*Editing magic performed by KJ24 and Shyqash, plus contributions by the regular gang of brigands and neer-do-wells*

*Riptide: a strong tidal flow of water within estuaries and other enclosed tidal areas.*

*A List of the Principal Characters is provided at the end of the chapter*

{It isn't having what you want, it's wanting what you have}

(WHERE WE LEFT OFF)

Sara Patel was walking beside me, suddenly pensive.

"I never get dropped off in front of my house for security reasons ... people are out to kill me," I explained patiently. Right now, Sara needed a rational, if extreme, reason why she was about to jump over a concrete block fence into my back yard. I offered her my hands as a stirrup.

"Stay on top of the wall. I'll go all the way over first, then take you down from your perch. Trust me."

She did. She'd decided I'm an honest guy. When I say I'll catch you, I'll catch you. If I say I'm going to kick your ass, make plans to stay in the hospital for a bit.

Up she went. I was immediately behind her. I didn't leap down into my backyard until my eyes were fully adjusted. There were no visible surprises, so I was down and ready to catch Sara in a few seconds. She wiggled on the edge, hesitating, until I gently took her by her thighs and lifted her off. Her hands went first on the top of my head, then dropped to my shoulders before settling on the triceps until her feet touched the ground.

"You're strong," she gulped.

"You are light," I grinned. My grin was a concession to her fears. This wasn't the first time I had been required to act more 'human', as my therapist in the Navy put it. Even if I normally felt blasé, sometimes other people needed some comfort.

It was the whole 'good lie / bad truth' ordeal that people went through a thousand times a day. I was different because I did it on purpose, not by rote.

"You are a nice guy ... if a bit odd," she smiled back.

"Follow me, stepping where I step and no alarms will go off in the house," I advised. "That beeping will freak Dabney out."

"Oh ... okay. You're cautious as well."

"Thanks, that's better than being nice, or odd."

"Oh ... sorry," she bit her lower lip. I led her through the back yard, past the tarp I left down for the occasional unwanted guest and punched in the security code. As I opened the back door, I heard the front door open. I stepped in, ushered Sara inside, then made sure the screen and security door were secure. Funny how that works: the best way to negate a door's utility is to leave it ajar.

"Dabney, were in the back," I called out from the kitchen; the hall was too narrow for a three person encounter. Dabney had heard the low beep which indicated someone was 'accessing' a door, forgotten what the back door sounded like and opened the front door without looking at the TV monitor to see who was there. She had suggested she should earn a spanking whenever she made that mistake. I suspected duplicity.

Dabney came rushing to the back, saw Sara and put an extra flounce in her step before going into my arms. She wrapped her arms around my neck, but before we kissed, I put a finger on her lips.

"Door?"

"Shut and double-clicked," she beamed as if making sure the deadbolt was engaged was a decision to be celebrated. I kissed her anyway. I'm not made of iron and there is a certain rush associated with a successful mission which leads to an active libido.

That, and Dabney was wearing a tight, white cotton t-shirt, no bra, bare-feet and hip-hugger jeans. Dabney was still needy, even if more confident around Sara.

"How did it go?" she asked eagerly.

"Everything is clear," I warned her. "That is all that ever needs to be said on the matter." No, it apparently wasn't. Not if you are a woman (except for female warriors – female warriors knew their craft). Operational security and 'need to know' meant nothing to far too many of the people currently in my life.

"Sara, how did it go?"

I swatted Dabney's backside for that.

"Sara, what do you know about it?" I quizzed her while looking into Dabney's eyes.

"I showed up, didn't like my room and went back to the Wynn," she reiterated her cover story.

"Just tell me everyone is okay," Dabney pouted pleasingly.

"I didn't leave the Venetian alone," she happily related. "Honestly, I was scared to death, but everything worked out just like Vance said it would."

I groaned.

"Keep into account, we all did something which could result in severe criminal prosecutions if things ever come to light. Even in the 'Best Case' scenario, an obsessive, sadistic billionaire knows the names of some people he is going to make pay for what happened to him."

Dabney paled and Sara gulped.

"Did you hurt him badly?" Dabney pressed up against me.

"This is not a conversation we will ever have. If Kip is smart, he'll keep his mouth shut too," I cautioned.

"Well ... are you okay?" Dabney addressed Sara.

"Scared ... yes ... I don't know," she reached for my elbow. I untangled my left arm from Dabney and put it around Sara's waist.

"Sara came home with me because we both need to de-stress after tonight's activities," I told Dabney while studying Sara. Sara stiffened.

"'De-stress'?" Dabney smirked to me. "Is my baby hard?" she said as she worked a hand down my side.

"I want some Sara-time," I winked. "We shared a moment."

"Poo," Dabney playfully pursed her lips. "First you sent me home, then you two got to do the fun stuff, and now you two get to have even more fun time without me."

"If you start behaving, Sara might need more company tonight."

"I've never been with a woman before," Sara gulped once more. Plenty of twenty-something women (excepting Dabney in current company) said that. They vocally denied it while privately wondering what it was like. A person's pulse rarely lies.

That was why I normally preferred thirty to forty year olds who hung out in Cougar Bars. They had those sort of issues resolved. If they wanted to involve their sister, sister-in-law, or a good friend, I was up for it. I was in it for the sex, not any sort of moral judgment. I did my part erotically.

And I didn't need alcohol to get me in the mood, so only drank water at an unknown person's house. Paranoid? I had zero episodes doing things I could only vaguely remember or regretted, so I could live with the distinction.

"We did good, right?" Sara pressed into me. I leaned in, kissed her, complete with my tongue touching her teeth, lips and tongue.

"'We' didn't do anything," I reminded her. I'd be repeating that mantra for the next few hours – no doubt.

"Oh," she smiled.

"Let's go 'not do anything' in the bedroom," Dabney led the way. I slipped my hand from Sara's waist to her ass to mover her in front of me. Sara's head kept switching as she tried to watch the two of us.

Compared to the 'comfortable' size of the kitchen and the narrow hall, the open space of my bedroom surprised and pleased her. Honestly, I had envisioned it as the only room guests would be spending any time in, back a whole week ago when I was a confirmed bachelor.

My windbreaker went on one of the wall hooks I'd set aside for bathrobes. I'd put up one set of four ... and now it wasn't enough ... and I only had two roommates. Dabney deviated toward the top of the bed, indicating her permission for a Sara-Vance First Act. Sara, adrift again, turned fully toward me.

"Vance?" she worried. I put a finger to her lips.

'Do it – don't talk about it,' I mouthed. I could see the fear in her eyes. It was the fear of the unknown, of possible failure and of having a thousand ideas swirling around in your head, but not being able to grasp a single one as you felt yourself drowning in a sea of indecision. I kissed her very lightly on the lips.

After I took off my gray t-shirt, I took her right hand, uncurled her trembling fist into an open palm, then placed it over my heart. She looked flummoxed. I pumped as much warmth into my smile as I could manage. Sara began to glow as the peaceful rhythm of my heart began to be transmitted by our contact. I wasn't afraid, so why should she?

I took my time. My left hand touched her collarbone, then languidly finger walked up her slender neck to the crux of her jaw and ear, concluding with a massage of her earlobe between forefinger and thumb.

"Aaahhh," she emoted.

Sara was bright, energetic and creative in her own way. She shifted through her mental chaos, made a decision and stepped up her game. On her tiptoes, she propelled her body up until she kissed me. I gave a bit of tongue, she reciprocated with her left hand reaching for the back of my head and her fingers weaving into my hair.

The proximity barrier had been breached. Both my hands went down, cupped each small, tight butt cheek and then pulled her up my body. I got a little, audible gasp within the confines of our French kiss as she rose. I kept going until she was a half-head above me, looking down. Her inexperience was obvious, so I had to move my hands from her ass to her thighs to clue her into to wrapping her calves behind my back, locking me in.

When we broke the kiss, she was radiant in her smile, pleased with how things were progressing. I tricked her by missing her lips and ending up on her chin. We reconnected with her lower lip. then I began exploring the corners of her lips, cheeks, jawline and finally, back to that earlobe. Her feline rumble was all the indication I needed in order to know I was on the right track.

More kisses fell upon her neck, under her chin and to the other side ... until that earlobe was also lavished with equal ardor. Us tumbling back onto the bed, even with her on top of me, clearly caught Sara off-guard.

"Eeep!" she squeaked. I kept exploring her neck, her face, those sensitive earlobes with my lips as my guides while her moans and accelerated heartbeat were my erotic landmarks.

It was important to keep Sara on the cusp of sensitivity overload. If she worried about any one thing too much, she might tumble back into self-doubt, or concern over our audience of one. My strategy had my mouth being my point of focus for her attention while my hands orchestrated the movements of her body.

I pulled her body up mine, then by taking her hips, pushed her back down. On the eleventh stroke, she took over and began dry-humping me of her own volition. Having trained in underwater demolition and done intestinal surgery in a pretentious pothole, slipping my left hand between us and single-handedly unbuttoning her shirt was child's play. Doing it so as not to spook her merely upped the game to a High School Musical.

After that, it was the simple teenage act of my other hand slipping up her back and unhooking her bra. Now her breasts were accessible without the necessity of rubbing the materially roughly over her aroused teats. Undone and shirt open, it only took six assists on her humping to put a dark chocolate nipple and swollen, equally dusky areola into my mouth.

"OH! {How did he get my breast in his mouth?} ... Ooooohhhh ... {he has MY breast in his mouth and is giving it wonderful tongue action} ... Aaaaahhhh ... {and now he's adding just the right amount of suction} ... oh yesssss," Sara ended up purring.

Providing a little bit of shifting her hips back and forth and Sara again got the hint; she began rubbing her body all over mine. She even took the initiative in giving me her other breast. She didn't give me a single hiccup when I maneuvered her hips up so I could begin pulling her panties down from under her skirt. If the other sensations from farther down bothered her, she gave no sign.

That was Dabney courteously taking off my shoes, socks, pants and underwear and finishing up with a few quick (and utterly unnecessary) hand strokes followed by a brief blow-job and the application of a prophylactic. Sure, I could have handled this on my own. By taking care of it, Dabney was easing along the moment when she could finally join in ~ after at least one Sara-orgasm and one of mine.

Sara would have to be well sated – otherwise she might start judging herself physically against Dabney and that would be completely unfair and unwise. Dabney was an (ex) elite sex professional after all, while Sara was a dedicated engineer.

By twisting Sara's hips sideways in my lap and having her pull up her knees, I was able to pull her panties all the way off and discard them in a visible, cavalier fashion. It was a bit of showmanship the sexual novice got off on and it was playful enough to remind her this was fun for both of us.

"Hey!" ...as her panties went flying. "Hey!" ...again, as I rolled us over and her under me. "Oh – hey," she murmured in a demur fashion as I placed my cock unerringly at the entrance to her love channel. I gave her a second to take in her circumstances, then began working my way in.

My left arm was on the bed, underneath her shoulder, with my hand cupping her shoulder and keeping her upper body in place. I was about to do some plowing. My right arm had snaked down and pressed her left leg up so that my hand had a strong grasp on her left buttock. Her right leg was splayed out to her side, leaving her pelvis wide open.

With a combination of my hip rotations, twisting her hips and coming at her vagina with erratic thrusts, I quickly had Sara in an ecstatic, erotic mental fog. She was panting, shaking and losing bodily control. I was pretty sure this was her first non auto-induced orgasm.

I could have had mercy. I opted to power thru instead and pressed Sara into an orgasmic fugue ~ unlike anything she could have even put a name to before tonight. She arched, screamed, cried and shouted until she shook the rafters before her body gave out and she collapsed beneath me.

I rolled us over so that Sara was on top, her head on my chest looking toward the new closet. I began alternating taking each hand and placing ephemeral kisses, licks and sucking lightly on each fingertip. By her stirring, I knew she was conscious, but still blissfully past all caring.

"Sara," Dabney curled up beside us and brushed some sweaty hair off our sated East Asian's face, "how was it?"

"I ... wuv ... you ...twwu," Sara slurred happily.

Mission accomplished.

{BY DAWN'S EARLY LIGHT}

I had four calls I needed to deal with when I woke up. I discarded all the other ones which came from various news agencies and law firms who wanted my time and attention. I was being sued – no surprises there. I'd killed a few folks. They'd been armed and aiming at me, or someone else, so the criminal's cases were dead in the water.

These legal threats were of a civil nature, also utter bullshit as I had acted in clearly defined legal boundaries, but were meant to bury me in the Nevada Civil Court system for the next few years, courtesy of Lloyd Pharris. The answer to that problem wasn't even a point of concern.

In this lethal game of chess, I was an object of unknown capabilities. Lloyd however, had to expose his pieces to get at me. Any judge who let any of these cases go to trial was clearly in Lloyd's pocket. In my mind, they'd exited the cocoon which normally protected law and order because to attack such people was to invite anarchy and anarchy was bad.

No; by proving to be corrupt, they made themselves fair game. I wasn't going to 'murder' them. No. The American Southwest had plenty of flora and fauna which was lethal in its own right. All I had to do was introduce the natives (killers) to the mobile compost heaps (people) and let nature take its course.

First message requiring a response:

"Hey Vance ... this is Lorenz. Are you still coming over tomorrow around noon for the cookout? I've seen you've been ... ah ... caught up in other things."

It was my old partner (for 2 ½ days with MedicWest) reminding me I had promised to show up so he could introduce me to his sister-in-law ... who had some 'friends' who were probably girls as well. I had suggested I had two roommates I could bring (without mentioning they were ladies.)

Second message:

"I don't like leaving messages. I will call you promptly at 7:00 a.m. We can make breakfast plans ... oh, this is Jo ... bye," then she hung up.

I didn't have to be even mildly acquainted with human psychology to realize the woman had issues. Still, it appeared I had promised her a date at The Lagoon Bar & Grill and standing her up wasn't wise as she was the #2 killer in the city ... and worked for the #1.

Third message:

"Hello, Mr. Vardanyan – Vance. This is Kristoff Declan. Remember me? I'm in town with a few days off, saw you on the news and decided to give you a call and a 'thank you'. Let me know if you want to chat some time. It's been ... years," he laughed.

The 'thank you' had to do with something I'd done in the service years ago his mother and I weren't supposed to talk about for another forty-three years. He was in town. Well fuck a duck ... another 'good news/bad news' I could have lived without. On the plus side, he was someone from my distant past I actually wanted to see again, just not here and now.

Fourth message:

"Senior Chief Hospital Corpsman Vardanyan, it is good to see you are still alive," a woman stated. I didn't know that voice, but I knew she wasn't so much happy to see I was still alive as happy someone beside her hadn't killed me yet.

-Recall: I had said I had done bad things to horrible people who other people cared about? She was most likely one such person.

-Recall what I said about my service record being protected by the DOD and CIA ... and I not trusting them 100%?

"This is Hai Jun Shao Xiao Xi Baozhai. It is unlike you to be both so open to the public (the shootout during my short tenure with MedicWest no doubt) and to be active on your native soil. I will be coming to your hometown soon; perhaps you and I can meet and catch up on old times. Until then."

Hai Jun Shao Xiao Xi Baozhai wasn't a Chinese person with a shit-ton of middle names. No. Hai Jun was the prefix for an officer in the Chinese People's Liberation Army Navy (PLAN), Shao Xiao was the NATO equivalent of Lieutenant Commander/OF-3 and Xi Baozhai was the woman's name. I didn't recall the names of every individual who might be dumb enough to come gunning for me ~ only the names and pertinent data on the really nasty one's ~ dedicated engines of destruction like Ms. Xi.

Fuck you very much, Bitch. My old SOG team had 'retired' her brother (and a few other unpleasant bastards) two years ago in Macau. It had been 'unfortunate' in that he was involved with the murder and cover up of said murder of an American researcher in Singapore. We tracked his ass back to Macau – he and his team ... to the Venetian Macau of all places.

We returned the favor, staging the scene in the precise manner in which they had staged the 'suicide' of the dead American ~ to get the message across ... to his bosses in Beijing ... because in reality he and his team were covert agents for the People's Republic of China's Ministry of Security.

