Ebb Tide Ch. 04a

"So, are we okay?" he couldn't make eye contact. "About that whole Force Recon thing?"

"I'm not the Marine Corps' Mother, Oliver. And Hospital Corpsmen aren't overly emotional types. You might want to think whether, if someone thinks you are a Special Forces Operator they will come at you accordingly, trying to make their reputations by kicking your ass. I'm not sure any piece of tail is worth it."

"Dude, are you looking at the girl you were with?" he scoffed.

"She's a childhood friend, Oliver. She is seven years younger than me and I used to babysit her when I partied with her sister back in High School," I exaggerated. "Dabney ended up with some bad people and I want her to be able to defend herself."

"I could ..."

"Oliver, if I disagree with the way you look at her, I'll break every bone in your left hand. I'll let you keep your right so you can drive your bawling ass to the hospital. Clear?" I stressed. He gulped, fumbled with his keys and quick-stepped to his Jeep Wrangler. I caught up with Dabney and Sara ... what was wrong with me? I didn't pick up hitchhikers - ever.

"Do you really have a new, black corvette?" Sara asked from the front passenger seat. Dabney had wisely taken to the rear so I didn't have a total stranger behind me. She wasn't impressed with my 1987 Audi 5000 Turbo Quattro.

"Yes. This vehicle is far less likely to get stolen by the local hoodlums for parts, or a joyride. Since I would like avoid utilizing the taxi companies as much as possible, I drive an outwardly crappy car."

"That makes sense," she nodded. She waited until we were back on the road before resuming her socialization. "Thank you for that ... back there. Normally I don't walk off with guys I've just met, but ... it's Vegas."

"No problem, Sara," Dabney chimed in.

"Yeah, there was no reason for that jerk to ruin your stay in our fair city. Where am I dropping you off?" which was my polite way of saying 'beat it' to the tourist.

"I'm at the Wynn Resort - room 5360," she innocently provided.

"Sara, you don't want to be telling strange people your room number," Dabney cautioned her. "I love my hometown, but we have more than our share of scuz-bags."

"Thank you, I think. I guess I wanted to get an early start on the weekend. I'm lucky I ran into you two. What is it you do again, V ... Vance, right?" Sara clumsily came on to me, and Dabney. She was truly trying to become submerged in the 'what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas' fantasy.

That ignored the fact that a Clark County conviction stayed on your criminal record and followed you all the days of your life (unless you knew the right people). The same went with New Orleans and Mardi Gras.

"I'm a paramedic," I enlightened her. "Dabney is reassessing her life at the moment. What do you do?"

"I'm an electrical engineer," she hedged her words. "I have a Masters in Electrical Engineering from Cal Tech. I've been working on a hardwired system that tracks and quarantines mal- and adware through wireless systems. Boring stuff, I know," she was already apologizing for her boring life. People should learn to appreciate 'boring' more often.

"Are you the team's project manager?" Dabney inquired.

Technology wasn't her thing. Getting people to talk about their 'thing' was her job, or had been. Professional escorts made their 'clients' feel relaxed and in charge. It was the social side of prostitution that earned escorts the extra bucks.

"Yes," Sara brightened up. "There were only three of us when we started the company ~ all Cal Tech people. We patented a few items last year and expanded to twelve employees. I know," she blushed, "it is nothing big. We'd like to expand out of our Southern California marketplace, so we came to the Expo looking for investors and partners," she stumbled through her enthusiasm.

She was unloading dangerous information to near-total strangers. She wasn't giving us secure information. Sara was confessing to us she had data worth millions. I could 'convince' her into sharing every detail in a matter of hours and I was far from being alone in possessing those skill sets.

Not wanting to care about stupid people was one of the primary reasons I hadn't ended up in private security, despite having been trained by the SEAL's in High Threat Protection Security aka body-guarding people other folks wanted to kidnap and/or kill. I soaked up Sara in my peripheral vision.

The divots on either side of her nose ridge were almost gone. What acne she'd suffered through had been cleaned up. Her boobs, butt and cheeks were all hers. That equated to some skin treatments and laser eye surgery. She was gawky, bright, socially-challenged, finally coming into money and wanted to change her life.

That also meant she had no 'man sense' ~ she was fuck-bait for the social piranhas. I hadn't developed the skills of a psychoanalyst so I could help people; it was my lie detector.

