After the blades slowed down, they quickly exited the aircraft. Overhead, the streetlamps flickered and dimmed with swarms of insects batting at the light's surface. Sans the background din of city nearby, the parks were quiet. Logan stepped out of the helicopter and eyed the large warehouse before her, a black mass in the nightfall. Though lined with many nondescript warehouses, it was this particular one they needed to be at, which only meant they were not here by chance. A plan was afoot.
Winston led them inside.
They entered what Logan surmised as a foyer of what was once the administrative portion of the building, indicated by the scatters of papers and computer parts left upon dusty desks, toppled chairs, and the like. Directly to her left was an office; long abandoned, the cement bricked wall between them and the warehouse floor featured a singular, large, thickly clouded window. Orange light from outside spilled through the cracked windows onto the door, half-way unhinged like a broken jaw.
Logan counted two exits: where they entered, and another to the far left that led to the main area through a garage door to a loading dock.
"Is that blood?" Logan gestured towards the dark stains at her feet, indiscernible in the shadows.
For a moment, no one answered until Winston muttered, "It could be anything."
He clicked on a flashlight, washing the dusty compartment in a harsh light Logan winced from.
Now she could see the innards of the warehouse. A warehouse, of all places. Why did things always end in a warehouse? The area was too cavernous, with hardly any cover, and noises bounced off the walls. She glanced up at the high ceilings and skylights; the dusty floor was littered with tattered, plastic sheeting that hung from rotting scaffolds, the odor of damp mildew permeated everything. The windows that weren't broken, were thickly filmed with dirt, making it difficult to see through. It was an ideal location to conduct business. Logan worried the inside of her cheek, growing more uneasy.
Abram fumbled with his cufflinks, staring across the empty space.
"I know this place." he muttered darkly.
Logan glanced at him curiously, wondering at the indignant chagrin in the Russian's voice. His eyes were fixed upon a toppled chair at the far end of the room. Segments of rope rested along the floor like a snakes.
Abram turned his sardonic glare at Addy, who pinned him with her own steely gaze.
"You should be thanking me," she snapped. "It wasn't easy dragging you out of here and throwing you into my car."
This is where they took Abram? There was no question to it. Abram, like Logan, had fallen into the proverbial chess game. It appeared he had the upper hand, whereas, Logan wasn't entirely sure where she stood on the hierarchy. Perhaps the very, very, very pit of it all. Logan risked a glanced towards the king pin.
In the gloom, Winston's smile was barely discernible.
The men led them towards the far left entrance, and deeper into the shadows of the warehouse.
Logan was still attempting to see in the darkness around her. Was this the end for her? She didn't want to die in a warehouse. She was supposed to die in a helicopter crash, or in a combat zone, shot down by an rocket propelled grenade. Or pulled from a wreckage, held as a prisoner of war, and tortured for weeks until her soul broke and her heart stopped beating.
Not on her home soil, but her own people.
"You alright?" asked Addy, placing a gentle hand on Logan's shoulder.
She considered shrugging her hand way and fleeing. The dark thoughts would not abate until she left this place. To keep the attention off of her, and also end the subject matter, she nodded.
Addy tilted her head; her pale face glowed an ethereal blue in the shadows, her enlarged pupils made her eyes appear almost black. Logan couldn't decide if it was Addy's concerned expression, or the vast space that was filled with shadows and neglect - but suddenly, Logan felt alone and vulnerable. She wanted her father.
Was this the end? Was this where the Camorra would come for her? It also didn't help she wasn't in favorable regards towards Winston.
"What are we doing here, Addy?" she quietly asked, better than to ask Winston or Abram.
Addy's voice barely above a whisper."Abram said they're trying to close the contract with the Camorra. John's 'dead', hand over the bounty and restore order within the underground."
Logan's brow furrowed.
"'Restore order?'" the younger woman echoed; she did not understand the magnitude of the bar-keep's explanation. Perhaps a hierarchy did exist. Where exactly did that put the Camorra?
"John broke a sacred rule that every professional, regardless of the echelon, is expected to follow. Years have passed without incident - until John walks in and puts a bullet through Santino's head." Addy mimicked a soft pow with a finger gun pointed at her temple.
Now Logan understood what Abram meant, when he said 'lines were blurring.'
"Without a body, the contract remains open. Your allegations caused an uproar. A lot of people believe you killed him. A lot of other people are mad John killed Santino on Continental ground."
There went that damn rhetoric again, Logan curled her lip.
The imagine of John slumped on her couch, drenched with rain and blood, came to the forefront of her mind; he nearly died that night, and part of Logan hoped he would, for purely selfish reasons. Now ... hopes weren't the same. Logan shot a woman at point blank range, and all but sawed another man's head off with a Kbar. All for John's protection. She was getting used to the smell of blood and the constant ringing in her ears.