We didn't stop there though – oh no. Using information we had gained from those gentlemen, we exited from existence a few prize Chinese hackers because we weren't in the 'tit for tat' business. No ... their professional intelligence people had killed a US civilian in a neutral country over a matter of civilian industrial espionage and that would not pass muster.

So, we killed two dozen of their intelligence people – the hackers worked covertly for the People's Liberation Army, so they qualified – to send that salient point home: professionals don't gak non-professionals over civilian crap. They had behaved like a criminal/terrorist syndicate and we had treated them as such – on their own home ground – fuck you very much. They got the message.

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.

"You look good," he lead off the conversation.

"I wised up remarkably since we last met. You look older. You were always better looking."

"Ha," he laughed. "Your choice in ladies was always esoteric." His remark caused Jo to arch an eyebrow my way.

"He has no idea what he's talking about," I looked her way – we were in a booth together – Jo on the outside. "Back when we were teenagers, I would never bring a girlfriend around this guy."

"That's unkind," he chortled.

"Not only were you better looking, better dressed and better educated, you had a better car ... while I didn't have a car at all," I reminded him.

"Miss, V is not so shallow," Kristoff glowed warmly at Jo. "I'm particularly honored to meet anyone he considers to be a friend."

"Vardan says you haven't even talked to him in fifteen years," Jo countered.

"He saved a life before he was ever a paramedic. And he came storming in to save my ass before either of us put on a uniform, Miss Jo. Certain characteristics people exhibit in their youth are eternal."

How fucking poetic of him. Jo looked my way. I shrugged. She accepted my shrug. Kristoff laughed.

"You two must be a laugh riot on Twitter," he snorted. "Do you communicate with single keystrokes?"

"We are telepathic," Jo responded, so smoothly I had to double-check my internal monologue to make sure I was indeed alone.

Reagan made it two steps through the door before she made out Jo at my side and the fact I had company (whose back was to her) in the booth across from us. She stutter-stepped. Jo caught her arrival and then let her eyes flow over the room and other possible means of egress and exit – in case this was an ambush. Kristoff, being a jet fighter pilot, had highly developed situational perception and picked up on Jo's eye movements, so looked over his shoulder.

He turned and looked at me with a 'you fuck-nut' expression on his face. That was okay. 'Him' looking at me meant he missed the reaction on Reagan's countenance when she realized Kristoff was barely a meter away from Jo, the Killer. I got the reaction I wanted. Reagan came our way.

"Hi," she addressed the table. Kristoff scooted over.

"Hey, Reagan," Kristoff replied. "I think this is Vance's fault. This is Jo, who he's trying to pander as his Croatian, ex-Spec Ops girlfriend. Vance," he looked back at me, "you nut-sack." Nut-sack ~ fuck-nut ... basically the same thing.

"Jo ... Vance. Kristoff," Reagan meandered through the introductions. "Vance?" to me again as she sat down next to Kristoff.

"Yeah ... I'm about to gut Lloyd Pharris like a pig on the public stage within a week's time and he's then going to go after everyone I care, or have ever cared, about. On that tiny list are some rather deadly people, people I can protect and Kristoff here. Sorry Kristoff," I began. "The only thing you (Kristoff) can do is get assigned to a base on foreign soil, and even that might not be safe enough ... or start dating Reagan again. Or, if that doesn't pan out, date Jo here."

Reagan grunted as if I'd stabbed her. Kristoff soaked in the emotions of the two women sitting with us; Reagan's partially masked fear and Jo's blank stare.

"You bastard," Reagan whispered.

"Reagan, do you believe if someone did me a serious favor, like keeping me out of jail, no matter how long ago, I wouldn't repay that favor?" I inquired. She didn't answer.

"Kristoff, have you ever done me a favor which kept me out of prison, or at least free of some severe legal consequences?" I looked to him.

"Dude that was sixteen years ago," he muttered, "and I never expected you to pay it back. It wasn't really your fault." As in my employer didn't give me any W-2's, so I didn't file any tax returns and then I got 'randomly' audited.

"What did you do?" Reagan turned on Kristoff. He didn't get it.

"Remember when V got audited by the IRS? They were going to drop some severe fines on him he couldn't pay, so I paid them for him," he told her. Reagan looked from him, to me, to him and finally to me again.

"Oh shit," she murmured. "This is not good."

"I figure Mr. Rogers will dig that up eventually," I prodded her along.

"Did you take the money out of a public account?" Reagan futilely asked Kristoff.

"Public account? Yeah. What other kind of account would I have? At seventeen."

"Was it in the exact amount?"

"Yes."

"Oh shit."

"Am I to understand Mr. Pharris is going to kill Lt. Colonel Declan as a retributive action against Vardan?" Jo inquired politely.

"Excuse me? Mr. Pharris – Lloyd – Ford's dad is going to try to kill me?" Kristoff was taking this both well (i.e. calmly) and seriously. He already knew Lloyd was a megalomaniacal, highly-vindictive, petty tyrant. So 'him' tripping over the (legal) line into having people 'offed' wasn't as farfetched as it might have appeared to some people.

"V – Vance, walk away," Reagan reached across the table and grabbed my hand. Her voice was urgent – pleading. "I'll pay you whatever you want to just leave town. Take Dabney and go."

"I won't leave G behind and you know he won't let her leave, Reagan," I responded.

"We shouldn't be discussing this," Jo reminded Reagan. "Here."

"Actually, if someone is going to kill me over a favor I did V sixteen years ago, I'd like to hear about it," Kristoff shook his head.

"No. Jo is right. Not here," Reagan agreed.

"Where then?" Kristoff glowered.

"Let Jo pick the place," I suggested. Everyone was looking at me and thinking 'why Jo?' ~ even Jo. The answer for Jo was easy. If she did this, she was helping me against Lloyd. In the long game, I would need as many as possible of the Vice Lords at least ambivalent to my intentions of destroying one of them. If I casually dispatched Lloyd, I could expect their retribution as a matter of group prestige.

"On the second date you get to pick the location," she tossed the grenade back in my lap.

"Your gun range?" I volleyed.

"Yours would be better," she countered, then looked to Reagan and Kristoff.

"Does this place have a name?" Kristoff asked first.

"Green Valley Range in Henderson off Cassia Way," I told him – them.

"Reagan?" he looked her way.

"Okay," she agreed reluctantly.

"That still doesn't address the main problem – you two need to be seen somewhere in public fast," I pressed.

"I know the precise location," Reagan nodded. "Kristoff, do you want to go to an underground sporting event with me tonight?"

"A date? Last time ..."

"Please," she almost begged. That impressed upon Kristoff someone might really kill him for simply being a decent individual, plus somehow Reagan (or Jo) would provide some level of social armor.

"Okay," he nodded. "Please note: if this place gets raided, it will reflect badly on my career," he attempted levity.

"I understand," Reagan softened (toward him). To me, "You need to show up too. Someone wants to meet you, you probably won't enjoy it, so I feel this partially compensates for what you did here this morning. Are we clear?"

"Another annoying individual entering my life – check," I sighed. "How about breakfast?"

I had never had someone I considered to be a girlfriend before Dabney. Growing up I had a group of buddies, but only one Best Bud – Eric Uno – and when he got killed, I left the rest behind to join the Navy. There I found a new group of people to build my life around: the service-men and –women whose unit I was assigned to. I knew them, their health records, birthdays and, as time progressed, familial details.

Why? Service-folk didn't like going to a psychiatrist over what they consider 'petty shit'. And since they have virtually no mental healthcare experience, they make poor choices where their mental health was concerned. As a hospital corpsman, I was always with my 'guys', so I was someone they could talk to about their problems. Not knowing much initially, I studied and learned. It wasn't like I would never send someone to the Base 'shrink', but if I did, I wanted to make sure I was doing the right thing by them when doing so.

So I learned about guys, girls and relationships. I learned about homosexuality and child-rearing. I learned about messy break-ups, obsessive fascinations and the price of unfaithfulness. I learned about the strengths and failings of human nature. I learned love and hate make people ignore the obvious and embrace the stupid. People could be brilliant, driven and hyper-competent, yet make blindingly obvious mistakes when emotions came into play.

I was making a serious mistake staying in Las Vegas. I wasn't ready to explore the emotions keeping me here. Jo's emotional content was more trouble than I should be entertaining, yet here I was, engaging her in a positive context. Kristoff and Reagan were one of the best couples I'd ever met. They complimented each other perfectly ... if you cut away the peripherals of their careers ...

Jo and I started with the Chili Queso dip. Reagan and Kristoff went for the Ultimate Nachos. For breakfast, Reagan and I went for the boneless wings while Kristoff and Jo went 'Old School'. When I went to sample one of Jo's 'Blazin ®' wings, I thought she was going to pin my hand to the table with her boot knife.

"Jo, you don't date much, do you?" Kristoff chuckled. As a rule, combat pilots didn't scare easy either.

"Here you go," I offered Jo one of my Bourbon Honey Mustard.

"If I had wanted one of those, I would have ordered it," Jo scowled to me. Then, to Kristoff, "Vardan is my first date in a very long time. My previous dates never left much of an impression."

"Jo, why did you ask Vance out?" Reagan said in an accusatory manner.

"He drew a gun on me."

"You go, Dog," Kristoff smirked at me. "Does that happen to you a lot?" to Jo.

"Yes. But I normally kill people who do that."

"And making Vance go out on a date with you is a fate worse than death?" Reagan zinged.

"Yes." Jo was unflappable.

"Not so," I reached out and around so my arm was around Jo's shoulder. Now my chicken wing was coming at her from the other side. I felt the barrel of one of her custom .50 handguns pressing against my ribs. A remotely normal woman would have simply said 'no'. Not Jo. She'd gone straight to escalation of threat of deadly force. Not to be outdone, I flicked the wing up, over her head and caught it in my teeth with a mighty chomp.

I devoured the offending food item while making deep, meaningful eye contact with Jo. Nothing. The gun was still there.

"You owe me a chicken wing," she enlightened me. FFS! (For Fuck Sakes!)

"Hey," Reagan got Kristoff's attention with a sultry purr. He couldn't see Jo's firearm, but knew something was happening out of sight. He looked her way. She was tantalizing him with one of her Lemon Pepper wings.

He bit into the proffered gift, chewed it up, took another bite and another and finished up by licking her fingers. Kristoff probably thought he was being an example for Jo on proper 'guy-girl' date etiquette. I already knew Jo didn't care for normalcy. I looked around for our waitress, flagged her and, using hand signals, ordered Jo another round of 'Blazin ®' wings. The gun went away.

"His other girlfriends are better looking," Reagan snipped. Both Kristoff and I wondered at the motivation and wisdom of her statement.

"Seriously?" he asked me for clarification.

"I don't rate women on looks, but on utility," was my honest retort.

"Fearless," Kristoff noted ... my moronic honesty.

"Oh really?" Reagan tilted her head slightly. "How much utility do you find in Ms. Norquist ~ the former Mrs. Pharris and Dabney Curtiss ~ the former call girl? I can almost understand TC ~ the Internal Affairs Detective with the LVMPD. I'm not sure the other cop wants to screw you yet."

This was one of the key reasons I needed to aim Reagan at Kristoff. I didn't need another woman ranking the ladies in my life. The four I had were four too many in my opinion.

"What? You and G?" Kristoff choked.

"Not way back then," I reassured him. "Wild circumstance found me buying the house opposite the duplex she was being tossed out of, so I offered her a place to stay. While picking her up from work, I ran across one of my old gang's baby sister – Dabney."

"Curtiss ..." Kristoff interrupted. "Sammi Curtiss' little sister?"

I nodded.

"She's not so little anymore," Reagan added.

"Yeah. Her pimp made an issue of her wanting to change careers, so she moved in with me until things get sorted out. She and G get the bed. I sleep on a cot in the common room."

"The cop?"

"The LO(l)E's (LOcal law Enforcement) were harassing G. I took exception. They took exception to my exception. And Internal Affairs got involved after a Sheriff's Deputy planted some meth in my car and stayed involved when I beat up two detectives and an Assistant Sheriff ... who all richly deserved it."

"Before, or after, you lost your job as a paramedic?" Kristoff wondered.

"In the midst of."

"And that is why – after fifteen years – I knew V was still basically the same guy I knew in High School," Kristoff grinned at Jo. "In the midst of a feud with the LVMPD, he still ran across an urban battlefield to save police lives in the same way he came charging across the parking lot of the In-N-Out Burger all those years ago."

"Where we got our asses kicked," I reminded him.

"We got away without being beaten into the pavement," he winked. "And we should have been. Four hombres versus two rich boys and you. Ford ran... you could have, but you didn't." I had no good answer for that.

"I wasn't too bright back then," I shrugged.

"Wait!" Reagan perked up. "Doesn't that mean you were paying Vance back for saving your ass ..." she hoped. It was wrong to hope.

"He didn't go running into the fight out of any sense of obligation," Jo corrected her. "It is simply what friends do. It is not a matter of balancing accounts."

"But they weren't friends back then," Reagan insisted. "He was the Pharris' pool boy." She wasn't fooling anybody, not even herself. Reagan didn't understand what qualified a person as someone I cared for, yet Kristoff had undoubtedly entered that sphere seventeen years ago.

Mind you, Lloyd Pharris might kill my mother, father, brother, sister and her whole family to get at me, too. The problem was my utter lack of communication with any of them over the past fifteen years when there should have been some contact – being my family after all. I hadn't been in touch with Kristoff Declan either, yet he had been a person I chose to hang out with, not family. Plus, he had selflessly done me a favor ... which was something I wouldn't forget.

People in my line of work tended to recall people who did us favors. Conversely, we weren't overly vengeance-minded. If you screwed with us once, and weren't going to be a repeat problem, so be it. We got on with our lives. Only if you were persistent in your assholery did we eliminate you ~ proactively making our futures easier because you were a persistent ass.

If you did us a favor, we kept an eye and ear out. Why? People who did us a favor once were likely to do so again. Doing things to help them out was again proactively making our futures easier. We'd trained in the past for what we might need, worked in the present with whatever we had and planned for the future factoring in everything the past and present taught us – ALWAYS.

It wasn't a 'if you didn't think like that, you ended up dead' sort of thing. No ... if you didn't think like that, you didn't qualify to engage in our occupation. No one in our line of work would want to team up with someone who wasn't generally like us. A high level of competence was expected and thus assured.

...

Maybe I missed that aspect of my 'old life' and I was relapsing because I secretly was uncomfortable being around that vast sea of Humanity who were accustomed to mediocrity, if not downright stupidity, on a daily basis. Looking at the people at the table with me ... the #2 most directly lethal woman in the city on my left, across from me an elite jet fighter pilot (even with an Air Force Academy ring, Kristoff being a Lt. Colonel in only 11 years of service was very impressive) and next to him the chief assistant to the crime lord of the vice trade in Las Vegas, Circe.

Dabney? G? I was already starting to train them both physically. Both were exceedingly gifted in the looks department. I was in the process of elevating G financially and socially into a position where she could be a 'doer' and not a victim. Trixie and Soledad, the cops, both were well above par too.

Absent a team, had I created one of my own? G – Logistics core. Dabney – public relations (recruit). Jo – I'd follow her through a door any day. The cops were already established intelligence operatives. Reagan – a new 'Ms. Gray' aka pipeline into the real goings on in the Vegas Underworld.

Well shit ... I had.

My ruminations were disturbed by my phone alerting me someone was trying to call me. I checked. It was a payphone. That meant it was important.

"Hey."

"Did you do something last night?" It was Soledad.

"Such as?"

"Anything to do with a certain insanely rich hotel guest getting the shit kicked out of him, his staff and his bodyguards?" she was caught between pissed and amused.

"No comment. I find it disturbing a random crime happens and the first person you think to blame is me," I bantered.

"Rumor has it his bodyguards were former elite French paratroopers."

"Perhaps they were approached by a lone German tourist looking for the water closet and hurt themselves in the rush to surrender," I tossed a useless bit of poor humor out there.

