Until you need to be a savage, act like a gentleman.
xxx
She felt the shot at the same time she heard it go off. In an instant, white-hot pain ignited across her upper arm as a deafening explosion splintered through the ravaging winds.
Immediately, Logan hit to the ground as another shot rang out, kicking up dirt just inches from her skull. Throwing her arms over her head, her affected limb throbbed in protest―a dull, hot pain resonated across her back; fighting down the instant, frenzied panic, Logan forced herself to keep a clear mind. She kept low to the ground, scrambling back towards her dirt bike as more shots rang out, missing their intended target: her. The reality of her situation sent Logan's heart into overdrive as she retreated.
With every motion, her wound screamed in protest. The graze of hot metal was only a breath away from blowing out her entire shoulder.
Hauling herself to her feet, she sprinted towards the dirt bike. Dust and bracken mottled her clothes as she moved. Hot, bright red blood trickled down the length and expanse of her arm, and dripped from her elbow. The wind whipped and roared. The overcast churning a threatening pallor as she hurried.
Mounting her dirt bike quickly, Logan nudged the kickstand with her heel. She lost count how many shots rang out, their close reports startling and unnerving her―interfering with her ability to move under fire―even though she had trained for this very situation.
Despite Logan's efforts to remain calm, she yelped, ducking reflexively as she sought the kick starter with her boot. Flicking it out, she slammed it down and the engine roared...only to sputter to a stop.
"Fuck!" she cursed as another shot ricocheted off a nearby rock.
Panicked, Logan threw the dirt bike against the ground and launched into a dead sprint, kicking up dirt as she headed for the slopes. Hills and shallow creek beds hidden between wide limestone fissures, separated Logan from her house. Without the dirt bike, she hadn't the speed; at the very least, she could use the terrain to her advantage. Tumbling down a steep decline, Logan trampled and slid her way through the cacti and arid shrubs, splashing through a clear, shallow creek bed as she hurried crossed. Ignoring the sharply aching stitch in her side, Logan threw her gloves off, using her bare hands to frantically claw her way up the opposing side. Cresting the jagged rocks, from half a mile away, Logan was able to see her home. Adrenaline surged through her veins, numbing the pulsating wound along her shoulder and propelling her forward with adamant conviction.
Between her heaving breaths, her heart pounding in her ears, she could make out the faint shouts growing louder, their sounds becoming closer behind her. Whoever 'they' were, they stopped shooting at her―only because she disappeared from their line of sight. There could only be one reason why they were here and for whom…
John...
Logan needed to get to him―and soon.
A motor roared to life, revving as the throttle was applied fervidly, almost mockingly.
Her dirt bike.
The assailants must have claimed it and would be well upon her before she could reach home; all she had was her Ka-Bar.
Logan knew not to bring a knife to a gunfight should she consider fighting them off. Realizing the odds were not in her favor, and her luck was diminishing rapidly, she ran faster, pumping her arms and legs harder―ignoring the burning pain in her thighs and the breathless flare in her chest; her forgotten wound slinging blood as she raced across the land.
She had to get home.
The whining emission of a motor carried on the breeze, pronouncing its arrival as it leaped over the very hill she was descending.
"Fuck," she cried, blind panic biting into her shoulders like sharp talons. The sound closed in on her, filling her chest with its roar.
Then she tripped.
Plummeting to the ground, Logan rolled as the dirt bike flew past her, throwing sand and rocks into her face. The blood along her arms clotted with dirt, the rocks biting into her hips. More shouting intercepted the roaring engine as she quickly picked herself up.
Turning, she decided to face her assailants.
Three men.
One of whom was currently circling around on Logan's bike; the other two casually observed from the hilltop. One―a portly fellow wearing navy blue coveralls; next to him, dressed entirely in black, was a scrawny man, barely able to withstand the buffeting Texas wind.