Logan's eyes finally adjusted to the darkness - literally and figuratively.
"What if they don't agree with the deal?" she asked, wary of the answer.
Addy thoughtfully contemplated Logan's words.
"We haven't gotten that far yet."
"Her mother is schizophrenic," Caldron muttered while John stared ahead. "I didn't know until after Logan was born."
From the passenger side of Caldron's truck, John stared ahead. The statement was random and unwarranted. Neither had spoken for the majority of the trip, and he certainly hadn't asked about Caldron's late wife, Jennifer - another terrible, shared commonality, even if Caldron wasn't yet aware. John knew it wasn't his right to deliver the news, that was up to Logan, if she ever had the opportunity. Still, at one point in their lives-before the underground, before everything- they were brother's in arms.
"Jenn could play all these instruments, an' she was so beautiful," Caldron continued, growing forlorn by the second. "She tried teachin' Logan, but Logan wanted to go outside and play like any kid. Jennifer was very controlling. She couldn't understand why Logan didn't want t'sit and learn t'play music." He grew quiet, a muscle twitched along his jaw.
"The little things set her off. Jen became abusive." He glanced at John, "Work, as you know, kept me away for months on end, leaving Logan under Jen's supervision." John remained quiet, listening.
They drove on as dusk burned the horizon. Nightfall was closing in; their road trip hardly qualified as a covert mission, if you asked John. The men were armed to the teeth, rallied, and en route. Several miles passed before Caldron spoke again. His voice was soft and tremulous.
"I fucked up."
He squeezed the steering wheel until the leather groaned. John glanced at the side mirrors of Caldron's white dually; a convoy of cars followed directly behind them. They were close; the city's glow peeked over the dark horizon. "I left my baby girl in the hands of a cold hearted bitch."
Caldron took a deep breath and exhaled shakily.
"She's got issues, trauma. Something twisted inside her. I can never guess what she's gonna do, or how's she'll react."
John said nothing he looked down at the rifle barrel pointed between his knees. The buttstock rested against his shoulder. A hand laid along the handrail, and the other readjusted his pistol grip. They were both dressed for the occasion; Caldron, John, and the others. All in black.
"Most psychosis make their appearances late-teens or early-twenties." Caldron continued, "She'll be twenty-six soon. I'm hopin' we're in the clear, but I'm still worried," his voice trailed off. A pregnant silence encompassed them. The white dashes along the road flew past in a blur.
"She associates pain with affection." Caldron cleared his throat when the unsettling words threatened to choke him. "Because of what her mom did to her."
"She don't know any better."
What John did, what he was doing - it was no different than the merciless and unforgiving circumstances that brought Santino to his door step. John could not control all outcomes. He was just a pawn to be played, over and over. Every move upon the proverbial chess board led all of them to this very moment; John did not feel like an honest man; his loyalties aligned with Winston, whom he'd been honest from the very beginning; what John was about to do was not merciful or forgiving, but it must be done.
Rules...The Marker.
Caldron placed the dually in park. His eyes never left the dark warehouse looming before them. Logan's cellphone ping triangulated from a cell tower near their location. They had repeatedly called Logan, but to no avail. She wasn't answering.
Or she was dead.
It'd come to no surprise when the thought spread a fire across his chest. John was no fool; Logan had become something special to him, even if she was broken. She didn't seem to him.
After scouring the streets, their searching eyes turned upward, just as a small, black helicopter dove behind the buildings. Winston preferred this area; both Caldron and John were fully aware of his territories. Winston bringing Logan here churned John's stomach with acid. He had only one chess piece to move in this game; how many pieces did Winston possess, and how many moves would the king pin make, before declaring checkmate?
He just needed to get inside, get to her, then leave. Simple enough.
They followed the helicopter closely as it drifted between the narrow street lights, all the way to the T-section; when it banked right, they followed.
"Stay here," Caldron said; he cut the engine before the helicopter's drone died, and exposed them. "I'll call if I need you."
"Ryder," John said. Caldron paused; one hand was on the door, the other gripped his shotgun. It was the first time John spoke during their drive. There wasn't much to say, but he must ... even if he promised Logan. Though he keenly detested the fact he agreed, he'd made it. However, it was also an unfathomable disservice and John did not want one more stain on his conscious.
"He killed Jennifer."
In its heyday, the warehouse was a prospering, industrial factory with global accounts; it was now a gutted husk for pigeons and rats ... and the location of choice for the shadow world to conduct its unsavory business. Addy led Logan up the staircase, towards the top floor's office that overlooked what was once a thriving production.