"No. Someone beat and shot the shit out of them," she kept being a cop.

"And I would care – why?"

"A whole lot of people are upset, Dipshit," she didn't sound angry.

"Was anyone killed?"

"No."

"See. That doesn't sound like me. I kill people wherever I go. Just ask your Coroner-Medical Examiner's Office."

"Yeah ... it sounds like the perp had a partner too ..."

"I also don't have any friends. We both know that."

"Yeah ... that's the damn truth. Well, watch your ass. This might get nasty."

"Sure and don't call me from that payphone ever again. Get a pre-paid phone you paid for in cash from a store you never frequent like any other sane conspirator."

"Gee thanks. Bye," and she hung up. By the way the two women at the table were looking at me and not asking, Kristoff felt compelled to.

"What did you do last night?"

"Went on a date to the gun range. There I met a nice girl who was here in Vegas for a tech expo. I took her back to my place and had a three-way. Speaking of which, I need to go back in about twenty minutes and take her back to the Convention Center so she can rejoin her compadres and regale them about her 'Vegas Experience'."

(She had BETTER NOT regale them with what really happened if she wanted to keep breathing, damn it.)

"You took a date to the gun range ...," Kristoff's mischievous eyes danced from me to Jo.

"That would be the former call-girl," Reagan pumped in.

"... then picked up a second girl?" he continued. Well, I had just said that. "And she's back at your place right now?" Kristoff kept grinning. I didn't feel a response was necessary. "With the former call-girl?" Again, why did I bother talking at all? "And you know about this?" he aimed at Jo.

"I've met her," Jo remained dispassionate.

"Is Ms. Norquist – G in bed with them as well?" Reagan kept getting revenge for this breakfast ambush.

"Where else would she sleep? It is hers and Dabney's bed," I stated deadpan.

"Because you sleep in the living room?" Kristoff smirked.

"Yes. I prefer to sleep alone."

"Would you sleep with me?" Jo asked. WTF?

"We'll see ..."

Jo was waiting for something else,

"The cot is rated for 300 lbs. and you are right on the cusp," ('of being too much weight when combined with mine' was left unsaid).

"We could sleep in my bed," she offered.

"With you?" spilled out of Reagan's mouth. Apparently Jo had a reputation ... as a soulless automaton.

"Of course with me," she frowned at Reagan.

"I didn't think you liked ... people," Reagan wouldn't stop.

"At least she didn't say the living," Kristoff muttered. So much could go wrong at this point, but I had already planned ahead. I leaned into Jo.

"Badger," I whispered in her ear.

There was no need to tell anyone else I'd bought her a gift. Sure, it was a cheap toy. It was also utterly unasked for and unheralded in her limited experience – her first gift on a date. As my head and torso retreated, she turned to look at me. She gave me an infinitesimal smile. The defiant glimmering in her eyes was a far greater reward.

"Don't try to get inside my head, or under my skin, Reagan," Jo stated calmly. "It won't end well." Reagan and Kristoff's eye magic indicated they expected me to do something about the threat.

"Yeah, Reagan. I brought you here to get inside of his head," I jokingly pointed at Kristoff. "Let me worry about Jo and Jo worry about me." My plan laid bare.

"Death threats will do that," Kristoff's humorous tenor belied his worry.

"Believe me," I told him, "last Sunday morning ~ this was not where I thought any of us would be. I'd retired from my military life, post-military life and was going to be a nice, quiet taxpayer, minding my own business."

"Reagan had no intention of talking to me ever again. Jo's life and mine would have never intersected. You and I would still be chatting, because I would have still screwed up my job, but then we'd have parted ways and most likely that would have been that."

"So, does Ford know any of this?" Kristoff gave a lopsided grin.

"Unlikely," Reagan finally answered. I doubted Lloyd would have found him criminally useful, but Reagan had kept in touch with the Pharris family dynamic for the past fifteen years, not I.

"Are he, Wynn and the latest Mrs. Pharris going to get hurt in all of this?" Kristoff asked. It was like him to care. He'd always been the 'good guy' without being ignorant of others' moral failings, or naïve about how the world really worked.

"I'm not gunning for them," I offered.

"If you do take Lloyd down, I want to ask Erika why the fuck she married Lloyd instead of Ford," Kristoff's brow furrowed. "That was all messed up."

"You have no idea," Reagan sighed. Kristoff's eyes went from her to me.

"Nothing?" was aimed at me.

"I didn't want to drag you into this, Kristoff," I met his gaze. "The second I put your Caller ID to a Vegas address, I knew we were both screwed."

"Like thunder from the sky – sworn to fight and die ..." he mused. That old damn song from our youth [* yes, the author is taking chronological liberties here].

"We're warriors, warriors of the world," I added to the chorus. "The stupid shit teenage boys believe in."

"Many stand against us, but they will never win," he continued then waited. I didn't want to continue, because I'd stopped believing in any of those ideals long ago. I'd also stopped listening to metal music too; another casualty of my purposely abandoned youth.

"We said we would return and here we are again," my lips moved of their own accord.

"To bring them all destruction, suffering and pain," his bright teeth shown thru.

"We are the hammer of the gods, we are thunder, wind and rain."

"There they wait in fear with swords in feeble hands."

"With dreams to be a king, first one should be a man."

"I call about and charge them all with a life that is a lie."

"And in their final hour they shall confess before they die."

"Romantic nonsense," Reagan confirmed.

"What is it?" Jo inquired.

"Warriors of the World by Manowar ~ a heavy metal rock group from our youth," I answered.

"And you recalled the lyrics?" she aimed at Kristoff.

"Yes."

"You listen to them much?"

"No. Not since I went to college ~ the Air Force Academy."

"Very well. I'll help. You are worth saving," she announced softly.

"Worth saving?" Kristoff wondered. Reagan's interest was piqued.

"Yes. I meet dozens, if not hundreds, of people on a weekly basis who are useless as oxygen-breathers, worse as sentient beings – who deserve death. You don't."

"Who made you the Reaper?" he challenged her.

"Life," she stated firmly.

"Kristoff, that is the best answer you are going to get," I cut him off. We locked gazes until he backed down. The rest was pointless chatter and Jo getting her replacement order of wings ... which she shared ... women. Kristoff picked up the check for this outing. Outside, we parted ways – first he and I, then he and Reagan and Jo and I. Before she could zip up her jacket, I made my approach. Her scrutiny was intense.

My hands went to her hips – no tensing – then around to the small of her back. I leaned in, she tilted her head up and we kissed. We exchanged a bit of tongue this time. Jo kept one hand between us, on my chest, while the other worked its way to the back of my head and a handful of my hair. She gave my hair a squeeze to let me know when to break contact.

"Nice," I smiled.

"Not 'thank you'?" she examined me, cypher-like.

"I'm not tying any emotional progress we make with business," I said. "With, or without you, I'm taking care of Kristoff and Reagan. We both know I have three ladies abusing my AC at home, so this isn't my dick talking. Killing folks isn't an issue for me. With you, it is just you and me ~ nothing more, Jo. Can I stop talking now? Because I really hate explaining myself."

Jo, who had been leaning against her bike, pushed up while bringing my head down so we could kiss once more. This time she gave it a great deal more passion. Yeah, she liked me for several semi-definable reasons and one crystal clear one – neither one of us liked talking all that much.

She didn't care about my family, or the ladies back home as long as they didn't interfere with 'us'.

"I prefer PANTERA," she confided. Of course she did. They were so loud, talking over them was a pointless effort. And they had expired violently ~ as a band.

I left her happy, if not smiling. Kristoff's look told me he thought I was a 'dog' and a 'fool' for showing up with Jo and I couldn't really blame him. Since things had gone so well, I optimistically called Lorenz and informed him I could still show up if it wasn't too inconvenient. He said it 'wouldn't be a problem' in a hushed tone, which suggested his wife was angry with me, and thus a problem.

While I was on the phone, Jo was nice enough to be obvious in tailing me back to my place. I imagined she was making sure my property address of record was actually the place I was driving to ... which I wasn't. I was driving to the place around the block, or would have, if something hadn't come up.

{WHAT CAME UP}

On the way back home I was overtaken by two events. One was the benefit of my area surveillance network – I had a late model sedan with four black gentlemen in it waiting up the street from my abode. Since neither Jo nor Reagan could find me, I suspect Mr. Rogers had been 'helpful' to this group. Though slouched down, they weren't particularly even trying to hide their Playboy Blood affiliation. The second event was related to the first.

The Vice Lords of Las Vegas had only a few 'visible' rules, but one of them was a ban on open street violence. Vegas wasn't a one-trick pony, economy-wise. But anything which endangered tourism was bad for business, which was bad for the Vice Lords. And the knowledge that they frowned on such things had trickled down to all the various low-lives – gangs included. The Wednesday morning shootout had broken that rule, so the perpetrators had to pay.

Each Vice Lord and Lady would exact retribution in their own way.

Circe was muscling out the Playboys from the various pornography operations they profited from and steering all her girls away from venues they frequented.

Sycorax, the Gluttonous, was arranging to kidnap people they cared about, or valued ~ human slavery was one of her things.

Archimago, the Avaricious, was freezing them out of every illegal gambling operation in the city.

Baphomet, the Envious, was ramping up police efforts against them.

Jareth, the Slothful, was helping the others with their goals with information utilizing his city-wide network of homeless and chronically poor.

Of most immediate concern to me though, was Thulsa Doom, the Wrathful. He was lining up various key Playboys for the grave. Killing people was his thing and Jo was his violent Right Hand.

Except for Baphomet, all of this was to take place behind the scenes. The dilemma for Jo was the four Playboys about to become a public spectacle trying to murder me in broad daylight in a nice, quiet residential area of the city. Violence was going to happen no matter what, so in her mind, it might as well be instructional violence.

My plan involved me NOT rolling down my home street, into my driveway and engaging in a firefight. I was going to drive around the block, park, and then sneak up behind them and screw with their car's exhaust so when they tried to follow me later, their car would inconveniently conk out. Jo, who caught my hesitation and bypassing the road leading to my dwelling, slowed down to examine the difficulty and spotted my 'problem'.

Her solution was very different. She could 'help' me and do her boss's work at the same time. She rolled her precision motorcycle straight up to the Playboy's car, stopped perhaps fifteen feet from it, unzipped her jacket, quick-drew her twin hand-cannons and fired four shots from each weapon. She holstered her guns, zipped up her jacket and sped away. Elapsed time ~ nine seconds.

The four guys never knew what killed them. It wasn't like Jo was a known criminal player, much less a calculable threat. To them, she was a skinny figure on a nice ride who suddenly and accurately showered death upon them. From my after-combat analysis, Jo's first four shots incapacitated each target. The second shot made sure each guy was D-E-A-D. For me, it was a matter of taking advantage of the situation.

In my neighborhood, on a Saturday a little after 8 a.m., everyone was sleeping in, or asleep from the nightshift. While Jo's shots were loud, they were rapid-fire and she was now gone. If gunfire woke you up, you were most likely wondering what the noise was and would soon drift back to la-la land. I parked in the driveway, then walked over to the car of the deceased. From the placement of firearms, tattoos and jewelry, I figured out who was in charge and carefully searched his corpse.

I rolled through the numbers on his phone, finding the one which appeared most. I made some adjustments, then dialed it.

"He there yet?" a bleary voice inquired. Someone hadn't been to bed yet.

"Did you seriously send just four guys to kill me? Four?"

"What? Who's this? Lil Kuku?"

"Lil Kuku is sucking cock and taking it up the ass in Hell, Dumbass," I related coolly. "He and three of his fellow Playboys had a tragic collision with technology which their purposeful neglect of our public education system left them totally unprepared for. Don't worry though. I'll be looking you up real soon so we can discuss the epic gravity of the error of their ways."

I was abusing a thesaurus for a reason. It takes the human mind a certain number of milliseconds to process words based on their familiarity. The less familiar the word, the longer it takes to either figure out what it means, or to discover you don't know what it means. All those milliseconds do add up.

"What?"

"Someone dumped four of your expired chumps on my doorstep and I don't fucking appreciate it, so you and I are going to have a chat about how unhappy you've made me. Clear enough?"

"What? Who is this? Where is Lil Kuku?"

"Listen up, Motherfucker. The previous owner of this phone is dead. Okay? Say 'okay' now."

"What? Okay? What?"

"Dead as in two big fucking holes in him. I have the sneaking suspicion you sent him, and three of his friends, to kill me. Now, is your gang so big you casually misplace four members?"

"What? No. Who the fuck are you?"

"Do you send your boys out to kill so many people you lose track?"

"What? No!"

"Okay then. I'm the guy you sent Lil Kuku to kill. Now, who would that be?"

"Mr. EMT?"

"Right. We are on the same page."

"Where is Lil Kuku?"

"He's dead. Do you want to speak to him?"

"Yeah?"

"Stick around. I'll make the arrangements, you dumbass."

"What?"

"He's dead. You will most likely talk to him again when you see him in Hell. Clear enough? I'll be seeing you. Bye now."

Smartass was using a burner phone. He was also at a location he parked his butt in at 8:15 in the morning, so most likely it was a place he frequented ~ like his home. Whomever he was, he had obligingly stayed on the line long enough to let me trace his call to his precise location.

Moron. By cross-referencing police files (using my illegal password) and property records, I learned I was most likely dealing with a senior Playboy Blood by the name of Roy 'BB 187' Thompson. Age 23. Impressive criminal record stretching back 9 years.

The Playboys were going to be even more furious with me ... right up until the Homicide Detective began asking them why someone would be killing their boys with signature .50 caliber slugs. While the .50 was not completely unique, I was willing to bet there weren't a lot of people running around Las Vegas killing folks with something that memorable.

I was also willing to bet when someone, or some bodies, ended up cooling their bones in the morgue with holes that big in them, it was a clear message to the Criminal Underworld. The corpses had crossed the Vice Lords and this was the result.

After slipping around back to get a spare tarp and some duct tape, I returned to the unfortunate sedan and covered it up neatly. I'd buy a used tow dolly later, have this bitch dropped off at BB's house and let him deal with the fallout ~ no need to involve the LVMPD this close to my home. Back at my place, G, Dabney and Sara were all up, dressed (kind of) and talking over breakfast burritos and coffee in my living room.

Dabney came at me first, sexy-hungry and wanting to put her mark on me. G sent me happy, semi-domestic bliss vibes. Sara was blissfully basking in her adventurousness.

"Hey," Dabney sighed sleepily after she finished taking her tongue out of my mouth. "You were gone when we woke up."

"I had some things to take care of," I patted her ass. She was still my No. 1 Girl. "Right now, I have to take Sara to the Expo. When I get back, we can discuss what we plan to do today."

"Oh ..." from Dabney.

"Oh, I was hoping we could do something tonight," Sara beamed hopefully.

"Let's see how last night's difficulties clear up before we make any definite plans," I cautioned her. She wasn't as upset as she should have been.

"Okay," Sara agreed as she and G stood. G dressed for going out = trouble.

"Let's go," Dabney grinned.

"We will go right past having Sara associated with you, Dabney, being traced back to anyone else last night and go straight to ~ Et tu, G?" I moaned.

"You are the one who suggested we should expand our employment opportunities, V," G countered. "Sara needs help on the sales side of her business. Dabney was close to completing her Hospitality degree and I've hosted numerous affairs in my day. Let us do this ... please?"

"It is not my place to say 'yes', or 'no', G. And you are right – I do want you two to be able to stand on your own. But I want you to be careful as well, because there are some mean damn people out there," I wrapped up G and Dabney in my arms.

"G, didn't you work last night so you could have tonight and Sunday night off?" I gave it one last shot.

"The Stratosphere is blocks away from the Convention Center, and it isn't like I'm collecting a pay check anyway," she resisted.

"I don't know," Sara spoke up. "I was thinking a 3% commission for every sale you two make."

"Yay!" Dabney jumped up and down with all the accompanying benefits.