The hilt of Logan's knife gave her a mild sense of relief as it pressed into her back. Her attackers still had their guns and her odds were looking quite bleak. If she were able to disarm one of them, she might be able to squeeze off a few rounds into the others. Doubt filled her mind; she was outnumbered and outgunned.
What was she thinking…?
Back around came the dirt bike, heading directly at her.
Was he going to try and run her over? Surely not...
He was.
Pivoting the second he closed in, Logan twisted, reaching back as she did, and grabbed a fistful of his shirt. The dirt bike tore past her, bumping her aside as it grazed by. Her gripped slipped, but it was enough to upset the man's balance; he lost control, laying the bike down into the dirt. He was pinned, the scorching motor resting against his leg.
Immediately, she charged him.
Struggling to get the sputtering machine off of him, Logan was upon him by the time he freed his gun, kicking the hand brandishing the weapon with her steel-toed boot. The pistol careened through the air as she pulled the blade free from its sheath, the fluidity of a well-practiced motion. Logan brought the knife down, sinking it into the man's neck―just above the clavicle. Severing his jugular vein, the onyx blade punched out the other side of the man's neck.
A wet, strangled gurgle escaped his lips, silenced by the rising blood that flooded his mouth and pulsated liberally from his neck. Freeing the blade, she brought it down a second time, and then a third, mauling the man's neck. Overcome with a blinding rage, blood and gore slung everywhere; it spattered across Logan's chest, and face―coating and slicking her hands.
The other men.
Snapping free of her mindless wrath, Logan wrenched about, wildly eyeing the hilltop behind her―they were gone.
Not just gone, they had left.
Assuming their partner could take care of Logan on his own, meant they had moved on towards the prize: John Wick.
Freeing her weapon, Logan snatched up the discarded gun, shoving it into the waistband of her denim shorts before she leapt over the corpse, towards the toppled dirtbike―the engine had cut out moments before. Panting heavily, she righted the bike and mounted it.
She had to get to John.
Squeezing the clutch, she kickstarted the engine, relieved to hear it sputter to life. Dropping to a lower gear, she released the clutch and punched the gas, tearing through the dirt as she sped home. As she neared, Logan spotted the intruders' dark truck racing across her property, heading for the back patio. They must have ran over the barbed wire and thought nothing of their tires.
Twisting the throttle, the engine screamed, already in its highest gear, but Logan wanted to make as much noise as possible. The sensors should have gone off―what if John ignored them?
Not likely. John hadn't given her any reason to doubt him . . . just yet.
Watching the men exit their vehicle and hurry towards her home, sent a fresh wave of adrenaline through her. One man―the portly fellow―stopped after hearing her approach, while the other man continued forward, running haphazardly into her home.
Keeping her right hand applied to the throttle, Logan used her injured arm to pull the pistol free. It didn't matter she never trained in shooting from a moving dirt bike―or that she wasn't left handed. She aimed and pulled the trigger.
Missed.
Cursing, she leaned, turning the bike as she peeled through the sand.
She shot once more.
Missed again.
How many rounds were in the magazine was unknown.
The portly man returned fire as she turned the bike broadside. The back tire exploded, losing traction and sending her crashing into the dirt.
Her body smacked into the ground, punching the air from her lungs.
Logan and the dirt bike slid against this scouring sand. When it came to a stop, she kicked madly against the dirt bike, pushing the hot motor away from her while readying the gun. Lying on her back, she gripped the pistol and squeezed off two more rounds. The truck's driver window exploded, causing the man to hurriedly duck as he stumbled towards her. The other round lost itself to the overcast, missing entirely. Rising quickly and now able to breathe, Logan was more than eager to meet him halfway. Bringing the pistol up, Logan fired off another shot. The slide locked to the rear, signalling an expended magazine; she was out of ammo.
Out of options, Logan flung the weapon.
