Chapter Five
Danny Ketch downed another shot of vodka, then gave the bartender a wave indicating that he was ready for another beer. He ran his sleeve across his face, wiping away the traces of alcohol that had somehow missed his mouth and run down his chin. He let out a long, lingering sigh and silently prayed again that there would be no innocent blood spilled that night. Of course, he was never exactly sure who it was that he was praying to.
Ketch reached for his wallet. They didn't let you run a tab at Roz's Bar any more. Too many people either skipped out or got shot before they paid the bill. But before Danny could pull out another gin-soaked wad of cash, a hand clasped down on his shoulder.
"I've got this one."
Danny looked up to see a tall, blond man wearing a bomber jacket and a pair of slacks. He recognized the man as Steve Rogers.
"Holy shit... Captain America!"
Steve gave a half smile and looked around at the bar full of drunks and vagrants.
"You can call me Steve, Danny. In fact, in a place like this, please do."
Roz the bartender slid two bottles of ice cold beer down to Danny and Steve, and casually popped the tops off with a bottle opener. Steve handed her some money and told her to keep the change.
"Hold up a second, bub," came a gizzled voice from behind them. "I'll take one, too, long as yer buyin'!"
A short, scruffy individual who already smelled of booze and cigar smoke hopped up onto the bar stool next to Steve.
"Glad you could make it, Logan," Steve said. Then, to the bartender, he added, "We'll take one more, Miss."
For sake of convenience, Steve had decided to call Logan up and invite him to the bar as well, so he could talk to him and Ketch both at once. Since time was a factor, he had to get his recruiting done as soon as possible so Nick would have time to brief them all before their mission officially began at midnight the next night.
"I have a favor to ask of you boys," Steve asked, getting down to business as Roz passed Logan a bottle. "I've been asked by Nick Fury to put a team together for a covert mission for SHIELD. I can't say much about it right now, other than that it involves... a weapon, of sorts, that may have fallen into dangerous hands."
"What kind of weapon?" Logan asked.
"A biological one," Steve replied. "A big, green biological one."
Logan smiled. "Shit. If you're talking about who I think you're talking about, you better be buying me more than just one beer for this one, pal." He took a long swig of his drink.
Steve turned to Ketch, who didn't seem to have caught on to what Steve was talking about the way Logan had.
"Danny," Steve said. "According to Fury, there may be some... supernatural forces, at work here. Forgive me for asking, but do you still have your powers? We believe you could be very useful, but to be honest with you, I can't keep up with whether Ghost Rider is actually you, or Johnny Blaze, or...?"
Ketch snorted as he stifled a laugh. "My 'powers.' Good one. My curse, you mean? Powers are something that you can control. A curse is something that controls you. I only transform into Ghost Rider when the blood of the innocent is spilled. Once that happens, he's in control, not me."
"Fair enough," Steve said. "I still think you could be a valuable asset to our team. Especially if this involves... Mephisto."
Danny shot up from the bar stool, knocking over his beer as he grabbed Steve by his jacket.
"Don't you ever say that fucking name around me! Don't you EVER say that fucking name around me!"
"Whoa! Easy!" Steve placed a hand on Danny's shoulder as Logan got up from his stool to defend Cap. After an awkward moment, as Danny realized how ridiculous he looked, he relaxed and sat back down.
"I... I'm sorry, guys. I don't know what came over me."
Just then, Logan turned his head to the side. He sniffed the air, his hyper-acute mutant senses picking up something amiss.
"Logan? What is it?" Steve asked.
"Trouble."
At the back of the bar, seated at a small table, three Latin American men in business suits had begun arguing. Two briefcases sat on the table, one of them open but facing away from the crowd so its contents were not visible to anyone but the three men. One of the men stood up, still shouting.
"That briefcase is full of cocaine. The other one is full of money," Logan said.
The standing man continued shouting something in Spanish. Then, one of the seated men, a small, fat Mexican, drew a gun, and shot the standing man in the face.
Almost instantly, about a dozen other Latin American men scattered around the bar sprang to their feet, yelling and cursing and drawing guns. Other bar patrons scrambled to their feet, diving for cover or trying to run out of the bar.
"Son of a bitch," Cap muttered, getting to his feet and taking off his bomber jacket. "We don't have time for this."
Gunshots rang out all over the bar at once. Men fell to the ground, dead. More guns were drawn. More shots fired. Cap and Logan went to work disarming as many men as they could, but they could only move so fast.
Smoke began to rise from Danny Ketch's collar. He could feel the fire starting to burn beneath his flesh. Not everyone in this bar was a drug dealer or criminal. Some people just came here because they wanted to drown their sorrows. Now those people were getting shot up in the crossfire because of a bad drug deal, and innocent blood had been spilled. The Spirit of Vengeance was coming. He closed his eyes tight and clenched his fists and waited for the change to take hold of him.
The small fat Mexican man grabbed one of the briefcases and made a run for the door. As he was only a few steps away, a shotgun blast tore through the window, and the man's head blew apart in a spray of blood and brain matter. His lifeless, headless body hit the ground with a thud.
The door to the bar flew open, and in strode a man wearing a long black trench coat. In one hand, he held a shotgun. In the other hand, a pistol. On his chest, a large white skull.
"No time for this, Cap?" Logan yelled, a grin from ear to ear as bullets continued to whiz by his head. He popped three adamantium claws from each hand with a SNIKT. "There's always time for a good old-fashioned bar room brawl!"
