Ebb Tide Ch. 02

"Yes. If I have any more questions, I know where to find you," she replied.

"In that case, I want my two small spy-cameras back. IAB officer Kerr took them from me. Getting my firearm back...eh. I know that's not likely to happen soon, but please try."

"On second thought, Vance, you stay right here. Let me check with IAB before you wander off too far," Soledad changed her mind. She pulled out her phone and made a call. The first one was procedural -- triple checking that no other police group wanted a piece of my time. Next was less pleasant.

"Crowe, this is Soledad. Got a moment?"

"Is that evil Trixie-woman bothering you?" Dabney got grumpy.

"Dabney -- mass shoot out today -- cops killed -- cops killing people. These are all things that interest IAB," I ran my hand down her back until it rested on the top of her ass. "TC didn't have anything directly to do with me because of her having dinner with us last night."

"You took Trixie out to dinner?" Soledad sounded incredulous.

"Yeah," Dabney griped. "She horned in on our date."

"No, I invited her along. Dabney, our date didn't become a date until we got home," I delineated events.

"We had sex," Dabney stared at Soledad.

"I got that," Soledad taunted her.

"Three times over two and a half hours," Dabney gloated. "It was divine."

"Ah...good for you," Soledad took a half step back. Steve was looking at me.

"I've studied Chakra and Chi flows," I gave as an excuse. "And some Tantric techniques."

"That stuff works?" Steve mumbled.

"Yes. I learned it as part of my studies of human healing, blood flow and for acupuncture mainly. All that works well for carnal pursuits as well."

"Oh yes!" Dabney agreed. "Vance can keep his dick hard for over an hour without cumming."

"TMI, Dabney. TMI..." I shook my head.

"Well, that explains why you two fell asleep so fast last night," G poked me, "and why you," she poked Dabney, "slept until noon....when I woke you up." Dabney's face flushed and her nipples hardened. She wasn't embarrassed, or faking it. No, she was aroused. Her pulse told me so. Despite all the sexual ferocity, I believed it was our tender post-coitus affections that cemented in both our minds that last night was more than desolate lust.

"Detective Lieutenant Buchannan says she wants a few words with you," Soledad informed me. "The Gang Unit wants to talk to you tonight, or tomorrow. PR thinks we should provide you with a cordon so you can escape the 'vultures' (aka the media) when you leave the hospital. Can you handle that?" That was their desire for me to say nothing more to the press, not consideration.

Nodding in agreement was my only true choice. I took my ladies and retreated to a corner of the room. We put up a personal bubble around ourselves to enjoy our close contact that eased tensions and rejuvenated mine. TC showed up with her boss and some very bad person. That wasn't a moral judgment. That was my assessment of one predatory human looking at another. He was doing the same thing.

"Mr. Vardanyan," TC began. "This is Captain Brett Primas, the head of Internal Affairs (I'd already met him). He would like to have a few final words with you." G's fingernails were digging both sets of fingernails into my left biceps. She was trying to hide behind me.

"Fire away," I shrugged.

"In private," Brett commanded.

"Who is this other guy?" I asked G.

"Hello Ms. Norquist," the other fucker sounded polite. G gulped. "I am Phineas Rogers. I consult with the city on security matters.

"Is this guy with Lloyd?" I asked G. She was seriously terrified by this man.

"I can assure you, Mr. Vardanyan that I am a private contractor," the guy answered for her. I interposed myself, back to the guy, so I could break his line of sight with her. Only then did her nod confirm my suspicions.

"It's cool, G," I ran my hands through her hair then kissed her forehead. I turned around. "Lead on," I directed Captain Brett. The four of us (TC, Brett, Mr. Rogers and I) headed off to a doctor's private office. Brett dismissed TC, which didn't make her happy.

"Mr. Vardanyan," Brett loomed omnipotent, "the LVMPD believes..."

"Why's he here?" I nodded toward Rogers.

"He's a consultant," Brett became exasperated. "As I was saying, with the promise of increased gang violence centered on you, the LVMPD believes it would be wisest if you went into protective custody for a while -- an out of the way location."

"Brett, I wouldn't trust you to find your dick in a dark room if you were wearing a neon condom, you incompetent buffoon. Rogers, or whatever your real name is," I turned on him. "If I ask you a question, I'll start off using your name, an insult undeniably aimed at you, or making eye contact. Don't answer questions I ask other people. It is rude."