"Yay," I mumbled. "For my sake, pay them in cash." Sara just stared at me; she clearly didn't get it. "Let's just say their finances are complicated right now and leave it at that."

"Okay. I'll arrange something," Sara happily agreed to the skullduggery and cheating the IRS.

[...]

We departed for the Expo without further ado. I dropped them off without too much fuss, though Sara insisted upon a kiss on the lips since G and Dabney got one. As I pulled away, Ms. Xi gave me a call. From the background noise, she was at an airport.

"Senior Chief Hospital Corpsman Vardanyan," she began.

"Former-Hai Jun Shao Xiao Xi Baozhai," I answered. "Call me Vance, or Mr. Vardanyan. I'm retired. I figure you already know, but I want to be absolutely sure you are aware of that fact."

"I don't care," she simmered.

"Cool. What do I call you?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Fine. What do you want?"

"I think you know."

"Not really. You and I have never met, yet you called me earlier this morning informing me you are going to show up at an undisclosed later date. After making a few calls of my own, I have reason to believe you've lost your damn mind and you are throwing your life away. I'm sure people you trust far more than me have already told you variations of the same thing. So, what do you want?" I said calmly.

"You wish me to say something incriminating so your Homeland Security can arrest me?" she spat.

"No. Engage your brain, Ms. Xi. To tip off Homeland Security, I would need a reason. What reason would I have? We have never met. Officially, our lives have never intersected. Unofficially, no one will admit our lives have ever intersected. Precisely who would be telling Homeland Security what about us which would allow them to detain you and not me?"

She paused. From the background clutter I had been able to piece together she was at International Terminal at San Francisco International due to the BART noises. She'd wisely only called me after passing through security.

"I will see you soon," was what she finally came back with.

"Why?"

"We've been down this road."

"Except you failed to answer me last time. What is this trip going to accomplish?"

"If you have to ask, you wouldn't understand."

"What is it going to cost you to enlighten me?"

"We will have this discussion in person," she shot off then hung up. Oh well ... I had other things to take care of and I doubted she understood the trouble she was in.

[...]

I found a tow dolly for sale at a junk yard. Paid for it in cash. Hooked it up to my Audi, drove a roundabout way to BB 187's abode and pulled up in front of his house. At the corner were a few homeboys doing the normal gang shit. I was sure they had lookouts about as well. Their problem was I wasn't a LVMPD patrol car, acting like a rival gang, or even plain clothes cops doing surveillance. I had the car unhooked, the tarp off and was stuffing it in my trunk when two finally approached me.

"What ya doing, Man?" the mouthpiece of the two tried to look around me into the trunk.

"BB sent some guys to kill me. They are in the car. They were dead when I found them. Tell him, 'if he sends anymore and my Guardian Angels don't get to them first, I will.' I am not at war with the Playboys. I am not allied with the Florencia 13's. I am not going to waste my time hunting you fuckers down," I enlightened the two gangbangers.

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.

"Wǒ ... Wǒ huì shāle nǐ de suǒyǒu," she slurred before she slumped over against the door then crashed to the ground. That wasn't promising. I approached from an oblique angle. The door was mangled. I'd planned for that. First I had the ladies exit to the bedroom before I popped the pins on the screen door, moved it aside and performed a preliminary exam on Ms. Xi.

I pocketed her weapons – the pistol, two spare magazines and a ceramic, hilt-less 6" blade. After that, I picked her up and brought her inside – to the bedroom – kicking the door shut as I did.

"Dabney, secure the deadbolt," I began issuing orders. "G, go to the frig and get me a vial marked 'A' and the medical kit on top. Sara, get my ties. We are going to secure our guest to the bed."

"That would be wise," she agreed. I spared her a glance. "She said 'I will kill you all'. I speak Mandarin."

"Good to know. Get to work."

Once the first round of chores were completed and I'd figured out she'd been shot twice – both two 'through-and-throughs' on the left side – one had been deflected off a rib (definitely fractured/possibly with fragments) and the other had passed between her kidney and urethra. How it missed her superior mesenteric artery – I didn't know. Had it been cut, she'd have been long dead by now. Same went for her spleen, kidney, liver or stomach. That still left a mess made of the small intestines to clean up.

From the abrasions on her hands, right cheek and tears to her clothing, she'd been in a fight alright. I figured she'd taken the gun of the guy who shot her too. I'd get to ask her about it soon as well. Despite her condition, I had to give her a shot of adrenaline to revive her because I didn't know her blood type. And I'd need blood because I was going to have to poke around inside her to see if I could, in fact, save her. Dropping her off at a hospital was an effective death sentence.

I gave her the shot, then waited. I sent Dabney and G from the room. I'd need Sara in case Baozhai was only semi-coherent, thus only talking in her native language.

"Hey," I lightly slapped her face. Her eyes fluttered a few time, then opened. It took her a few more seconds to focus on me. Then came the hate.

"What?" she tugged on her restraints.

"You've been badly shot and lost a great deal of blood, Ms. Xi," I explained. "I need to poke around inside you to see how badly your various internal organs are damaged. To do that and not kill you, I need to know your blood type."

She stared ... and stared ... and stared.

"Why?"

"I don't really know. Quite frankly, we both know I should let you bleed out and bury you in the desert. I might let your government know where I buried you so they can confirm you are really dead and they can call off their own manhunt ..."

Yeah, there was that personality shift ~ the loyal soldier/sailor beseeching her People for justice only to be met with murder ~ the sense of betrayal; a lifetime's devotion rendered devoid of meaning. Even after she let them know she didn't even want their help ~ she was perfectly willing to carry on alone, her side had tried to make her 'dead' instead.

"Why don't you? If I get better, I will avenge my Brother," she simmered.

"Don't care. What is your blood type?"

"But why?"

"I told you ~ I can't explain my actions. Now, I'm on a time table. Someone expects me to be somewhere in ... about two hours and I can't disappoint them. By all means, make my life easier and don't answer my question."

"Who are you?" she looked to Sara.

"I'm just a tourist!" Sara babbled nervously. "I mean ... I'm not part ... I mean, I don't live here!"

"She is a civilian?" the Chinese killer sent my way.

"Yes. She also speaks Mandarin Chinese, which I thought might be useful if you were only semi-lucid," I clued Ms. Xi in. "She's brave and reliable, within the scope of her abilities."

"I speak some Cantonese too," Sara added needlessly.

Why do people feel the desire to provide unsolicited information? I actually know the answer. They feel if they are found useful, they won't be hurt/killed. You would think their 'side' having the upper hand would encourage some restraint, but it doesn't.

"Who answered the door?"

"Fine then," I had been sitting on the bed. I stood. "Have it your way."

"A Plus." Thank Heavens for yet another woman making my life more difficult.

"I'm A+," Sara smiled at me. That wasn't too unusual. Over 30% of Americans were. I'd need more.

I immediately set those two up for a compatibility test – they were – then prepared to extract a pint from Sara. I also called up Kip Churchill, the Pimp. I needed a return favor – four ladies with A+ blood. How he figured out which ladies had it and how he got the blood to me within the hour was his problem. A human of Baozhai's size would have about 10 pints (4.7 liters) of blood in her system, so having five on hand should have been enough.

Calling Detective Lieutenant Trixie Crowe (TC) was next on my list. Ms. Xi would need a babysitter while the rest of us were out. As I set to work, I had G and Dabney get Xi's car and drive it around to one of my nearby properties and cover it up. Undoubtedly the Chinese would come looking for her and their best point of contact was still me.

To take care of that difficulty, I called in another favor. I called Ramone Garza, leader of the local chapter of the Florencia 13 'Sureños'.

"Who is this?" he said in way of a 'hello'. He probably wondered who had his private number and had no caller ID.

"The paramedic who patched up your lady. How is she doing?"

"Not so good. They are holding her downtown on immigration charges. ICE is shipping her to Arizona on Monday." His pause was telling. "A guy called me and said if you called, I should call him because if I didn't and I helped you, something bad would happen to Corazon."

"He wasn't lying to you. He's got the juice to do it," I responded. I'd only met him once, but Ramone had come across as a level-headed guy who appreciated straight talk.

"I got the same feeling. What do you want?"

Time to alter my plan a bit.

"Maybe we can help one another. I want you to send two guys to get a car, drive it someplace way out of town and leave it. I'll give you a gun, wallet and a flash drive plus a number to call when your boys are safely away. You tell these people you know where they can find those items."

"Tell them 'the woman's body was handled by some people from the East Coast', – no further details. Then, make your request. After you've done that, give then 15 seconds to acknowledge the call then hang up. Do not stay on the line no matter what. Clear?"

"Clear. Who am I dealing with?" he sanely inquired.

"The People's Republic of China's consulate in San Francisco. A Chinese national came to town to kill me over shit I did I'll never talk about. They told her to go home. She disagreed, so they tried to kill her. She got shot up, but still made it here to my door step. They are going to be looking for her and I'm sure her car has GPS, so they will be showing up soon."

"Is she dead?"

"It is best if you think she is."

"And she came to town to kill you? Dude ... you have a fucked up life. I'll take care of it ~ personally. Me and my brother because I'm sure he won't tell a soul," Ramone promised. "I'm on my way."

"Ramone, when you call that number, tell them this is your price – "I want you to launch an official inquiry into the status of Corazon ~ her full name, Inmate ID and Case Number. Make this one Human Rights Inquiry and we are done. Do this and you promise they will never hear from you again."

"From the People's Republic of China? Oh, Corazon's full name is Corazon Bedoya Ibáñez."

"I know. Her ID is 01945793 and her Case No. is 12FN0283X. (All of that information was accessible online by anybody) That will send up all kinds of Red Flags with Homeland Security and the CIA which will make her safer and allow some of my friends to influence the system. My difficulty is I have friends in low places, so any favor I ask for will take time. The Chinese making the notification will give us that time," I informed him.

"That guy who was snooping around?"

"He is going to be a problem. I'm working on it, but it is going to take time on my part before I can report any progress. Sorry."

"I gotchya. Fuck-ass cop-bait," he chuckled. "Don't worry. I got this ... 404."

"404?"

"Yeah. It is Cop-Code for ..." Ramone chuckled.

"I know what it means," I grunted. To the LVMPD, it meant Unknown Trouble. "Let's stay on target."

"Ha!" he laughed. "We'll see if this nickname sticks. Watch your back."

"Right ..." I then finished up by telling him where to pick up the car, then hung up.

Back with Xi Baozhai, I told her we needed to stage some brief footage of her looking very dead.

"Why?" she muttered.

"Your people are coming to finish you off and I'm trying to convince them you are already dead."

"I should be dead," she remarked bitterly then, "What do I do?"

Having been down this road before, I knew the hardest part is the eye drops, because to make a convincing 'death video', the victim has to have their eyes open and not blink for at least 45 seconds. A minute is better. Proper eye drops help with that.

Baozhai handled it like a pro. The Sea Dragons, her old unit, were highly disciplined. It took one take with me approaching the bed then walking around the foot. There was no dialogue, or other sounds to give away our location, or identity. I decided 53 seconds of her lifeless body, head tilted to the side, eyes wide open without a hint of pulse, or breath was good enough. I removed the new chip, placed it in a freezer bag along with her other personal effects and off it went to join the auto. I had to get to the real work after that.

Some higher power, or her ancestors, must have been looking out for Xi Baozhai. There was no damage I hadn't seen before and successfully dealt with. With the five pints of blood, antibiotics and rest, she'd be up and hating me to death in a week ~ easy. She'd be feeling the pain for about a month, but professional warriors of her caliber could work through petty shit like being gut shot.

As I was wrapping up, I got a call from Ramone. G handled it for me. He'd deposited the car and had the brief conversation. He'd refused the invitation to meet, or even exchange names. He'd taken my advice and hung up after giving his lines. In the same vein, my ladies dealt with TC when she arrived. The IAB cop stopped in long enough to see I was indeed saving someone's life, then returned to G and Dabney for the explanation.

It was the bare bones: a Chinese national showed up on my step to kill me. Operatives from the PRC were coming to kill her. She wanted to kill me for shit which happed while I was working for our Government and which neither government would want either of us talking about. If the lady went to a hospital, she would eventually be sent home and murdered, because no one in my house would press charges.

'Why couldn't we watch her?'

~ We all had to go to a function involving Reagan ~ more stuff we really couldn't discuss.

'Who was Sara and why was she going?'

~ Sara know secret electronic spy stuff ... honest.

'Why was she (TC) doing something clearly illegal (not reporting a gunshot victim)?

~ The woman was still in danger and TC was the only one of us who could legally shoot people ... which might come in handy if Ms. Xi woke up and tried to escape.

TC didn't like that last one.

My final call was to 'Betty Gable'.

"You do realize the time differential between the Pacific and East Coast?" she yawned.

"This is a business call."

"Hold on," she muttered. After she made a few adjustments from her end. "Things are secure from my end."

"Not secure enough for this."

"Oh crap," she grunted. "Do I need to get someone in National Resources to tap a reliable somebody in the FBI's CD?"

"This may be an Operation's issue," I countered.

The National Resources Division of the CIA was their domestic unit, a group which normally debriefed corporate types about industrial secrets and cultivated foreign students and diplomats in the US into becoming intelligence sources.

Operations – technically the Directorate of Operations – was my old umbrella organization at Langley. They handled SOG (Special Operations Group) personnel among other things. including counter-intelligence. FBI's Counter Intelligence Division ... well to be fair, I'd never worked with them before.

"Involving 'outsiders' might be 'unfortunate' for multiple parties," I cautioned. Translation: I really wanted the CIA to handle this matter. Otherwise, people might end up dead and I had already killed far too many folks publically since retirement, as it was.

"Oh shit," she muttered darkly. "I'll send someone we can trust. Monday?"

"Monday works. Make it sometime past noon. Oh, and I need a favor."

"This has to be good," she muttered.

"The PRC is about to make a Human Rights Inquiry concerning a specific ICE detainee here in my home town. The person in question is an asset via a critical favor for a friend. Her identity should start clarifying a whole host of issues for you. Point some people at it because it is really important to what's going on."

"You are no longer an asset," Betty reminded me.

"Please."

Long pause.

"ICE?"

"Yes."

"It just so happens I know a gal who owes me a favor, or three, who works on Child Exploitation out of their Phoenix Field Office. Special Agent Dana Eibar. It might cost you."

She meant it WOULD cost me, but the individual would also come through for me. After all, when her 'friend' in the CIA's Directorate of Operations 'suggested' she look into something, it had to be worthwhile. I prayed she was married, or a lesbian.

"Thanks."

"You're worth it. Be careful and I expect some serious explaining when you have the opportunity. Night now," and she hung up. Mission accomplished.

{***}

The illegal event was on the 600 block of D Street – a warehouse unit with a disarming business name and an armored gate. I didn't have an invitation, but when I told them my name, the gatekeeper smiled and waved me in. My new ride, while nice, was far from the nicest vehicle on the premises. We were late (it was past the 10 p.m. start time) so we had to walk to the only unlocked entrance.

"Hold up," the door guard motioned. I knew better than ask. Unfortunately ...

"Why?" Sara inquired.

"He asked us to," I headed off his condescending retort.

He had sunglasses (really high-tech light amplification gear) and an ear bud. His tuxedo sheltered his shoulder holstered sidearm. By the stiffness of his right arm, I wagered he had a collapsible baton up his sleeve. Nice to know he wouldn't go straight to lethal violence.

A suitable time later, the door opened for us. I noted it was steal reinforced with upper and lower brackets for bars to be slid into place in an emergency. Waiting for us were two guardians and one middle management type who smiled,

"This way, Mr. Vardanyan, Who are your lady friends?"

"Ms.'s Norquist, Curtis and Patel," I made introductions based on age.

"Who are we meeting?" Dabney broke this time.

"Your hostess for the evening," he grinned over his shoulder. The place was designed to foil a quick breech-entry ~ assumedly by the authorities. We immediately took a turn to the left then climbed up two sets of stairs.