"What platform did you start with?" I began my questioning. That opened her up.

I explained to her my service required me to know a great deal about computers; both hardware and software. Her system went after imbedded hardware issues and she was a bit surprised the largish gun-toting grunt she'd met at the gun range knew what she was talking about, even if only in generalities. I didn't have her educational background and we were okay with that.

Dabney was lost in the minutia conversation, yet she contributed bunches by using physical contact and smiles to assure Sara she could 'geek-out' without the two of us minding. We arrived at the Wynn resort when everything began going badly. Dabney's phone rang ~ I'd retrieved her old number (the one in LA) to a new phone for her.

(And Back to Helping Kip out of a Jam)

The person on the other end was one of her former co-workers. She was frantic. Bad shit had happened and Dabney was trying to make sense of it all. I advised Dabney to set up a meeting place for a face to face. All this confusion and anger was going out over an open network.

Sara gave Dabney a business card with her private number on the back before exiting the car. She repeatedly thanked us and dropped a few Airbus-sized hints she wanted to hang out with some locals and would be in town until Monday morning. Dabney said we'd do our best, then off we went, which led us to Sunrise Hospital and Medical Center.

Kip Churchill, her replacement pimp she'd never used, was in the ER. His bodyguard, Leon Kramer, was in surgery. They'd both gotten their asses kicked. Adding to this 'pimp-tragedy' was another procurer named Lorenz plus two of his 'buddies' were also in a 'serious-to-critical' condition. We got this much from the four girls that had shown up to help Kip ... the how and why wasn't really clear.

The girls were useless to me, so I left Dabney with them and went to the source. The ER technician (the doctor was checking in from time to time) tried to shush me away.

"Barbara (the tech), unless you want five ladies running around frantically like chickens with their heads cut off, give me three minutes with the guy here," I said.

"You look familiar," her brow furrowed. Ugh.

"I'm Vance Vardanyan," I introduced myself. The lights came on.

"The paramedic ... um ... former paramedic. One professional to another, you do good work," she was honest with her praise. "Pity..." About me being fired, she meant.

"Thanks, but that's not the problem at this moment," I redirected her. "Please give me three minutes with Kip." Kip had been studying me. He was more bruised than broken. His left hand and wrist looked bad. Someone had stomped on it pretty bad while tenderizing the rest of his body.

"It's okay," Kip mumbled. Barbara left and closed the curtain.

"Why are you here?" he inquired. "'Care' and I are done." (Dabney = Care-Free.)

"I'm here because one of your girls is weeping to Dabney and she is under the misconception I can, or even want to, help the situation. What's the deal?"

"Bad shit," he grunted. His pain was real enough. "Another 'daddy' named Lorenz has this girl named Coal."

"Coal used to work in New York City before coming west six months ago. She had a close friend who stayed behind. That friend developed a stalker boyfriend ... a super-rich, control-freak, stalker boyfriend. New girl - Corona - ducks out on the bastard, comes out west and joins Lorenz's stable."

"Tonight, a local 'party promoter' contacts Lorenz for a two-day long party - says she needs six girls - very specific looks. Lorenz tosses two slots my way. I sent over Natalie and Magnolia." Neither of whom had called Dabney.

"Fuck all if I know why you are here," he groaned. "I can't call in the cops."

"Situation," I sighed.

"The whole thing was a set-up. Corona was on the lookout for this scumbag and had already rabbited twice on Lorenz, so she was on thin ice with him. She figured being at a multi-girl gig would be safe. She was wrong."

"The client's people thought they had all the girls' phones, but I've given all my girls a back-up emergency 'stick' to warn me if they ever get in trouble," he informed me. How nice; a high-tech pimp who cares enough to give them a life-line (and an automatic GPS device should they 'get lost'.) "She gave me the call. I tried to get up there, but it's the penthouse. I called Lorenz, he had a 'guy' let us up and ..."

"Then his private security kicked our ass. They are hanging onto the girls as 'insurance'. I think they only let us guys go because they were afraid we might actually die from the beating we took," Kip frowned.

"Numbers?" I requested. Why was I requesting this? Dabney wouldn't let this go until I gave the rescue of her two pals a chance.