"Wait here while they work things out with the Camorra." the redhead instructed; Addy unfolded a metal chair and wiped the surface free of dust, droppings and feathers. Setting the chair down, the bartender sternly repeated for Logan to remain hidden, before she left. Logan watched Addy leave without protest, feeling her grasp on the task at hand slip through her fingers; ever since John arrived with the storm, Logan's grasp on matters slipped through her fingers like sand.
Logan stared at the chair, her mind full of unanswered questions. There wasn't any way she could sit idly. Lives were at stake; being left out of the need-to-know was more damaging than preserving. She hated being uninformed regarding crucial events unfolding around her - hated her lack of control.
Unable to sit still, Logan cautiously approached the upper-level office's dingy window. It overlooked the warehouse floor; narrow catwalks lined all four sides, and bridged the spaces across. She peered down; from her higher advantage, Logan saw more stains across the smooth concrete . . . dark swaths and smears of it - dried puddles of what could be oil, or blood.
Like chipped teeth, large, paneled windows were cracked and broken. Several sections were missing entire panes. Winston and Abram appeared, and walked toward the center of the room; Addy was nowhere in sight.
Other figures Logan did not recognize were gathering around the kingpin. One man stood out from the others, wearing a pale suit. The others flanked him in black. Logan counted at least eight men, but it was dark. She could be wrong. There could be more, or less
Suddenly, orange light spilled in suddenly from a garage door on the far side, capturing Logan's attention. The light cast multiple, long black shadows across the floor before the garage door closed, and dim shadows claimed the warehouse once again. Logan kept her eye trained on their location as she adjusted to the lighting.
The two groups conferred for several minutes. Logan quietly waited, her agitated mind conjured possible veins of the conversation below. Were they reaching an agreement? A disagreement? What did that mean for John? For Logan? What if the Camorra wanted to take her away?
The garage door opened again, and light from the orange streetlamps flooded the space once more. Winston and the others turned to see who dared to interrupt their negotiations, when several black clad figures entered. Logan pressed her forehead against the dirty glass, attempting to see who the new arrivals were, and what their purpose was, when the room erupted in machine gun fire.
The first two groups scattered in all directions; even Logan ducked and hunkered down, before realizing she was safely perched high above the calamity. Cautiously she poked her head up, desperate to see what was happening below. Abram rushed up and pulled Winston out of the crossfire while several men from the first group immediately fell to the ground when spray of bullets ripped through them.
Addy was down there with Winston - everyone on a very short list - who wanted to help John. She, however, was sequestered to stay out of the way.
Unable to merely observe the chaos below, Logan rushed to the office door But when she gripped the knob and yanked, the latch didn't give. No matter how fiercely she twisted the knob. She yanked, yet the door remained firmly in place; Addy had locked her in.
Logan stepped back and charged, shouldering the door with brute force. It remained unmoving. Again and again, she tried, until a shooting pain spread across her upper back and her skin flushed hotly from the impact. She wasn't getting out.
Volleys of gunfire continued to rip through the air; the smell of gunpowder was thick as flashes from muzzles lighting up the warehouse like fireworks. Every movement below was akin to a stop-motion feature. Between the bursts of fire, there were shouts and cries.
Turning away from the door, Logan raced towards the window again. Her breath created a hot cloud against the cool glass. She followed the line of fire through the illuminating tracers bursting across the space; following anyone moving below was a challenge, because of the flashing lights.
So this was how the Camorra got what they wanted. They wanted everyone eliminated; once they claimed the lives, they'd turn their attention upstairs where Logan was, cornered and unarmed.
Convinced her efforts were useless, she stepped back from the glass as her mind raced for a way out. She tried the door again before returning to the window. With her hands, she prodded the edges of the sill for structural weaknesses. She pressed her palms against the filmy surface and pushed. It shifted beneath her hands. Down below, the sound of gunfire suddenly stopped.
Shouting rose from the stairwell … and it was too close for her comfort.
Logan checked the window again, attempting to understand what erupted below. She couldn't find Winston, or Abram. Not even Addy. Her fearful heart knocked against her ribs.
Something smacked against the door, startling her. Eyeing it with a wide stare, the pounding grew louder and more determined. The newcomer tried the knob, twisting and pulling at it. Frustrated, they began to scream and pound against the surface.
Logan had no weapons, and nothing to arm herself with. Frantically, her eyes darted around the room before she grabbed the folded chair and eyed the window a second time.
The catwalks.
More gunfire erupted below, followed by shotgun blasts, and short controlled bursts of pistol fire. More shouting, loud agonizing screams; a medley of chaos that sent all thoughts scattering. All mixed with the rapid fire pumped out by the belt-fed machine gun. She wanted to throw her hands over her ears to shut out the sound - or long enough to gather her gibbered thoughts. Amidst the sheer calamity, she could only think of one thing: escape.