I got the feeling the interior of the building had been designed for three levels though I wasn't sure why. On the second story landing we passed a similarly secure door. The money invested in this site was racking up. At the third level we were escorted down the hallway thirty feet pasted two door then into the third. The hallway went on. Inside the room were five more guardian types.

The explanation was quick in coming.

"No weapons, Mr. Vardanyan," the mouthpiece said. I nodded congenially.

"They are unarmed," I stated while beginning to disarm myself. "Shoulder holstered .45 ... .38 at my back ... knife on my wrist ... knife on my ankle," I pointed out before reaching for each weapon. No reason to stress out the seven armed individuals around me. Darwin Test time.

Two guardians drew their sidearms – a Glock-17 and a Glock-20 – while a third came at me with a 'wand'. He ran it up my sides, along my outstretched arms then over each leg inside and out. Nothing beeped. I had been truthful. A lesson I had learned working for the CIA was if you act like you were cooperating with your captors ~ we were definitely prisoners ~ they were more likely to be sloppy, like these assholes.

What had they missed? My leg and arm braces. If I ended up in an unarmed fight, someone besides me was going to be very sorry.

"Only you," the mouthpiece motioned once they were done. The ladies were to wait.

"V?" G worried.

"They don't look like a group who has made a suicide pact," I stroked her cheek. "You'll be fine."

Out we went.

"Suicide pact?" the lead monkey chuckled. "That's hilarious."

He had kindly only brought his two buddies along. Absent the ladies, my next moves were exceedingly easy. I drove an elbow into the Adam's apple of the chump behind me, relieved him of his firearm and leveled it at the other one's head before he could draw his piece.

There was silence broken only by the air handlers and the other guy struggling to breath. I motioned for the armed guardian to hand me his piece.

"You don't want to ..." manager got out before I drove two fingers into his Solar Plexus, shutting him up. My weapon never wavered. The guy gave me his gun.

I dropped out the magazine then worked out the chambered round. Having taken care of that, I did to same with the first firearm I'd stolen.

"Yeah – suicide pact. As in, 'I will kill all eight of you fucktards if any of those three ladies suffers so much as a scratch, or a bad dream'," I explained. For some reason, despite me having rendered their firearms useless, the two guys didn't seem willing to rush me. I gave the talker a visibly-scarring backhand.

"We clear?" I asked him after his head finished bouncing off the wall.

"I ... ah," he glanced to his two buddies. "Ah ..."

"Don't we have someone to see?" I moved things along. He wanted to order the other two to jump me because he thought he was important. The guys would do what he directed out of fear of his authority and I'd kick all three of their asses. I wanted to avoid that, so I was rushing things along before he could act stupid.

"Pick up your damn guns," he snapped instead. He stormed off. I followed. Two more 'meat lockers' were around the corner, standing watch either side at the next door. They shot the manager an inquisitive look.

"He disarmed them," he groused. They looked at me. I shrugged. The door opened. Inside we went as I had no other real options since it had not been lost on me all the locks I had seen were magnetic and controlled from a remote source.

[THE TEMPEST WITCH]

In I went. Right off the bat I realized this was not the Control Room, so I couldn't go all Special Ops on these ass hats and start killing them. That wouldn't save my companions. The room was dark, with plenty of low-lying chairs and sofas scattered about.

Illumination was provided by four main wall monitors, each one providing an overhead view of a combat area surrounded by an elevated viewing area. The fans were in attendance. The room also had five, smaller, currently dark monitors.

In three of the four arenas, humans were fighting animals in what appeared to be a fight to the death – fucking awesome! (SARCASM) In the fourth, three rough individuals were engaged in a brawl.

In Man vs. Nature #1, a scrawny teenage girl was fighting three Dobermans with a tire iron.

In #2, an old street bum was fighting off 10 inspired Chihuahua with a 2x4 with barbed wire around it.

In #3, it was a repeat of #1 except the fighter was male and the dogs were English mastiffs.

People were above each contest, betting on the outcomes and cheering on the blood-letting.

There were five groups in the room with me.

The largest group were 'the furniture'. They consisted of two gimps (S&M toys in full leather bondage gear with head gear which only had holes for the nasal openings), two 'guys' and three 'girls' (teens picked for their androgyny), three transsexuals (two guy to girl & one girl to guy – all pre-ops) and four adults (equal gender split) in various stages of moral and physical decay from persistent drug and alcohol abuse.

The second largest group were the above-par guardians for the hostess of tonight's nightmare festivities: 5 men and 3 women in the role of muscle and one post-op tranny (girl to guy ~ the physiology is hard to hide from the trained eye) who was clearly the shot-caller for security here.

The last three groups: our hostess was an aging beauty hiding behind layers of expensive plastic surgery, though she was still attractive in a very mature, MILF sort of way. She had most likely altered her normal attire. She was dressed in worn jeans, boat shoes, no sox, a sports bra and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up and tied above the waist. From the way she scanned me, she expected to be recognized. No such luck.

The other two were similar in numbers – three apiece – with two guardians and one 'thinker', but were otherwise leagues apart.

The one keeping to the darkest part of the room wore an Army surplus overcoat circa Vietnam era with equally worn, aged clothes beneath. He was etched by time, with long, unshorn white hair, a face closer to seventy than sixty and blue eyes which shown with a blazing, keen intellect and little, if any, pity. His watchers were males in their mid-forties, strong, no firearms I could detect, but they had the 'rest easy' stance I associated with professional killers. Check that – they were fanatic-killers.

The other guy lounged in a chair and seemed to be somewhat enjoying himself. His suit was silk, his tie pin and sole earring were gold and diamond and his watch cost over $5,000 easy. I didn't think he was happy. It was merely the face he was showing the world and I wasn't able to fathom his real feelings. His guardians were a man and woman, highly polished, exquisitely dressed and I had to imagine – highly paid. I could tell they were a bit uncomfortable in this setting.

I seriously needed to make a donation to a Buddhist Temple because my karma was working overtime.

A repeat: a small fucking world.

"Technical Sergeant Gibson?" I made eye contact with the female guardian.

"Hospital Corpsman?" her left hand went down to her left hip. She did so because she had her hip because 'me' and my Marines had saved her and her unit of Rangers. I'd kept her leg attached through some hairy hours before we could get her medevacked. She'd never gotten my name it appeared.

"You know this man?" the guy in the chair inquired icily without looking up.

"Yes Sir," she kept her eyes on me. "We crossed paths in Iraq. I don't walk with a limp, or a prosthetic, because of him." It was nice to know she felt it necessary to be truthful with this guy. The truth did not make him happy.

"Is this going to be a problem?"

"It was in 2003, Sir. A lifetime ago," was her clipped response.

Technical Sergeant Jareela Gibson had been a US Air Force Combat Controller – one of those brave men and women who calls in those precision air strikes – and a member of what were consider 'Special Forces'. I imagined her comrade was equally qualified. The manager was about to move things along.

"Wait," Ms. Gibson called out, "I was a Staff Sergeant when me met."

"I know. I heard you were promoted after the crap that happened to us along with the Silver Star they tossed at you," I grinned.

"Oh," she nodded. "Yeah ... I probably got it because you didn't knock me unconscious."

"You were the expert on the scene," I ignored the manager's pique. "You let me do my job while you did yours, so it all worked out in the end."

She snorted. Her platoon (the Rangers she'd been assigned to) and mine had shared a lively few hours, her screaming occasionally into her radio as I operated on her thigh.

Both her unit's medical specialists were down before I got there. She insisted on no sedatives and her work was calling in air strikes on some really hostile folks who were terribly close in a built-up area. We needed her awake, but I had to work on her to save her life and her leg. She had been one tough bitch. Not much seemed to have changed.

Off to the hostess I went.

"You seem to have made a friend," she smiled at me rather seductively. Had I not had far too much pussy in my life already ...

"She's not a friend. I hardly know her. We bumped into one another in the Armed Services, nothing more. Me, her and roughly 5 million other Americans who thought volunteering to be bullet-bait was a wise course of action," I gave my own grim grin.

"You beat up three of my people ..."

"You surrounded me with goons with guns after my friends and I were invited here by Reagan Cho as a matter of diplomacy," I countered.

"Ah," she laughed lyrically. "Reagan ..."

She took out a remote and activated a monitor. It showed a different room. My ladies and two guards were entering. Inside were Jo, Reagan, Kristoff and a waitress. I had to do a double-take. The waitress quickly plied my group with drinks which they rapidly all took sips of. I looked from the screen, to our hostess then to the screen again.

"You are going to be so much fun!" my hostess squealed. "You caught it right off the bat."

"What if you accidently poison Reagan and Jo?" I battled for some mental bargaining room.

"Oh," she regarded me like an enraptured psycho, "I have. I can simply get them the antidote in time. The other three ladies and Reagan's current fling ... if I feel like it."

Here I was thinking 'Lady, kill Kristoff and Reagan is going to stake you out, cut off your eye lids and leave you in the Sun to die' which didn't do me, or my girls, much good.

Jo ... I wasn't so sure.

"You did what?" the cultured man came halfway out of his chair. "We didn't discuss this. They won't be so understanding where their Summas are concerned."

"We have made some adjustments," the old-timer spoke softly. "Let's just say this will bring all the players into alignment. With those two on the line, they will agree to our new way of thinking."

The other guy wasn't happy about this.

"You seem to be taking this awful well," the lady in charge kept showing me her perfect teeth and ample cleavage.

"I figured you've kept me alive for a reason. I'm waiting to hear what it is," I related in an even voice. This lady was insane and I was totally at her mercy. Acting blasé was the best way to keep her interested.

"Oh," she pouted. "Not even a tinge of worry?"

"Lady, you've lost your God-damn mind," I said. "You think you've made a deal with either of those two?" I motioned to the other major players in the room with a head toss.

"When this production heads south, it will be on your head, not theirs. I know who Jo and Reagan work for. If you think you can somehow mollify either of them this side of the grave after this ambush, you are clearly delusional. No matter what happens to me, they will find a way to see you dead ... and that guy," I glanced to the Ancient One, "already knows it."

"You think so?" she tilted her head coquettishly.

"Yeah. Since you have no real idea what true love, or 'blood-for-blood' comradery are, you can't understand how sadly you've fucked up and I don't feel like educating you. Get on with whatever you've planned out," I egged her on.

"Do you know who I am?" she didn't appear offended. See, if you are a mad tyrant, you don't get people giving you the unvarnished truth often. In small doses, it is actually refreshing to them ~ in small doses.

"Sycorax, Vice Lady of Gluttony," I answered. "Who you are in real life ... I have no idea though I get the feeling you think I should know you."

"I'm London Villiers," she waited for some sign of recognition. I had to think about it for a few seconds.

"The porn star," I stated. "I don't do porn. I heard about you on some Vegas awards show some years ago. Otherwise ~ nothing."

"All men do a little porn," she tried to salvage a bit of her own self-worth.

"No ma'am. I had an active, real-world sex life in High School and in Service; I never had an issue at the bars I frequented. I used a computer to further my career education, nothing else. I know other guys and gals do it and I'm fine with that. It was never my thing is all," I continued to undercut her without appearing to do so.

"Perhaps if you survive," she offered ... herself. "Okay," she turned business-like, "we have an issue with you and Mr. Pharris."

"I understand."

"Do you?" she tilted her head to the other shoulder. "I don't think you do."

"He runs the police and politicians for your merry little band. If I take him out, you aren't sure his successor can do nearly as good a job. Right so far?" I countered.

"So you can see why we can't let you kill him," she reasoned.

"Fine. I don't plan to kill him."

"Really?"

"I give you my word," I nodded. She giggled.

"Your word? What is your word worth?" she wondered.

"My word is this: give me the antidote and I can sneak it into all of the beverages of those six people without them figuring it out and I promise to never tell anyone outside this room what you did, or even meeting anyone here. I give you my word on that," I suggested a non-lethal alternative.

"I have one of my own," London smiled. "You have three options. First, you can compete in three bouts tonight and if you survive all three, I let all of you go free, give all six the antidote and we three agree to not interfere with you and Lloyd's little war. How does that sound?"

"Can I see my ladies before I head out?" I conditionally consented. I knew the deal. The bouts would be #1 dangerous, #2 nearly impossible and then #3 absolutely impossible as in they would kill me no matter what.

"You don't want to hear the other two options?" she was mildly offended.

"My trust in you is low, but by all means, inform me," I allowed.

"Option No. 2: You can walk away right now – just you. Be out of Clark County by sunrise and never return. Abandon your feud with Pharris. In one weeks' time, we will release Ms. Curtiss and the other woman. Ms. Norquist must remain."

"Option No. 3: you agree to leave Pharris alone and you come work for me and I will provide protection for you and your other two ladies. Ms. Norquist still must go, but I can protect you two and find a place for both of you within my organization."

Her lips promised all sorts of carnal rewards. She meant it. Her Chief of Security was less than thrilled.

"When do I start the first fight?" I said instead of even remotely considering her words.

"Would working for me be that bad?" she twisted in her chair so that her copious ta-ta's was more exposed. Also, she had tied the flannel at her waist, exposing her belly. She most likely wanted to work out more to maintain a washboard abdomen, but her endless series of indulgences showed.

"I'd happily work for you if you killed that guy," I nodded to the old guy, "right now."

"Why?" she titillated.

"He's setting you up to be murdered ... so it is either you, or him."

"Really, young man?" the old fella asked. "What makes you think I want to kill London?"

"The blood won't be on your hands. You'll leave it to either Thulsa Doom and/or Circe. They aren't going to be happy after tonight's stunt ~ putting their people at risk."

He laughed.

"You know little," he rasped in amusement. "Enough to be a distraction. Not enough to be a true threat." The pieces fell together.

"Does she think you, Jareth, being elevated to the new Xaltotun will protect her? You are already getting rid of Lloyd. Do you want to have a fresh Lord of Sloth, as well as totally new Vice Lords of Envy, Pride and Wrath? Or just Envy and Gluttony?"

"Why would we want Baphomet dead?" his eyes bore into me.

"Because you would be total idiots to attempt to take the top spot and leave him alive," I reasoned. "No. We all know he's a raving megalomaniac. He's got to go, just on your time table, not mine."

"You are unlikely to be able to defeat him yourself," the cultured one pointed out.

"That would make you Archimago, the Vice Lord of Avarice and considered the best odds maker in the City," I looked to the third guy. He neither confirmed nor denied. "You – I have no issue with. I take it on faith you knew I was going to be screwed over – that's business. You didn't betray Reagan, or Jo ~ thus you aren't blindly arrogant, or grown senile and decrepit from lack of competition."

Why did I say those last three sentences? I needed to cultivate an ally. Sycorax was nuts and Jareth had fucked over Reagan, Kristoff and Jo as well as myself and my ladies. He had to pay' so no deal for him.

"Can I see my ladies before my first fight?" I looked to Sycorax.

"You should be more respectful," the Tranny Praetorian rose from his treasured spot on the arm of Sycorax's chair and came my way. He looked like he hated all living things. I imagined the Tempest Witch collected the tragically broken and damaged souls around her to comfort her in her own fractured world in which she futilely buried herself in never-ending excesses.

He drew his 8" double-edged blade on me super-quick. Stopping him wasn't something I needed to do. Had I been marked for immediate death, I wouldn't have made it this far. The blade's edged pressed against the jugular. I could tell he was extra unhappy not generating the fear and surprise he was accustomed to.

'Sorry, Bitch; I'm on the job now. Lives to save. No time for flinching,' I kept my thoughts to myself.

My silence earned a hand to my crotch. His hold began to tighten. I minutely moved my head back for a head butt.

He caught it and prepared to present the hardest part of his skull for my attack. It would have really hurt had I carried through. He should have been watching my cheeks. I spit in his eyes instead. My right hand crossed to his knife wrist, pushing it back then twisting. He'd scream over that except ...

My left drove knife-like into his right kidney which really caused him to howl. He toppled backwards. I snatched the knife out of the air as he fell. Guns were out all around.

"I assume I can't keep this," I looked to Sycorax.