"Eight ~ funky accents and they spoke a language I didn't know," he recalled. "Bad ass martial artists ... and they had guns. I saw one ... looked like an MP-5. Aaahhh ..." pain, "We never stood a chance." Pimps aren't renowned combatants. Still, Lorenz probably carried around two sides of beef similar to Leon. I spoke a few words in different languages to Kip. The 'winner' was French.

The French produced all sorts of dangerous ex-military / para-military types.

"Name?"

"Chrétien Gris."

I didn't know the guy, his resources, or any of his team, though odds were I was looking at French Foreign Legion, French paratroops, or former DGSE (their CIA, which included their dirty tricks crowd).

"What are the odds he's already fled the coup, boarded his private jet and is winging his way back east?" I inquired. Kip thought it over.

"The guy is a complete sociopath and obsessed with the girl. I think he's not leaving until he's punished her by working over all the other girls. Help me up," he grimaced. "I'm coming with you."

"What the fuck makes you think I'm getting involved with this fiasco. Call the cops," I directed. "They have people who handle this type of shit."

"The guy has billions, a tiny army and none of those girls will make a peep against him. Especially now their men have been broken down before their eyes. I get a bad feeling if he gets any of those girls on his private plane, we'll never see them again."

Fun-fucking-tastic. Would I go? I would. Trying wasn't in my creed. Would I talk a semi-crippled Kip out of coming along? No. He'd make a great secondary target for the French to shoot at. He'd also be able to corral the girls and get them out faster than I could because I was stranger in their eyes. Allies? I couldn't bring either cop in because Kip was right. None of the girls could make a credible complainant.

"Where?"

"You'll do it?" Kip seemed surprised.

"Yeah," I coughed. "We built Dabney extra closet space today. If she moves out, it will be a whole day's labor wasted." Bwahaha ... no one was buying that.

"The penthouse at the Venetian."

'Yay!' The top three floors of the Venetian Hotel and Casino. How the hell would I get up there?' My mind went into planning mode. I could get around their security surveillance and hijack the elevator going up. Coming back down would be its own set of issues I'd have to tackle before I could create a viable plan for rescuing the girls.

Guns and steel knives would be detected. I would have no true back up. I'd have to be going in blind. Hacking the Venetian's systems would either be quick and messy, or slow and quiet and I didn't have time for quiet and couldn't afford to expose my friend to messy.

Thankfully, elevators are mechanical devices. I could black out the security cameras, short out the computer-assisted systems then manually order the elevator's electronics to send me up the last (restricted) levels to the penthouse. Setting off the fire alarm was pointless and way too loud. If you commit a terrorist act (pulling a fire alarm could be construed as a terror action) in a Las Vegas casino, the Big Dogs come looking for you.

I could tell my elevator that there was a fire though and that would take us straight to the ground floor, just like it was preprogrammed to do. The security office would get the alert, but the public would not. Security would be waiting in the lobby for me ... which was okay as well. At worst, I had vandalized their elevator and hopefully six scared women would make them want to make my indiscretion go away.

My tactical flaws were numerous. Superior enemy numbers, exceedingly skillful, I couldn't track their movements while they most likely had a system for tracking mine. They knew the layout, I didn't. They had guns, I didn't.

My tactical advantages: my enemy had three missions: protect their primary, maintain the women in captivity (a girl opening an emergency door would be unfortunate) and stopping me. I also had the element of surprise in both initiative and in enemy intelligence: I already knew they were professionals; they would have to discern my skill level the hard way.

I had steps 2, 3 and 4 taken care of. Step one was penetrating the Venetian in the first place. I needed a cover and I needed it soon - something that couldn't be automatically traced back to me. Monday morning she'd be heading back to southern California. Sara would do nicely. She was up for an adventure, all I wanted her to do was rent a room on the floor beneath the penthouse and no one would associate her with me. By the time she got cold feet, it would be too late.

Step Five, the exit. I needed a cop. Soledad wasn't a possibility. This might turn ugly. TC would want to know what was going on and telling her my plan was a non-starter. I did have another fish on the hook though. I gave her a call, reminded her she owed me a 'solid' for not sinking her career when I destroyed her partner's and it was my word that was keeping IAB off her back.

Officer Rothschild agreed to be my unwilling accomplice. All she had to do was wait for me to appear in the lobby dressed in her LVMPD gear. When I exited the elevators with the rescued hostages I'd let the legal ramifications take their course. Venetian Security and Mr. Gris' thugs would round us up, even in public, if we were inside the Hotel & Casino. The Venetian staff would NOT challenge the LVMPD though. Gris' boys weren't likely to be too keen on shooting at a law enforcement agent either.

