgt.'s Timothy Brokaw and Bradley Ustinov [From Chapter One]. "Gotta go, McKinley. Think about what I've said."

"Clear the room," Mahaulu demanded in a crystal clear, authoritative voice. Steve 'hopped-to' and began escorting the real visitors out of the room. Sgt. Brokaw forcefully removed Ha from the room. "Thanks for making this headache go away so easily, Mr. Vardanyan. Oh, you prefer to be called V...or is that Vance," he showered me with his smug grin.

"It's Vance. V is for people I like, or at least respect," I grinned right back. He laughed.

"You murdered three people 'live and on air'," he shook his head. I'd been using the word 'shot' because both the police and press associate the word 'kill' with 'murder'. "That could be considered 1st degree murder, as you brought a gun into a known fire-fight."

"I think the DA will settle for three counts of 1st degree manslaughter. That's still 40 years. If you like, we can pin five more dead in the house."

"You are delusional," I snorted.

"You think so," he kept up his high spirits. "Vance Vardanyan, I hereby place you..."

"Hold on cowboy," said as I stood. "First guy -- shot at me, had a gun and was prepared to shoot me again as I took a wounded..."

"I don't care," Mahaulu was tiring of this game. "You are going down for this."

"Honestly, don't any of you realize you are living in the 21st century?" my own patience was wearing thin.

"I recorded the entire incident, just like I'm recording our conversation right now. I'm sure the general public will enjoy you doing the DA's job for him...except you aren't a DA," I informed the three of them.

"Where?" he grew downright volcanic.

"Right here," I pointed to the cameras on each side of my shirt collar. While they were looking there, I used my other hand to surreptitiously up-loaded the most recent contents.

"Give me those," he lumbered forward in anger. I didn't need to do anything. The hospital had wall-mounted cameras in this room capturing all the video evidence I would ever need.

Normally I would be worried about hitting a police officer in a public place, but I had plenty of witnesses close by who were undoubtedly listening in ~ people like Ha ~ to doubly verify my 'Cops Gone Bad' direct-to-video release.

{An aside, or why being shot by me is less painful than the alternatives}

Over my career I had been taught a variety of martial arts before being introduced to one of the most secretive and advanced hand to hand killing techniques ever known to man, or beast. It was a tiny brotherhood who perpetuated this mysterious lethal art ~ it was called the Sǐwáng Báichī! (死亡白痴!) style.

This martial art was virtually unknown outside of the Chinese literary world. Inside the Chinese literary fold...it was a source of confusion and laughter. See, Sǐwáng Báichī! meant 'Die Fool!' and no Asian, or Asian-American had ever learned it. The Sǐwáng Báichī style only had two Cardinal Rules: 1) never stop refining the style and 2) use whatever works for you.

It was a 'no frills', 'no nonsense' inflict pain / incapacitate / kill school. We didn't give our methods 'pet names'. You learned by being shown what to do. If we had to expose our skills to outsiders, somebody else was going to the hospital, the morgue, or in a shallow grave. I'd seen a SEAL buddy use it and asked how he'd done what he'd done. After an arduous screening process (I bought the guy three beers) he agreed to be my jiào yuan (instructor/ 教员).

Our martial art had no 'masters', only fellow students. Very few of us spoke, or wrote any form of the Chinese language. Those who did had never bothered to correct our naming conventions. We had no schools, tournaments, or web pages. To get in, you had to ask the right person. If one of us agreed, we found ways of letting the other people in our brotherhood (there were female students too) know. That was about as gregarious as we got.

Could your school beat our school? We didn't care. We didn't count coup. We didn't shop around, pick fights and advertise how lethal we were. That would have been counter-intuitive since our style was supposed to be 'SECRET'. We learned Sǐwáng Báichī! in order to increase the odds of us staying alive and if you thought you were Billy Bad-Ass, we'd walk away if you let us.

We didn't do the 'our school is better than your school' bullshit. What was the point? If you wouldn't leave one of us alone, you probably wouldn't be able to describe exactly what we inflicted on you to the hospital staff and the investigating officers.

Way too many self-proclaimed 'I am the toughest Motherfuckers ever to walk the face of the Earth!' ended up getting gang-jumped, shot, or stabbed in the back for our liking. Let some other jackasses draw attention to themselves. Our work gave us all the life and death excitement we could stand without the need for chest-beating.

{Corruption Burns, Breaks and Bleeds}

'Look America, a cop was brutalizing me', and the pain began. Assistant Sheriff Mahaulu was a former Marine and that formed the basis of his hand to hand training. I doubt he'd practiced it much in the past 18 years. Three fingers spearing his solar plexus robbed him of breath. I shoved the big Hawaiian into Officer Ustinov.

Officer Brokaw went for his gun. I went for a crouched, spinning leg-sweep. On the first pass, his legs were kicked out from under him. On the second spin, I connected with his face before he hit the ground. That earned him a broken nose, loose teeth and a group of very unhappy cervical vertebrae. The trauma had him unconscious before he slammed into the door, feet first.