"Now Brett, if you want to do something constructive as opposed to your normal daily routine of sodomizing small furry animals, tell Mr. Rogers here to return to his master and inform that prick that G is no longer his concern. The same goes for Dabney Curtiss and me. Since the three of us know you aren't going to do that, I'm going to exercise my Constitutional Rights and leave now."

"Mr. Vardanyan, you don't understand the gravity of the danger you are in," Brett said. That was when it dawned on me that Captain Primas really was ignorant of the Big Picture and thought Rogers was concerned about some measly municipal consulting fee. He reached for me. I caught his hand in mid-grasp. Brett's intense pain was immediate.

"Gack..." Captain Primas gargled in agony.

"I see you know your nerve clusters," Mr. Rogers smirked. I let go of Primas' hand.

"Brett you need to re-evaluate your 'unwanted touching' policy. People don't like being touched by strangers," I enlightened him.

"You nearly broke my hand," Brett blubbered. I hadn't. My attack was completely focused on soft tissue distress.

"I've seen enough," Rogers gave a nod my way. He began leaving. "Captain Primas, if Mr. Vardanyan had meant to cripple your hand, you would be lying on the floor in tears. My expert advice is that you drop the matter for now." He exited the room in silence.

"Captain Primas, I apologize," I waited five seconds after Rogers left. "If for a second, you still believe I'm steeped in some paranoid delusion concerning Lloyd Pharris, then you think back about Mr. Rogers' reaction when I hurt you. A sane, civic-minded man would have done something besides bask in your pain and discomfort. Rogers smirked."

"That doesn't change the fact that you tried to crush my hand," Brett protested.

"We have nothing further to discuss," I shrugged and made my own departure. I found TC waiting across the hall. She handed me back my two small cameras and control pack.

"The Captain doesn't want to pursue this line of inquiry at the moment," she sounded depressed.

I had to hurry along and helping her work through the political cowardice of her superiors was going to take too long. I pocketed my gear, grabbed her wrist and ran for the stairwell.

"Where are we going?" she demanded.

"I need to find out about this 'Rogers' character and if I was him, I'd be scaring the crap out of G right about now so that she wouldn't help me," I told her as I we rushed down the stairs.

"Ms. Norquist," I heard Rogers say as we rushed to the lounge doorway.

"G!" I yelled the moment I saw her. Rogers didn't turn to face me, instead moving slowly toward G. I hadn't come alone.

"Mr. Rogers, step away from Ms. Norquist," TC assumed her best 'cop' voice.

That stopped him.

"What is the problem officer?" he turned. A lopsided grin failed to quell his cold reptilian gaze. "I haven't seen Ms. Norquist in a while and..."

"No one is buying this 'old friends' act...should I call you Mr. Gray?" I held his eye contact. Mr. Gray was one of the classic CIA aliases reserved for mission coordinators. Those people were 'regular' CIA who worked as liaison officers between CIA: Langley and the SOG operators.

"I believe you're late for a very important date. As you are being forced to perform anilingus to pay for what Lloyd perceives as your failings, think back on this moment and know you only have yourself to blame," I let my malice shine forth.

"I'll see you later," Rogers chuckled. He slipped past me.

There was none of that shoulder-shoving machismo. He wasn't paid to test my skills. No, he was an intelligence specialist and I had the sinking suspicion that he was a good one. My best guess was that he'd learned his skills doing things similar to my CIA experiences, just a decade before my time. He was in his late forties, so we might have worked with some of the same people.

"Let's get out of here," I recommended. Steve provided one last service by arranging a distraction for us to slip out. We snuck off, picked up my car at MedicWest and then made our way home. The Sun had slipped below the western horizon by the time I shut and locked up the side door -- the one that led to the garage.

Dabney wanted affection, G ran to the bedroom and began to sob. I gestured for Dabney to follow her then held up five fingers to indicate the number of minutes I needed. I checked one of my accounts I only accessed by satellite connection. I had messages from Dutch Girl, 'Betty Grable, Captain Brassard of JSOC, and Sylas.