All Rothschild had to do was walk us out the door. Once we were away from the Strip, I could use guns too and I knew the streets of Vegas, its chokepoints, cop hangouts and ambush sites a hell of a lot better than they did.

(Carnage at the Venetian)

Kip had his arm put in a brace, popped one, and only one, Oxycodone then checked himself out. We sent the women home with the definite threat that they had all better keep their mouths shut. I retrieved some gear from my trunk before sending Dabney home as well. She'd have to come back downtown to get G from work, but was otherwise to lie low.

Kip asked me what my plan was. I asked him if he knew how to use a semi-automatic pistol. He nodded.

"Great. You won't be totally useless. Now shut up and do what you're told. I mean that. Not a God damn word. If you use my name, I'll kill you."

He decided to divorce his ego from the situation and obeyed. I dressed in a wet suit, he dressed in stolen hospital scrubs and then we redressed in our normal clothes. We'd use voice modulators and ski masks once we began the op. Next, I made a private call to Reagan and informed her of the 4-1-1. She wouldn't help directly.

Indirectly, her boss, the Vice Lady of Lust, was winding up her counter-punch to Mr. Gris. If Chrétien had asked Circe (through Lorenz) for Corona she would have handed the troublesome waif over. Circe wasn't in the compassion business.

Coming to Las Vegas, hunting down and abusing her girls and then thinking you could get away with ... that wasn't challenge she could let pass unanswered. This was 'out west', not the 'wild, wild west' and we had our own set of laws and lawmen. Six missing/dead high-end call girls vanishing in one night was an investigation she didn't need and she had two busted up pimps to account for.

Basically, Gris was rustling the wrong fillies in someone else's well-defined pasturage. Had he not decided his wealth and power allowed him to kick over someone else's sand castle ... but Mr. Gris had felt entitled and now Circe had to cut off his balls and burn them before his eyes.

Next I sent Rothschild in motion. She had been cautiously agreeable, since all she had to do was stand around in uniform and do nothing. She did want me to pay for the privilege of her support. I negotiated her down to $700. This was Vegas after all, you got what you paid for; and in the long-term being in the good graces of a patrolwoman might be useful beyond tonight's scheming.

Blackmail earns you resentment. A payday wins you continued interest. Kip used a false ID and paid cash for a rental van from one of Circe's front companies. He knew a valet at the Venetian who would keep it close by when we parked. Sara was gleefully giddy to jump back into the excitement.

I gave her the bare bones description: there was this evil, stalker boyfriend I would meet and convince to give me back the girl after a stern lecture on masculinity and the role of men as protectors. It was what she wanted to hear. I showed her we (Kip and I) had no guns, only a walking stick and a box of electronics gear plus a goodie bag of innocuous yet nasty tricks of the trade.

She would enter independently while Kip and I would hang about and join her waiting on the elevator. Our accessories would fit in nicely with her tech background if security decided to hassle her during the check-in process, seamlessly camouflaged as part of her luggage.

I made sure we all wore gloves throughout the operation. DNA was unfortunate, yet not time specific (aka 'I brushed up against someone'), video was dangerous (time stamped), but fingerprints were damning if found in areas, or on things, you shouldn't have been around/holding.

We rendezvoused at the first elevator that made itself available. I let Kip ward off some anxious tourists with his clever tongue and battered visage while I, a chance acquaintance, helped her with her luggage rack - no bellboy. From there, it was step by step.

(1) When I located the two security cameras, I had Sara use black electrical tape to cover the 'hidden' one while I did the same thing to the larger, public device, with the addition of a mini, egg-shaped vibrator to ruin the sound quality. We achieved the action so quickly, I was sure security guards, rarely omnipresent, had no cause to set off any alarms, or stop the elevator. They would assume a technical glitch, not criminal mischief.

(2) Sara was of real help rewiring the elevator console once I popped the cover. We fried the cyber safeguards using a sawed-off cattle prod then rewired the unit so that it thought it was three levels lower than it actually was. Ta daaa ..., we had access to the penthouse. Kip and I stripped off our outer clothes, packed them in Sara's luggage then put on our heavy body armor (with plate inserts) hidden in the panels of one of the larger pieces of luggage.