That was more misdirection. See, Tranny Praetorian wasn't done yet – plenty more fight so when I dropped the blade and the guns relaxed, I hauled off and kicked him hard in the ribs, sending him crashing into the closest table. Coke and pills flew everywhere.

At this point I studiously ignored the rest of the room. When threatening to shoot someone, your threat only works if they are 'aware' of it. You do this through obvious visual presence, or repeated voice notification. I was ignoring their visual presence.

If they grappled with me, well then 'Lord Hallelujah!' ~ I'd have a gun. The only voice which mattered was Sycorax. I landed twelve blows on her chief guardian before she called for a halt.

"Stop that," she commanded in a nonchalant manner. I immediately stopped and returned to my original spot.

Why had I beaten up her No. 1 bodyguard? To impress upon the room I was a savage. That meant, until they were sure I was dead, my companions would be treated with a modicum of concern ... because, for some reason, if I didn't die and they treated them poorly, the same beating would be coming their way. It is a technique called subliminal conditioning. I couldn't have gotten away with it if the criminal leader hadn't clearly been a sadomasochist nutjob.

"No, you can't see your ladies before the first fight, but they can witness it first hand," she allowed. Whether that meant they would be in the pit with me, or not, wasn't fully conveyed to me.

"Thank you," I bowed my head slightly ... said to fuck with hers. She made a lazy motion with her arm and four of her guardians gathered me up and marched me from her presence.

"You are going to pay for that," one of the women told me once we were in the hall.

"Ha," I chortled. "They are going to kill me tonight no matter what I do, so fuck off."

They got angry. Fifteen seconds later I dropped the last gun on the ground, then rousted the four of them up. Even though I'd kicked their asses, I still had somewhere to go and I'd yet to see a firearm strong enough to shoot through any of the steel doors I'd been confronted with ~ rather smart of Sycorax.

"Come on," I chided the one who told me 'I'd pay'. She looked at me funny, as if she expected me to make a run for it – or hit her again. "Your friends will kill my friends if I make a break for it, so I'm putting up with your bullshit," I explained. They were disoriented and sore.

I had concentrated on the head trauma this time around. The more their noggins were messed up the less likely they were to realize I'd palmed a few minor weapons from them. After all, I hadn't stolen any weapons during my first two beat-downs on purpose ~ to lure them into a false sense of security where that was concerned.

We soon arrived in the bowels of this complex where they kept the animals and other contestants for the paying attendees' amusement. From what I was able to gather, the first round of entertainment ~ the hobo fights and 'runaway vs. animal' battles for survival were ending; and the next round was for human combatants. It was bare knuckled brutality for those banned from real boxing and Mixed Martial Arts because of substance abuse and/or mental health issues.

I had never been enamored of the belief Mankind was a noble creation. I grew up poor and rough, the government sent me places where you definitely needed violence, or the threat of violence, to get the job done and it hadn't escaped me Reagan, via her Mom, ran a criminal enterprise where the laborers saw about 10% of their earnings if they were lucky. Jo's job description was 'Murderer for Hire'.

Being a Hospital Corpsman didn't make me a 'Good Guy' any more than being a Sniper made a serviceman a 'Bad Guy'. I had once known an HC who pedaled heroin on the side without giving a damn who ended up dead on the end of a needle as well as a Sniper who spent all his pay providing outreach for homeless vets. Why did this matter now? I'd met all kinds of folks and knew snap judgements were often wrong.

But I wasn't wrong about this crowd. They were evil. How so?

Training normally wonderful animals to become human-killing monstrosities ~ check.

Feeding the neglected and ignored human refuse of society into your regularly fatal amusement park games ~ check.

Laughing and joking about the misery as it unfolds ~ check.

I was not a moral crusader. I didn't level any threats as I looked around. If I saw any of these assholes in the outside World I would treat them like I would a known terrorist – I'd kill them if I could do so and avoid drawing law enforcement's attention my way.

They had divorced themselves from the basic tenets of Humanity and I wasn't a big believer in second chances (...which made the still living Chinese woman in my bedroom VERY confusing to me at the moment.) I'd kill them because they might be a threat to me, or someone I cared for, down the line.

I bumped into a place which looked like a spot they might let me return to and I deposited a tool for later. After I used the other weapon I had stolen it was a good bet they'd search me again. After that, I'd try to get back to this spot, given half a chance.

The manager came at me with a tablet. My hostess' face was center screen.

"For your first exhibition match tonight," she snickered, "you get to fight five of my prize Cane Corso. If you like, you can add the survivor of Round One to your side and I'll only add two more to mine."

"Surprise me. Do I get a weapon?"

"Your wits won't be enough?" she smiled.

"What's Round Two?"

"Thinking positive," she laughed. "I like that." The closest dog handler didn't.

"In Round Two you fight ALLLL the losers of our bare-knuckled brawl who are only just now finding out the penalty for anything, but first place during tonight's lineup is 'going to medical school' and not in a good way." As a cadaver ... how sweet, though that was unlikely, since even medical school students might question the damage their subjects endured before expiring.

"Round Three?"

"HA!" she shouted to the ceiling. "If you make it that far you get to fight the three champions of Sycorax,Archimago and Jareth with the one who kills you getting $1,000,000. Do you think that is enough?"

"Do I get $1,000,000 if I win?"

"I like your spirit," she beamed. "Yes, if you win, I'll pay you $1,000,000."

"Good. Let's get this over with," I sighed. "To avoid complications with the IRS, I'd like the money in cash – non-sequential $10's, $20's and $50's."

"Ha! You want a team mate?"

"I don't care."

"Fine. You get one. It is the girl. She fought off the Dobermans. I was quite impressed. I might see you later," she chuckled over my fate once more. I was shoved off along a set of tunnels. Soon enough, the scrawny girl appeared beside me.

[ROUND ONE: SYBIL CORRINE TREACHER]

"Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, Oh God," she kept mumbling.

"Hi," I did my best to sound sympathetic. "I'm Vance."

"They killed Jimmy," she looked up at me with traumatized eyes. "They killed Jimmy. They showed me his head."

Oh yeah, she was nearly a basket case.

"We are about to be fighting for our lives. Are you going to be of any use?" I asked her. Our five guards chuckled. I had already memorized their faces.

"What!" she focused on me. A positive sign.

"Yeah. You and me versus seven rather large dogs. Are you going to be able to help me?" I spoke in a soothing tone. She looked to them. "They are useless. I'll get around to killing them later. Are you with me?"

One ass-bandit volunteered to be the first to Hell.

He had a Taser out and shoved it at me. It took five simple moves. I blocked his strike at the wrist with my wrist then drove my knee into his crotch. As he stooped forward, I placed both hands on either side of his head and in my final move, snapped his head so hard to the right, it broke his neck. Dead.

We'd had a momentary hiccup in our travels. I began walking again with a gentle hand on the girl's lower back.

"Are you with me?" I repeated smoothly.

"You just ..." the next closest guard gasped.

"Did you kill that guy?" the girl looked up at me.

"Yes," I whispered. "I am going to kill all these sons of bitches because they all have it coming. Now, are you with me?"

Three guards, guns out, raced to catch up. The fourth knelt to check on the fifth.

"Stop!" one called out. We stopped.

"Yes," she whispered back.

"I should fucking kill you!" the leader shouted at me.

"I'm about to be torn apart by seven dogs. Killing me would be a favor," I preempted his next reaction.

"Wounding me won't make your boss happy either. She's expecting a spectacle. Either of us limping out there is going to make things pretty pathetic. Besides, if by some miracle I survive Round Three, you can have your shot then."

"You are going to die," he snarled.

"Probably. Can we get back to 'us' being torn apart by the dogs now?" I regarded him.

"He's ... he's dead," the fourth guard reported.

"I'm going to kill you," the leader threatened.

"You'll have your chance, alright," I agreed once again.

"I hope the dogs tear your nuts off," he growled ... and off we went. We waited in a small holding cell while we heard a muffled announcement about the upcoming 'bout' with the attendant odds. It didn't look good for me and my newfound pal.

"Don't I get a weapon?" the girl asked our captors.

"You've got him," the leader sneered. "Blame him."

"Don't worry," I winked.

Before the leader could mouth off, the gates opened.

I pulled the girl out with me to the arena floor. This was a converted warehouse, but they hadn't bothered to change the flooring – it was standard polished concrete. The area was a 45' by 30' rectangle with 12' steel panel walls. Above which, the happy mobs looked down upon us. By the way the thing was situated, we had two I-beams which rose up from two spots inside the arena.

"Okay," I tapped the girl. "When the dogs come in, get at least one's attention and run to the far I-beam. Run around it. The dogs' claws will slip on the concrete. Put a foot inside the 'I' and your hands on the far side, cupping it then start climbing and don't look down."

"What are you going to do?"

"Kill them. You may have noticed that I kill things. But it would be nice to have one less to deal with for a minute or two," I grinned and squeezed her shoulder. She looked more confident than a sane person should. Considering the horror she'd recently faced, her being able to act at all was a good thing.

The door on the far side opened and on came the mastiffs (Cane Corso are an Italian mastiff breed and normally make excellent, perfectly safe pets ~ sadly, these poor brutes had been robbed of a 'normal' existence). My latest partner actually waved her arms and yelled at them, "Here! Here!" ~ garnering the focused attention of two of them.

Me, I ran a circuit the other way, cutting back toward her I-beam with the other five hot on my heels. At the appropriate moment, I tumbled, curled up and ended in a crouch. Going to ground was a feint. I had to distract the crowd and cameras from my true intentions.

On they came, doing what dogs do – going for my arms and legs before going for my throat. Unfortunately for them, my arms and legs had braces. Mind you, the crushing power of a mastiff's jaws would make short work of my defenses, but they bought me time. I fed them an arm and a leg, to buy me some coverage from the audience and cameras, while kicking one in the face and fending another off with the same knee. The final one was circling around because of the 'dog pile'.

Out came the knife I'd stolen earlier and I went to work. I could have killed all five dogs with my bare hands ... given time. Time was something the girl and I didn't have. She was slipping and would soon tumble down on her two attackers where they'd start tearing her to pieces. With a knife ... I was shoving it into the brains through the ears, or from under the throat in a blur of activity. Only as I pushed one dying on top of me away so I could get at the fifth, did the announcer realize something had gone horribly wrong with their scheduled amusement.

The dogs never knew what killed them. The fifth one came at me, took the offered forearm and I drove the dagger through its ear, into its brain. I was sprinting toward the final two as the first shouts rang out. The sixth Cane Corso I took completely by surprise from behind, slitting its throat. It would be dead soon enough. The last, its training having rendered it a monster, came at me and I dispatched it too.

"Hey, now. No one said he'd get a knife," was the chief complaint to shuffle through among the cries of outrage ... and the applause. The girl came down and hugged me as the guards came out with weapons drawn. I tossed the blade away. It had gotten me over the first hurdle.

"Don't say a word," I whispered to her.

"On your knees!" was the chief command. They had stopped being sloppy. "Hands on top of your head, fingers interlaced." I did so, as did the girl.

A guy came out, weeping over the dead dogs while the security types were figuring out how to deal with me/us.

"I can't believe we are still alive," the girl exhaled with exhilaration. The Dog-trainer overheard us, despite all the other noises. He got up from one of the dead mutts and came our way, murder in his eyes. He held his lash in the middle, clearly getting ready to use the knob to beat us with.

"Not him," one of the security types cautioned him. He laid into the girl.

"Move and we'll put a bullet in your thigh," the leader growled at me. After she was turned into a whimpering, blubbering, bloody mess, the handler turned on me.

"You'll get yours soon enough," the dog-guy frothed. I didn't say anything. I wasn't a medium, so I didn't talk to the dead. "You killed my babies."

"Back off," the security sub-chieftain ordered. Once another security guy yanked the dog-guy back, "Search him." Two guys did so while a third pressed a gun barrel to the back of my neck.

"What are these?" one of the guys was referring to my arm brace.

"I was in a plane wreck. I broke my Tibia, Fibula, Ulna and Radius ~ both sides ~ in multiple places, so I need braces to walk and do more than lift an iPhone," I told them. My excuse was utter bullshit and a decent Physician Assistant would have known I was lying. Not these guys though.

"Move and you die," the guy behind me hissed. They took one hand painfully shoving it behind my back. There went the other, then came the handcuffs. I was roughly manhandled to my feet. The guy behind me grabbed the unconscious teenage girl by the back of her shirt and dragged her along. They ended up depositing us in a 10'x20' cage, me still handcuffed. From the activity, it was the semi-finals of the bare-knuckled brawl.

In the interim, I got to see my ladies an a news update. Along with the slow-acting lethal poison, they'd slipped Jo a paralytic then disarmed her. Reagan had been apoplectic, or so they said. Kristoff had been silent and grim ~ 'me' grim. After showering me with feminine attention (and confirming the blood on me wasn't mine), G knelt down to see what she could do for the un-named teenager.

I could see the terror behind all their eyes, yet they were biting down on it and keeping themselves together, focusing on getting out of here as a team.

The Dog-handler came by with an equally-distraught buddy.

"These your bitches?" he rumbled passed tear-streaked cheeks.

"Reagan Cho sent us down to check on Mr. Vardanyan," G quickly answered. "He is her guest and her investment."

I could sense their confusion.

"Circe's Summa ..." I waited. "They don't look like call girls?" More eye-balling. If any of the ladies cracked ... but they didn't. "Do they look like something I could afford, you faggots? I wish I could get tail this nice," I sounded truly petulant.

"Sorry Sugar," Dabney sidled up to Sara and let her palm rub circles on the Indian lass' ass, "but you are what? A paramedic? We cost more in a night than you make in a month." Looking to G. "Mistress, can we go back now?"

"Yes," G stood up from the teen girl. "Reagan wants to know if the girl will be in play," she regarded the chief guard dispassionately. "It will affect the odds."

The two guards who had escorted the ladies down to me knew the score, but had been forced to remain outside our cell, so they'd played no part in the conversation. My watchers and the dog-guy and his buddy were ignorant of earlier events upstairs, so they weren't able to blow my women's lie to pieces. Instead, "She'll be there, though I don't know what use she'll be," my chief minder shrugged.

"Give her a shot of adrenalin," G told the guy, then went right into his space, ground up against him and then gave him a French kiss worthy of Dabney. "Please? We'll pay you back later."

"Sure," he grinned like a weasel.

"Do your best," G smiled over her shoulder. Out they went and away from the sadistic reach of my jailors for the time being. The leader sent off someone for the adrenalin and they brought back a medical kit.

"I'm a paramedic," I pointed out.

"I know," he seemed unimpressed.

"I'm more likely to get her standing," I pointed out. He considered the possibility of the risk I presented 'hands-free' versus the pussy he could get if somehow the teenage girl could stand unassisted in a few minutes.

It was a testament to the quality of the women in my life that, despite the dead fucker I'd killed with my bare hands, he let me loose.

"What's your name?" I inquired once I had her lucid.

"Jean."

"What's your real name and take into account I don't give a crap about the fact you are a runaway," I cheerfully enlightened her.

"Oh ... Sybil ... Sybil Corrine Treacher."

"Vardan 'Vance' Vardanyan. My friends call me 'V'. I'm a former Hospital Corpsman who served with the US Navy, Marines and SEAL Teams."

"Oh ... ah ... my Father was in the Army. He died in Iraq. My Mom never got over it, and I ended up living with my Grandmother. She was old ... got dementia ... went into an Assisted Care facility ..."

"I'm a Las Vegas native. My family left – moved to Florida while I was in Service. This is the only other home I've ever known. You've got some broken ribs and internal bleeding," I gave my preliminary prognosis. "There are certainly some therapies you should undergo to help your kidneys and liver recover from the beating you've taken. Is there a reason you can't go to a hospital?"

Her eyes looked past me to our gaolers, who chuckled evilly.

"Within an hour these pricks will cease to be a problem, I promise you," I winked. "Now, is there a reason?"

"I ... ummmm ... stole some things from a Wal-Mart in Wichita," she winced.

"I'm getting $1,000,000 for completing this nightmare amusement park. I'll split it with you 50/50. You think $500,000 will cover what you stole?"