{Phone time}

'Betty Grable' was my old CIA 'handler' (officially called a Clandestine Services Operations Officer). Sylas was my old SOG boss. Brassard was worried because a former special operations trooper had made the news killing people. The military worried about training up exemplary killers, only to have then leave service, return to the private sector, then start murdering civilians.

The beginning and end of each message same. "I saw you on video" and "Call me ASAP."

Dutch Girl was worried that her brother's too numerous enemies might know I was one of the few that could be relied on to save his butt, thus coming after me first. Honestly, I thought she was making up an excuse to worry about me. We compared notes on black market websites to keep an eye on. I wasn't someone you sent a cut-rate assassin after.

If you paid some poolroom yahoo $5000 in a Walmart parking lot to find me and beat the truth out of me before killing me, it was really just a plea for me to come kill you. No, I was a 'five to seven man team of mercenaries' contract ~ $100,000+. A sniper would cost much less, but snipers didn't interrogate people. They didn't like getting close if they could help it. The same went for bombers.

Unfortunately, her older brother (and only family) had run off on his never-ending, futile quest to prove to the World that his life had purpose. He was stupid, foolish, gullible and unlucky. His sister expended far too much of her efforts and capital getting him out of trouble. Fate had gifted his sister with all the assets in that duo.

Experience had taught her that responding to blackmail was a loser's game. These days, because she knew her brother getting in trouble was inevitable, she cultivated friends like me. It wasn't just the skills, it was the mindset that you recruited. She had a good eye for integrity...which was also the reason she was still alive and not in prison somewhere. I was on 'her side', so she'd help me as much as she could.

Captain Brassard, US Army, JSOC -- Retired Incidents Officer (RIO) was part of the DOD's team that kept tabs on former US Special Forces. A three-year Army Logistics Specialist going nuts and shooting up the workplace was unpleasant, yet not something that made the military look bad. A twenty year veteran of the Green Beret picking off public servants in Kansas City was wholly different manner.

Regular cops couldn't handle someone like that as long as the nutjob retained a certain level of coherence. The same thing went for Special Forces guys who joined fringe groups, or became killers for hire. It was always a three-pronged process. Another person in RIO would be contacting the FBI's closest office, providing a basic briefing on what I was capable of. The third person would be talking with the LVMPD to judge how bad the situation appeared to be.

Talking to me made sense, despite our different branch of service, because the Captain and I were in the same exclusive warrior community, and that gave him insight into what I might be going through. Unlike the other two RIO members, there wasn't an issue of National Security when talking with me. I was already 'read in' on my training and experience.

I verified I'd been in SOG (technically the CIA had to let JSOC know this) and that I'd retired two months ago. I offered up all my evidence I'd given to the police for him to review and promised to answer his further inquiries. He didn't press me. We weren't the type people that appreciated needless harassment.

'Betty Grable' was my version of Mr. Rogers/Gray. She was a she and, contrary to the Hollywood stereotype, a straight arrow. She had no problem with telling us what was 'need to know', whether her bosses thought so or not, and took our family's word for it when we thought someone on her end had given us faulty intelligence, or an outright lie. If she thought something was politically motivated, she didn't hesitate to tip us off.

People I trusted with my life trusted her, and that was rather rare for people in our line of work. Her first three questions, in order:

(1) 'Was I okay?'

'Yes, I was physically, financially and emotionally fine.'

(2) 'Was I facing any criminal prosecution?'

'I wasn't facing immediate legal proceedings. Future likelihood? Uncertain.'

(3) 'What could she do for me?'

'What could she do for me? I wanted her to look into Mr. Rogers. I didn't expect her to give me the 4-1-1 on the douche. I wanted Betty Grable to know that he and I were going to clash and she might want to prep her bosses.

The Rogers, Gray's and Gables of the world didn't simply forget how to contact mercenaries, criminals, and current or former black ops personnel when they retired. It was highly valuable information if they went on to be self-employed, like Rogers. It could be handy in the case where someone extra-legal ever threatened a retiree, too.

My team had done such a favor in Arlington, Virginia eight months earlier. A friend of a friend of a friend had issues with his son being in trouble with a local criminal enterprise. The guy was an analyst type, not an operator. When we stopped by for a visit, we didn't kill the problem (the CIA and Homeland Security frown on such things -- more on that later).