Pinwheeling as it whizzed through the air, it cracked against the man's face; he bellowed in pain, cupping his eye as he blindly staggered about, disoriented. Tripping upon himself, Logan was upon him, driving a boot into his ribs and freeing her blade in a single motion.
A scream came from within the house as she bent over to grab the man, preparing to saw his head off. Suddenly, his foot swung up, kicking Logan squarely in the chest. The wind was knocked from her lungs a second time, and she fell back from the stunning blow, gasping for air.
Another agonizing scream spilled from the house, followed by an ungodly noise Logan had never heard before. She hoped it wasn't John―prayed it wasn't John as she worked through the pain to breathe again. Joining the ghastly scream, the snarling bark and baying, growling howl of John's dog made Logan want to clap her hands over her ears. In response to the terrible cries, her attacker hoisted himself up, gun in tow and stumbled toward the house, ignoring her entirely.
A figure emerged from the back door, but it wasn't John, it was the skinnier lad. John was directly behind him; the very visage of death casually strolling out into the whipping winds. The dying sound came from the smaller man as John calmly steered him outside towards his companion in coveralls. Logan immediately noticed the reason for the man's indescribable agony.
His shoulder was tilted at a grossly unnatural angle, his arms slack at his side―unable to fend off John―face tensed between screams and breathless cries, arching his back in a manner that denoted absolute agony. John would manipulate something between the man's shoulder and elicited a scream so profound, his voice collapsed. Deep, blood curdling emissions, issued from the bottom of his lungs tore past the scrawny assailants lips.
Unable to endure his unspeakable agony, the man's knees buckled and he sank to the concrete, weeping in anguish. Sitting up, Logan tried, but couldn't―understand―the bright red protrusion from his back, the very thing John had a hold of . . . ?
A knife's hilt? she thought.
Then her stomach twisted with clarity.
No, his bone.
The unnatural angle of his shoulder, the piercing cries . . . immobile from the paralyzing pain.
The overweight man brought his gun up, trembling. "Don't come any closer!"
"Who sent you?" John's low, intense words sliced through the churning storm above. The brewing overcast seemed to quiet itself as he spoke.
Logan got up; now that he was distracted, the heavy man couldn't see her, blade in hand, closing in quietly from behind―but his friend did; he opened his mouth to warn him, but Logan pounced, plunging the knife deeply into his broad back, the surgically sharp blade effortlessly cut through his flesh as Logan dragged it downward. It stuck after lodging itself between bones.
She stepped back, abandoning the blade sunk to the hilt between his broad shoulders.
The man―gasping―fired off two rounds at John before succumbing to his wound and slumping onto the ground in a writhing heap of soft, wet cries.
Fearing the worse, Logan frantically spotted John, only to see slender assailant's eyes roll towards the back of his head, body slowly becoming inert, as death swiftly and mercifully claimed him. John released him, allowing the man fall flat onto his face.
His purpose: John's human shield.
Logan studied the prostrate figure at her feet, the last twitches of life jostling his limbs until death delivered its final kiss.
Grabbing his dirty sleeve, she lifted it up, pulling until his torso was revealed. Across the breast pocket of his coveralls in white embroidery read,
Marshall.
do y'all remember where Marshall came from? YOU BETTER.
Holly. Holly. Holly. I should start paying you. When the proverbial shit hits the fan, I will protect you. I promise.
Inkandtrees: Good! Caldron has a huge part of this story. I didn't just want some sappy romance with John Wick naked 99% of the times (I wish) I truly thought after seeing JW2, I KNOW SOME COUNTRY FOLK THAT WOULD HAVE A HELLUVA TIME FIGHTING OFF PEOPLE FOR HIM. So here we are, balls deep into my imagination.
Suzzie: EXCELLENT. Did it have you on the edge of your seat!? I hope so! I was a nervous wreck writing it. Oooof.
Guest(s):Thank you!
Your Delusional Fantasy: ANOTHER TEXAN. This is for you! US! We got all the guns!