"Yes," she sighed, rather depressed; dead boyfriend the most likely cause.

"I'll make the phone calls and send the money order then," I finished up. "All you need to do is duck and weave."

"We are going to die," she whimpered.

"Only if we give up," I counselled.

"Why?" she looked into my eyes. It was 'why was I giving her a damn about her'. For that matter, she wanted to know 'why was I risking my life and blood for her'. She was not a friend, child of a friend, or remotely related to me in any way, yet I was about risk myself again for her for no good reason I could offer. Life had taught her people were never gentle, or kind without a Goddamn selfish reason.

"Sybil, your Dad should have come home to you," I reached into the nothingness. "He should have come home to take care of you so shit like this never happened. He didn't, but other men like me did, so perhaps this is us paying back a tiny bit for the sacrifice he made."

"I served too, Asshole," the leader chuckled. A few others did as well. They really should have handcuffed me. I was on him in a flash, gun out and a shot to his chest. He was hurt, not dead – not yet. I got two more before they got their guns out. I kept the leader's body tight to me as we exchanged fire all within 4 yards. They shot him three times. I downed them then nailed the dog-handler and his bro before they could scamper away. I let the leader drop down my body to his knees.

"Say you're sorry," I told him deadpan.

"I'm ...," he grunted.

"Not to me – to her," I directed him.

"I'm sorry," he inadvertently vomited some blood.

"Fuck you," I then blew his brains out. I laid his gun on his body as I knelt beside the wide-eyed girl. I picked her up and moved us to the far side of the cell as the sound of boots coming our way got louder. I set her down then sat beside her.

"Why aren't you running for it?" she asked.

"I can't get out of here. All the doors are remote controlled and I don't know where the control center is, or where the main power conduits are. I can't blast my way out, so we wait instead," I replied. More guys with guns out arrived. The downside to Sycorax's security protocol concerning guns was her people didn't have serious hardware to come after me with.

"Don't you fucking move!" a nervous voice screamed at me. He was one of three bunched up in the nearest hallway.

"I am unarmed," I told them.

"Ummm ... lie down, arms spread out to your sides," he demanded.

I did as I was told. Two entered the cell while the third began checking the bodies. Five more armed folks appeared plus a problem arouse.

"Frank, Matías, Columbo and Travis are all hurt pretty bad. Eric and Jayson are toast," came the casualty report.

Yeah, I had only critically wounded the other guards. I had killed the dog-handlers because I wanted to be damn sure they were dead. The rest I were gambling on being an object lesson.

"Hanson's ... well ...," that would be their leader.

The guy with the multiple body bullet holes and the entry and exit wounds in the skull which made any hope of his survival a fairy tale.

"I should fucking kill you," one of the two new assholes seethed. He put his boot heel on my head for added emphasis.

"As opposed to letting eleven fuckers beat me to death within an hour ~ by all means ... and make sure you explain your initiative to your Boss when she wonders why I'm a 'no-show'," I grunted.

"It is fifteen," the other guy enlightened me a moment later.

"Oh ... I'm sure the last four will make all the difference," I sighed.

"You are really making tonight expensive, aren't you 'V'?" the Evil Tranny spoke. He and two superior level enforcers had arrived while I'd been eating concrete.

"I'd walk out right now and forget any of this happened if you'd let me," I responded. He snorted.

"We've got some guys badly hurt," one of the guards informed him.

"Who?" was the preamble.

"Trav ..." he got out. Seven shots followed. I assumed he wasted a bullet on the corpses.

"They all look dead to me," he spat at the underlings. "They couldn't do their fucking jobs, so they are fucking dead. Do you have a problem with that?"

Oh, they had a problem with that alright, but none of them had the stones to be the one to court death first. The boot came off my head unbidden. My tormentor decided he'd better keep both eyes on the real psychopath in the room.

"Oh," and the Tranny shot the girl. I wished to Hell I hadn't had more experience with people so needlessly cruel. I wished I hadn't become so callous to the death of the innocent and near-innocent. I wished someone would even weep for the dead girl, because I knew I wouldn't. I had the living to worry about.

I went from face first to a lotus positon very slowly. The Evil Tranny was staring at me, gun leveled at my face.

"Nothing to say?" he addressed me in a mocking tone.

"We've already had our chat. I've got nothing new to say to you," I told him.

"Oh," he pouted, "not going to split the money with her anymore? Not paying off her debts? Not going to pay her hospital bills?"

The next words out of my mouth would be my last. This monster was on the cusp. I could sense it. One flippant remark and he wouldn't care what Sycorax wanted, even though it might mean his own rather painful demise.

"Nothing?" the Monster was disappointed with my caution. I waited ... waited for the flinch in his demeanor which told me his leash had just got yanked, then ...

"No. Jo will give me your name when I ask for it. You and I are already headed on a collision course, so threats are a waste of breath."

"I'm struggling to keep myself and my friends alive; while you are clearly willing to screw with a guy with over a dozen dead bodies in Vegas in under a week and you are willing to casually kill your employees and helpless bystanders in the process. We have nothing to discuss," I unloaded in the most stable voice I was capable of.

"That was a whole lot of something out of 'nothing'," he mocked me. He twitched again. My guess his Mistress was insisting he come back upstairs via Bluetooth– keenly aware how close to the edge her toy was and unwilling to see me dead quite yet.

Off he went, taking the two best killers with him ~ Amateur Hour, I swear. They had me move to a corner of the cell while slave-workers came in and removed the corpses. The girl gave off a burbling sound I attributed to lungs still struggling to breathe ... she wasn't quite dead yet. Son of a bitch.

Though the guards had the presence of mind to pillage the bodies, I could tell they were disturbed. Members of psychotic organizations like to believe the horrible shit they do won't happen to them ~ by being the inflictors of pain, they will be immune to it.

It rarely works that way. Only the leadership has an exit plan which doesn't involve a mass grave, firing squad, or the 'best years of your life' in some hell-hole prison. At most, the foot soldiers live, if they survive at all, a life of poverty in exile, where you constantly are looking over your shoulder for the retribution they so richly deserve.

These guys and gals had that look now. Even violent sadists and sociopaths want to live. They wanted to believe one day they would simply empty their piggy bank, pack up their belongings and leave Las Vegas and their bondage to Sycorax behind.

Sadly, if you were the type of person clever enough to live the high life in the US, Mexico, or Canada without a Social Security number, or other valid form of ID, you could do better than being employed as a gun-toting guard down here.

No, if you ran, you would screw up, show up on Sycorax's radar and then most likely someone in the employ of Thulsa Doom would darken your door soon after and end your miserable existence. No loose ends.

"What are you smiling about?" one of the guards snapped. I hadn't been smiling.

"I'm not. I'm grimacing. I have some service injuries and I'm in a shitload of pain. I'm also about to be fighting for my life for the second time tonight, so I'm trying to meditate," I reasoned, and lied.

"They are going to kill you," the guard continued several seconds later.

"Then I am likely to know the time of my demise. For you ~ it will be more of a surprise," I remarked coolly.

"What does that mean?"

"I'm about to be fighting for my life while you work with people who will kill you over a gambling debt ... or a hangnail," I enlightened them. "This place is an insane asylum."

"Shut up!" another growled. I complied. 'Me' remaining perfectly still allowed the guards to concentrate their paranoid fantasies on one another. Fifteen minutes later, two more guardians with another (female) manager-type showed up.

"It is your time," the woman commanded, as if I was a show pony. I uncoiled from the floor and came her way. The guards who were more familiar with me tensed up and pointed their firearms my way. The two new ones did not. Though armed, they put more faith in their martial arts abilities.

[ROUND TWO: DAVID NAKAMURA]

"No handcuffs?" I questioned as I came to the opened door. Even though it was a barred cell they were being exceedingly ... I had to be missing something.

"You should behave," she gave a fatigued attempt at a smile ~ more of a facial tick. I needed to step out, slip pass one obliging guard, snatch up my stored device and store it away without anyone being the wiser. Though I was skilled, my best ally was the poor lighting down here.

"The rules are simple: there are sixteen contestants in this event. Your head is worth $100,000. The fight ends when there are four men left standing. The last four men split an additional $100,000. The Lady has agreed ~ if you are among the Final Four, you get the $100,000 ~ for keeping your head (ha! ha!)."

"There is a catch. After the first two minutes, one of the snipers will kill one contestant every thirty seconds, until there are only four left."

"How many snipers and what are their weapons of choice?" I asked.

"If you move slowly enough you will find you," she sneered.

That was okay. They would have to be .22 to foil my plans. My bet was good ole 5.56 mm, which would be up for the job I had in mind. Since people were keeping an eye on me, I had to be careful how I played my next move. I didn't cry out, or stumble.

I hissed, bumped into the guy closest to me who wisely shoved me away – right into my designated hidey-hole (really just a space between a pipe and the wall). Everyone tensed. Far too often, people look at a person's face, not at their shoulders, or hands, which are the better indicator of what they are doing.

I shoved the crappy 5 shot .32 revolver so far down into the back of my pants it went halfway down my ass crack. Not really a problem. Off we went down the hallway, around the previous arena to a space beneath the public seating. There were eight other combatants already there, all in various states of dis-repair.

My guess was they were tonight's 1st Round losers. The manager related the same good news to the crowd. Two could barely stand. One was virtually blind from the pounding his face had taken.

"We kill this guy," a big, Black guy shoved a thumb in my direction, "and we get to go home?"

"Sure," the cunt smiled.

"With ... aaahhh ..."

"$25,000," a different guy did the math for him. He was Japanese.

"That's not going to cover what I owe," the Black guy muttered.

"That's not going to be a problem," I assured him. "How much do you owe?"

"Fifty-five large," he looked me over. He was probably trying to place my face to events. He owed some very bad person $55K to end up here.

"Kill everyone you get $200K. You kill me and stay alive, you can pay what you owe ... or you and one teammate, even me, live and you still pay what you owe. Simple enough?" I clarified things for him and the rest of the room.

"Oh ... yeah. Thanks," he nodded. No one was rushing to be his ally. I sent the Japanese combatant a steady look. He had potential.

"Six minutes," the manager gleefully informed us with a friendly lilt to her voice. "Good luck everyone. Especially you, Vance. I'm betting on you."

"You aren't likely to live to spend it," I sent my own killer look her way. She laughed as she left. The Japanese fighter moved toward me as the guards withdrew to the door.

"David Nakamura," he offered to shake my hand. I shook, but said nothing else. "Who else do you suggest we team up with?"

"Someone who won tonight?" I suggested. His snort caused him to cover his left ribs. "Don't worry about it. They are going to kill us all."

"What?" he whispered. "Really?"

"Yes. They don't pay losers anything. The second they made this a match to the death with some number of you beating the rest into an early grave, all of you became expendable ~ loose ends. I'm sure back-alley fighters in a five state radius are already getting the invitations for next week's bout," I explained.

"Shit," he groaned. He wasn't alone.

"Why are you here?" I asked.

"You first?"

"I was invited here by an old friend who essentially blackmailed me without telling me what this shindig was. Then the hostess hijacked my three dates and is holding them hostage for my good behavior. She'll kill them once I'm gone."

"Oh ... that is screwed up," he nodded. "I'm looking for someone."

"Who?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Three minutes," we were informed via intercom.

"Try me."

'Thulsa Doom,' he mouthed.

"Why?"

"You've heard of him?" he wondered.

"Who in Las Vegas hasn't?" I frowned.

"He murdered my Father and older brother," 'David' grimaced. His English was good, simply not good enough to be Japanese-American. He was Japanese and 'David' wasn't a name in common usage on any of the four Home Islands.

"Why did he kill them?"

"Why does it matter ... to you?"

"I wouldn't have asked if it didn't matter."

"My ... ummmm ... Brother was a lawyer working with Minebea. My Father worked with investors wishing to expand into the American Southwest."

"Your brother came to town to sell mini-Uzis?" I de-obfuscated his words. Minebea made plenty of things, but most notably to me, a Japanese version of a mini-Uzi called the PM-9 and a licensed variant of the SIG Sauer P220 called the P9. "So, he was Yakuza."

David paused and stared.

"How ..."

"I have a disreputable past," I helped him along.

"Ryuichi, my brother, was a shingiin for a ninkyō dantai. My Father was a wakagashira. They were businessmen. Thulsa Doom killed them and I have to avenge their deaths. I figured getting into the Las Vegas underground fighting circuit would lead me to him."

"Wrong avenue of approach," I enlightened him. "Wrong vice."

"Huh?"

Another guy edged our way.

"Don't," I eye-balled him. His plethora of US prison tattoos said enough about him to tell me he was bad news.

"Three are better than two," he grinned. Someone had removed two of his front teeth recently. My look conveyed all he needed to know. Off he slunk.

"He could have ..." 'David' began.

"Your absence of tattoos tell me you are not Yakuza. His body is a litany of his criminal past and it isn't things which inspire trust," I told him. "'David', how did you find out about this place?"

"A family friend," he grew defensive.

"That family friend send you here to die – just saying."

"One minute."

"What makes you say that?" David muttered. What he meant was, he didn't believe me in the slightest.

"They sent you here knowing it was the wrong place. You lost in the 1st round. You came equipped with a name, had you told anyone except me, which would have guaranteed you a bullet in the back of the head. That name doesn't open doors – it fills graves."

"What makes you special?"

"Life hates me."

"Huh?"

"You will see soon enough," I prophesized.

The guards rounded us up and moved us toward the large door which opened to the main arena. We inmates jockeyed so no one was directly behind us. A yellow light flashed, the door opened, the crowd's enthusiasm spiked and out we went. Luck had David and me moving to my right out of the opening gate.

It was bad luck because close to us came three guys ~ Round Three's and Four's losers aka Round Two's and Three's winners. There was nothing to it, but to hope David was reliable.

"Guard my back," I ordered as I collided with those three.

They were the best of the fighters (almost), but also the most battered. Worse for them, the one farthest from me decided to let me fight the closest two without ... her. Had they been in better shape, it might have been more of a contest. I powered through the first guy's block, putting a fist to his chin, stunning him.

The second guy tried to get behind me. I put an elbow to his diaphragm, twisted so my second blow pounded the air out of his lungs and let my left uppercut crush his Adam's apple. I was back on the first guy one-two-three and down he went. The remaining lass seemed to be playing the waiting game.

I spared a glance to my rear. David had settled his disagreement with the sole combatant immediately trying to get behind me by twisting that guy's arm then slamming his head into the arena's wall repeatedly.

"VANCE!!" screamed down at me from above.

Well shit, Sycorax had settled my companions minus Jo directly above my entry point so they could both witness my struggles and be a direct reminder of her ability to cause me suffering if I misbehaved. She was messing with the wrong crowd. It got rapidly worse/better. Kristoff vaulted the railing to land between myself and David.

Well ... okay. New plan. I snatched his aviator glasses off his face. I needed them at the moment.

"You are welcome," he chided me.

Then he saw me draw my revolver, kneel and aim ... up ... at the first of the four snipers who I could now make out above the suspended lighting.

We weren't anywhere near the two minute mark so they weren't aiming at any of us combatants yet. Two were clustered on the catwalks above so I put bullets into both of them before slamming the glasses and revolver back into Kristoff's chest. I had a 50/50 chance of some more good fortune.

The catwalks weren't wide and had only a thin railing. One rifle fell onto the catwalks while the other one tumbled down from Heaven toward us Damned and I was racing for it.

Two more races were going on though they weren't immediately obvious to the majority of participants. They were a matter of intelligence & perception for two concerned parties. The first party was the two remaining snipers. They had seen me shoot the first two, do 'something' then race after what might have been a falling rifle. That was REALLY bad news for them.

How I got a firearm in the first place was something they would worry about later ... which was a mistake. See, the second contestant was Lt. Colonel Kristoff Declan ... who shot competitively for the United States Air Force ~ pistols only (the Weenie).