After rounding them up, we submerging the people in a bathtub full of leaches for ten minutes -- a minute under -- minute with their heads up. Then we introduced them to the mudflats in the Chesapeake Bay with its legion of flesh-eating crabs. We even showed them the posts, evident at low tide and submerged at high tide, we'd tie them to if we ever had to come back. Those tactics did the trick quite nicely.

I suspected she would deflect some of Rogers' inevitable probes into my background...if she could do so without getting caught (I was no longer an Agency employee). No one in my former line of work ever truly retired this side of the grave. To have reached retirement status, we all possessed some mixture of competence, integrity and lethality in varying doses. That made us valuable friends...like me and CAM.

Sylas came last because it was a personal call. He started off by mocking me in a mirthful voice. I was clearly misbehaving, working a 'blue-collar' job and undoubtedly getting civilian bullshit over doing the right thing (in our combined opinion). Then he offered me my old job back. The 'new guy' knew medicine, but wasn't a trauma specialist.

He had a PhD in Health Management. Though he was adequate for the job, the other guys and gals missed me. This guy was super-serious which, after my oddness, the others found disturbing. Sylas didn't offer to fly to Vegas from wherever he was. What he offered were his best wishes and the reminder that I could still count on him.

That meant he wouldn't break the law in the US ~ everywhere else was fair game. Contrary to popular media, the CIA hated running operations inside the US. Not only did the US have domestic agencies dedicated to those kinds of missions (if you thought Homeland Security didn't assassinate people in the US, you were horribly mistaken), being caught meant a death sentence from the Agency.

Insider CIA whistle-blowers became famous, living out there lives in some hostile country ... until a SOG team found and 'canceled' them. The host country no longer cared. By that point, they'd collected their anti-American PR coup and the moron was useless to them.

Traitors inside the CIA did a little jail time before being quietly exchanged for a traitorous dirt-bag who sold out the country our traitor had been working for. It was good for business; convincing turncoats that if they got caught, their patrons would rescue them. Our side did it for the same reasons and because our scumbag had no more useful information to trade anyway.

No one wanted traitorous black ops agents. We knew about our nation's dirty deeds, but rarely had enough proof to embarrass our side. If you went renegade, you could exist in the shadows of the real world and survive as long as you kept your head down. Eventually you would get killed by somebody ~ their side, or our side. I doubted it mattered.

If a SOG member fucked up horribly, or carried out a mission on home soil and was caught? Well ... rogue SOG operators were chopped into chum and spread out over the Grand Banks (that's in the Atlantic Ocean), or off Catalina Island (off the coast of Southern California). That was why I had retired, all official-like. The CIA and I clung to a joint fantasy whose tale was I had exited 'the Game'; no longer a legitimate target for governmental (ours, or someone else's) reprisals.

My faith in that was evident in my home construction hobby, multiple false IDs, properties, cars, bank accounts, deposit boxes, storage lockers plus a 'Little Black Book of Shady Characters' I kept locked inside my head ~ people like Sylas and Dutch Girl. All of the above didn't stop me from asking Sylas for a favor. I did need something done outside the United States. He told me to make contact when I had the details. Then we said our good-byes.

{My first three-way}

I never considered myself a sexual animal. I liked sex and I'd had dozens of partners since I'd become sexually active. What I had never done was establish a bond with a woman I had intercourse with. I never, ever, equated lust for pussy with true love, any level of devotion, a reason to embrace mutual honesty, or an automatic step down the path towards a committed relationship. I never thought I was immortal, or explored my mortality.

I didn't want kids. My childhood had been pretty pointless. I felt I'd be lousy father, gender-specific partner, or guardian. My one foray into protecting someone else had been Dabney...who I tried not to think about during all the years I'd been gone. I might have felt guilty for leaving her to fend for herself.

As for G? I'd never considered ever being more than a blip on her radar. I'd killed millions of sperm cells remembering her in virtually every outfit she wore. I had never attached an emotion to G. Some of that had been to my loathing/fear of Lloyd. Back then, I knew I had no chance to avenge his numerous insults and the petty punishments he inflicted.

Fifteen years later, I was no longer afraid. And that put G firmly inside of my emotional armor. I could defend my feelings for her and Dabney now. Better than that, I could punish their tormentors. Tonight wasn't my reward. It was my inspiration. I walked into the bedroom, struggling not to chide them for never shutting the damn doors.