The rapid fire reports echoed off the warehouse walls, along with the men's cries and shouts. If Logan strained hard enough, she could hear the hot brass bouncing off the concrete. People were fleeing up the stairs, away from the slaughter. The only place available to them was the locked, upper floor office, that housed Logan - and she wasn't opening it.
Gripping the legs of the metal chair, she took a deep breath and swung.
The chair collided with the window with a satisfying crunch. Glass splintered at the pane's corner. She swung again. More cracks appeared, and traversed upward. Chunks dislodged themselves.
She swung a third time.
Then the door burst open.
An unfamiliar man stumbled in, wrenched around and slammed the door closed behind him. He pressed his back to the surface; breathing heavily, he looked up when a shard of glass fell to the floor, and realized he wasn't alone.
For a moment, they stared at each other.
A heartbeat.
Then they both sprang into action.
Abandoning the window, Logan swung the chair up. She caught him across the face with the back rest, throwing his head back from the blow and bringing his entire body into a pratfall. He hit the concrete, stunned and bleeding from the face. She didn't wait, advancing him and bringing the chair down a second time, and a third. With each strike, she lost count. Fourth. Fifth. Sixth. Bone shattered and blood splashed and spattered. Anger seized her in a bloodied frenzy, painting the dusty concrete in red liquid, chunks of skulls and tufts of hair. His face was gone, a mask of crimson features caved in, broken teeth and split flesh.
Dead, or at least, rapidly dying.
Chest heaving from exertion and white anger, she stepped back, dropping the chair and staring at her trembling hands that, just moments ago, clutched the chair so firmly they ached. Self-dense, she told herself. It was out of self-defense.
Logan turned back towards the window, picked up the chair again and swung it against the glass in rapid successions. It refused to shatter, but it was certainly unseated.
More footsteps.
Coming up the stairs quickly.
The rest of the Camorra…
Tears burned the corner of her eyes as the panic rose and spread across her heaving chest. Dropping the chair, she went after it with her hands, pushing and pulling, causing tiny shards to bite into her palms.
The footsteps were closer now. Her heart knocked, ribs ached. More screams followed. Now that the gunfire had ceased, the litany of the dying filled the stairwell.
Logan wrapped her fingers around an available edge and yanked, freeing a large portion of window, gouging her hand. A section came free, large enough to compromise the window's integrity. Logan brought a leg up and kicked, a chunked fell away. The gaping hole was wide enough now to slip through.
Logan bent, slipping an arm then shoulder through until an unknown forced snatch a handful of her hair and yanked back.
She fell away from her escape route; her shoulder caught on the sharp edge of the glass and bit into her. Both hands were coated in blood, and now a sticky warmth bloomed down her back and collar as she collided with the desk directly behind her.
Surviving was her only concern.
Picking herself up immediately, Logan scrambled to get away, to find the chair again. The assailant moved with surprising speed, and was upon her, threwing her to the floor. She hit the concrete with an oof, then wrenched onto her back. He straddled her hips, and sat heavily atop her. His meaty hands shot out, catching her by the neck and squeezing. Logan's hands flew up towards her assailant's face, but her reach wasn't long enough, and she swiped futilely at his locked elbow. The blood trapped in her head forced her eyes and lips to bulge as the pressure built. His heavy figure filled her vision as he loomed over her, pressing down with all of his weight and might. She bucked her hips, trying to dismount him. Thought-scattering, mind-numbing panic took over. Logan choked and kicked; thrashing her legs, blood slinging about, covering the floor and the walls. A dark cloud hemmed her vision while her lungs burned for air.
All the while, the screams never stopped. The continuous wailing resonated off walls. A hellish chorus of sounds drowned out her own dire cries.
The footsteps still came. More were coming for their pound of flesh. Once she was dead, it did not mean the end.
Logan only had a few more seconds, before unconsciousness and certain death..
The door flew open again, hitting the wall with a startling clap and rattling its hinges.
Her blood-slicked hands were wrapped around the attacker's wrist, straining to break his grip.
The weight vanished, and pressure in her head mercifully receded; Logan's starved lungs swelled greedily, pain stabbed her ribs. Grunts and meaty thumps filled the office. She coughed and rolled onto her hands and knees, crawling away.
She could return to the window, cut her hands even more by trying to escape, only to bleed out before she reached the helicopter. She could try running past them, but there were more Assassins in the stairwells. Unarmed, she wouldn't make it far - if at all.
Logan peered over the desk to see what if an escape route was viable.
But there was John, shoving her assailant against the wall.
Finally right? damn.