Lucky for me, he had a pistol (though a crappy one) and that was their final mistake – losing track of who had the pistol. They didn't know who Kristoff was, much less he was probably a better pistol shot than I was. Meanwhile, Kristoff didn't assume I gave him back his glasses plus the pistol because I was worried about his safety.

He rightly figured there were other people up above the lighting who needed to be dead. While those two morons were drawing a bead on me, he exiled both of them into the next life via a .32 caliber boarding pass placed in their chest cavities. His good fortune in all things remained. Two more rifles plummeted to the floor.

Actually they were Barret REC7's chambered in 6.8 mm Remington SPC (30 round magazines). Now I finally had a firearm which COULD shoot through the fucking doors, BITCHES. Some combatants looked inclined to fight me for my newest aquisition, so Kristoff expended his last pistol round killing the closest one.

I took aim at the lighting and knocked out a whole series of them in rapid succession while Kristoff gathered up the other two rifles. Together we retraced our steps and found David making his way to me ... with my four ladies. Sara and G were limping slightly. It was a 12' fall after all.

[THE ESCAPE]

As this was going on, the whole crowd of participants were losing their shit. This made the job of security getting to us nearly impossible. The two who came close, Kristoff killed for me. I was blowing off the hinges of a door, allowing us to exit the arena. At the first camera in the holding room, I looked up and snarled,

"Sycorax, I'm coming for you!", then shot the camera.

Off we ran, having picked up four other fighters who decided we were the best bet of escaping this pit. We did return to the steps I knew went back up to the room where the Lady of Gluttony held court ... and kept going right past them. I was following the trail of blood from the dead bodies they'd dragged away from my holding cell.

They would have to take them outside was my reasoning and I was right. Kristoff fired off a few shots to scatters the workers we came across. I rolled two bodies off of her. I put my ear to her chest. I didn't trust myself to find a pulse. She was still barely hanging on.

"Pick her up. Drop her and I'll kill you," I told David.

"Why?"

I pointed the REC7 at him. He wisely complied. Two 6.8 rounds negated the magnetic locks and out the roll-up doors our little troop went. I told the rest to beat it, then hotwired the first van we came to. It advertised 'Horse Meat' ... fucking great.

"What's the plan?" Reagan finally had the nerve to ask. I had to look pretty hellish.

"We are going to the Fremont. You are getting out with the girl. You will stay with the girl all the way to the hospital and you, Reagan, will make sure she gets the damn best medical care available."

"Vance, I've been poisoned. We need to ..." Reagan got out.

"I know. This is your fault. This is your side fucking up and you are going to pay for it."

"Vance – no," Kristoff grew brittle.

"You can get out with her if you want. I know you've been poisoned too. So has Jo, Dabney, G and Sarah. This is on Reagan and the people she chooses to associate with," I verbally pushed back.

"I will stay with Reagan," Kristoff nodded, "and I agree. Reagan ... you and I need to have a serious damn talk."

Reagan had nothing to say. Nothing else was discussed until we came to a rapid stop in front of the Fremont (casinos had top notch crisis care). As they were exiting, I gave Reagan some parting words of advice.

"Reagan, if my girls die, I'll kill your Mother. Then I'll kill the rest ... just so there is no misunderstanding."

"Okay," she nodded feebly.

After they got out, I sped away. Five blocks later, I abandoned the truck and stole another car. We kept the firearms. They had our fingerprints on them. I repeated the process twice more before ending our temporary retreat at a small rat trap stand-alone I rented under an assumed name.

I had barely had a chance to determine David needed more medical care than I could provide when my phone let me know someone was looking for me. I took it outside.

"Yes."

"My, my, my ... it seems you are even more resourceful than I was lead to believe," London's voice bubbled with amusement. I had the feeling the level of excitement I'd inflicted on her was something relatively new and revitalizing.

"We have unfinished business," I bled all emotion out of my response.

"Coming to kill me?"

"No. That was misdirection. Your underling failed to kill the teen girl. I wanted to retrieve her, so I had to make you believe I was coming your way and not out the back. She should now be at a hospital. Her fate is yours, Ms. Villiers. I am not big on giving anyone who hurts me and mine a second lease on life, but consider this yours."

"Give us the antidote, leave the girl alone and I'll forget about tonight," I offered.

"If I say 'no'?" she snickered.

"I will go work for Lloyd Pharris."

"Oh ... really? You hate Lloyd."

"I won't openly work for Lloyd. I already know the faces of most of the Vice Lords. He can point me at the ones he wants dead. I already know you are on the list, so any of the rest of your sick menagerie he lets me kill will be like a Christmas bonus. We both know he'll jump at the chance."

"You could come work for me," she re-offered.

"Give me one good reason."

"Pleasure. You appear to have lived a life devoid of pleasure before now, whereas I have spent a lifetime devoted to it."

"You are wasting my time," I retorted. "I value friendship and loyalty. You offer neither."

"You don't know me."

"You squandered your opportunity to know me tonight. That is on you. You are wasting other people's valuable time," I reminded her.

"Fine. How do I get the antidote to you?"

"Give it to Jo. She can get it to me."

"I've already let Jo go," she snorted. Sycorax had to be making future plans as well.

"Sucks to be you. I suggest you call her and get her to come back, because that is the only deal in town," I explained.

"You would let your ladies die ... just like that?"

"I didn't poison them – you did. This isn't on me. Your lousy hospitality and Deity Complex is the problem. I will await Jo's call," then I hung up and rejoined the troupe.

I ignored the next two calls from an unlisted number, taking a chance on the third which came ten minutes later. Back outside I went.

"Sycorax says you want me to deliver your antidotes?" Jo sounded exceptionally grumpy.

"Yes."

"I am no longer in her custody."

"I know."

"And you want me to go back?" she sounded super-pissed/arctic-frigid.

"Do you want me to back you up?"

"How so?"

"I will walk in with you if that's what you want," I offered. Long pause.

"Where do you want to meet?"

"So we can meet to plan how to fight our way out, or after?"

"No. I will go and get the medicine. She is insane. She isn't likely to try to kill me again tonight. She might still decide to keep you and let the others die," Jo said.

"My place then."

"Okay. Give me twenty-five minutes." She hung up. Back inside for me.

"David, stay here. The rest of the ladies are poisoned and I have to deal with that before dealing with that matter we discussed. If you aren't back when I return, I will understand. If you are here, we'll work out your options then," I lied. He nodded. I took the girls back to my place. They were all too scared, or too conscious of dragging Sarah further into this, to talk much.

[...]

TC was yet another woman unhappy with me. I had all sorts of blood on me, the three party girls I had left with were now shell-shocked and I was more glacially calm than she'd ever previously witnessed, so I told her an abridged version of the truth ... including the address of the carnage.

She was going to send a patrol car out there. I suggested she send five, pick up a few semi-reliable (in her book) plain clothes and lead the charge. That got her out the door before Jo showed up. I met the assassin where the driveway hit the road. Trust was running shallow.

She gave me the vials and I gave her an address.

"What's there?" she asked.

"A guy looking for Thulsa Doom. His Yakuza family relations sent him this way to get him killed. He had my back in the arena."

"And you are sending me to him?"

"Yeah. He needs to go to a hospital with the beating his ribs have taken. Even if he walks out of one, he is going to keep asking around and we both know where that leads," I sighed. "I'm saving as many people as I can."

"I don't save people, Vardan."

"Then make it quick."

Yeah ... I needed to start cleaning stuff up. Most likely Jo didn't know about the trouble David still breathing would cause before now, but Reagan and Sycorax might have and I didn't need either holding his existence over my head.

I had to figure out what sort of problem he would be and that would take hours I didn't have right now. Also, at this juncture, I couldn't afford to NOT tell Jo about the danger he posed.

Once Jo was out of sight, I made four fast calls. One was to a cab service which promised five minute pick-ups. David had seven minutes at best. The second call was to Clark County Sheriff's Deputy Rothschild. She was to hotfoot it (by car) to an intersection and pick up a guy, then sit on him all of Sunday (until I retrieved him before she had to go to work Monday morning).

The important thing was he was injured – not by me, and he might try to leave – which would lead to his death. She decided this was going to cost me $2000 ~ FFS! I damn near felt raped. She reminded me I wanted her to illegally detain a person at her domicile for 24 hours for no good reason in her book.

She likewise suggested I could call her Colette, instead of Sheriff's Deputy Rothschild, when we were off the clock. Then she said she wanted to show her appreciation to me for helping pay off her student loans before hanging up. WTF?

My third call was to David, with some time-sensitive instructions. A taxi cab was coming to take him away from the 'safe house', but first he had to sabotage the furnace to start a fire. I verbally walked him through the steps, had him shut the door and race down the block to where he would rendezvous with the cab. He was on the phone until the cab pulled away. My fourth call was to the Fire Department reporting the fire. How Jo explained this wasn't my problem for the moment.

I went inside, administered what I hoped would be the proper cure, then we sat around as the clock ran down. The girls wanted to cry and hug. Not my thing. I was saved by the phone. Caller ID and everything.

"Mrs. Cho," I answered, once I was in the kitchen.

"By now things should have turned out positively," she stated.

"You would appear to be correct."

"Good. We should get together and talk."

"How are Reagan and Kristoff?"

"Still at the hospital ~ not answering questions, while my lawyers run interference."

"As was my intention," I told her.

"To keep them safe?"

"No. To keep Reagan somewhere I could find her if Dabney, Georgiana and Sarah died. Then, if I decided to take action, I could do so with minimal risk to myself," I related.

"Reagan is under the impression you two are friends," Mrs. Cho commented.

"I hold friends accountable for their mistakes too. By now I am sure Jessup has told you I am that type of bastard."

"He has hinted you were persistent," she mused.

"No Ma'am. Moles and voles are persistent ... pests. I'm a person not worth fucking with as the Lord of the Labyrinth is about to discover."

"Jareth?"

"Yes."

"Not the Tempest Witch?" London.

"No. She broke her covenant with you and the Lord of the Dead. She squared accounts with me."

"I'm sure she will be glad to hear that," Mrs. Cho chuckled.

"By that, am I to take it she came over to your place to make peace before her erstwhile ally tossed her into the path of the Lord of the Dead?"

"I will leave it to you to fathom her intentions, Mr. Vardanyan."

"I said that mostly to make this next bit that much more clear. On Monday at noon, I am seriously considering offering the services of me and my crew to the Lord of the Dead. I honestly considered working for you. This morning I decided only one of us should be lying to Kristoff at a time," I informed her.

"And you need to remain his friend?"

"Yes and no. After all the shit that just went down, Reagan better be open and honest with him this time around. If I was working for you, I wouldn't lie to him about it, and that just wouldn't work. Since you are now going to protect him, I am free to seek vengeance."

"You killing him will still be a problem." By 'him' she meant Lloyd Pharris.

"I have never planned to kill him," I corrected. That was the truth. See, I planned to both weaken Lloyd and render him irrational enough so his enemies did the killing for me.

"Do I have your word on that?" she inquired after a moment.

"Yes," I didn't rush to answer.

"Very well. I will deal with matters on my end. Have a good evening. Can I expect you for brunch?"

"I'll have to call you back about that."

"What do you want done with your car?"

"It should be on Police Impound."

"No ... it isn't. It was rescued."

I had to go through a quick laundry list of possibilities including someone spoofing my brand spanking new security system and stealing my ride ... or they simply stole Dabney's keys from her when she was held hostage. I hadn't asked and the fate of my new ride wasn't a priority to her at the moment.

"Does she think this changes a damn thing?" I asked.

"She is under the impression 'boys like their toys'."

"Dissuade her of that misconception concerning me, please," I requested. "I'll pick it up when we do lunch Monday at noon. By then, I should have something worth saying and have a more civil tongue in my head."

"Okay ... and Vance ..."

"Yes."

"Never threaten Reagan again. I'll put tonight's episode down to a shared, torturous mirage the group of you shared. Things were done and said which should not and would not have been done and said. Are we clear?"

"Yes Ma'am."

"Thank you."

"You are welcome, Mrs. Cho."

Diplomatically speaking, that was a 'reset'. She was letting me off the hook for putting the only thing she truly cared about in danger. It was said for the benefit of Sycorax as well as me. I honestly felt there was a serious difference though.

In a fundamental way, Circe and I had behaved in the precisely same manner – a loved one, or ones, had been endangered and we'd lashed out. The difference was ... Sycorax really should have known better. I didn't blame her for running to Circe when Reagan escaped.

Archimago had most likely made his own getaway as rapidly as possible, letting Thulsa Doom know he had nothing to do with the plot the other two hatched. Jareth's play was also rather obvious – hand Thulsa Doom Sycorax, which was why the crafty witch was at the last place the Lord of the Labyrinth expected her to go – and live.

Mrs. Cho wouldn't kill her outright. She had given Reagan and Kristoff the antidote after all. It was her final card to play. Had she gone to the Lord of the Dead, he would have tortured her for what he wanted, then killed her ~ most likely, so Circe was the 'saner' crazy choice.

By the time Jareth's hunters scoured the haunts Sycorax would normally retreat to, it would be too late – the countdown to 'death by poison' would have passed. No leverage.

Sparing me? That had been all Jo and I now owed her the lives of my ladies. Had she told Thulsa Doom? Most likely after the fact, because I didn't see him risking Jo for them. I owed her Big Time.

**

Cast

Vance (Vardan) 'V' Vardanyan – He had thick, black hair kept short. His skin is a dark-brownish olive complexion. Medium brown eyes. Square jawed. Broad chested with powerful arms, thick neck with more body-hair than the norm. A stocky frame (six foot tall, 240 lbs.).

Dabney Curtiss – She has long, wavy light-brown hair with blonde streaks and highlights. Her skin is fair and lightly tanned and feels silky to the touch. Golden-brown eyes. Heart-shaped face. 34DD sized breasts with pale, broad areolas and puffy nipples. Athletic body type with robust buttocks, thighs and calves.

Georgianna 'G' Norquist – She is a natural honey/amber-blonde. Her skin tans easily and is currently darkly tanned and smooth. Oval-shaped face. Clear grey eyes. Her body is fit, tone and statuesque; a smidge on the slender side suggestively rendering her 32D-sized breasts looking bigger than they actually are.

Detective Lieutenant Trixie Crowe Buchannan (LVMPD Internal Affairs Bureau [IAB] –Has the quick-eyed, coltish gaze of a classic over-achieving misanthrope, hazel eyes, set in an oval face; brown hair normally worn in a ponytail that drops to the bottom of her shoulder blades. She is 5'9" and 120 lbs. reflecting minimal exercise.

Detective Sgt. Soledad Moreno (LVMPD Robbery/Homicide – Homicide) – Hispanic female, attentive blue-grey eyes set in a slender rectangular face. Her long black hair is thin as silk, shimmers in the light as it cascades loosely down to her mid-back. She is 5'8" and 117 lbs. with a physique chiseled by a strict and diverse physical regimen.

Reagan Cho, daughter and successor for Circe , Vice Lady of Lust – She is tall, fit, dark tanned skin, kind of Asian-like. Long black hair and black-rimmed glasses. Very serious and intense most of the time; taut in mind and body, but has a witty sense about her when in good company. If she has a flaw, it is her willingness to let less gifted people know she is smarter than they are.

The Vice Lords

Circe Lust; Sandra Cho

Sycorax Gluttony; London Villiers aka Rachel Stone; sometimes called The Tempest Witch

Archimago Avarice; {unnamed as of Chapter 4B}

Jareth Sloth; {unnamed as of Chapter 4B}; sometimes referred to as Lord of the Labyrinth.

Thulsa Doom Wrath; Barabbas Raman; sometimes referred to as The Lord of Wrath, the Wrathful and Lord of the Dead.

Baphomet Envy; Lloyd Pharris.

Xaltotun Pride; [Vacant]

And, because it matters to Vance:

The Sailor's Creed

I am a United States Sailor.

I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States of America and I will obey the orders of those appointed over me.

I represent the fighting spirit of the Navy and those who have gone before me to defend freedom and democracy around the world.

I proudly serve my country's Navy combat team with Honor, Courage and Commitment.

I am committed to excellence and the fair treatment of all.