Chapter 4: New Target

"Wolvie?"

Logan didn't turn around from the library table where he sat. "Go away, Jubilee."

She didn't go away. Instead he heard her soft footsteps enter. The door closed, then those steps crossed the library until she stood behind him. "Look, Wolvie, I know she meant a lot to you…"

"You don't know the half o' it, Jubilee." Logan looked at the little plant in front of him, gently reached out and stroked one broad green leaf. Ororo had loved plants. He'd taken over their care, as sort of a way of getting closer to her even now, after her ashes had been scattered on the winds she so loved, in the homeland she had left to follow Xavier's Dream. But they seemed to miss her, too; they hadn't seemed to be doing so well lately, and the rose garden outside was definitely suffering without Ororo's gentle care and loving touch. Such a gentle woman, fierce, strong, independent…he missed her. More than he wanted to admit to anybody.

Even Jubilee. Maybe especially Jubilee. "Go away, Jubilee. I don't wanna talk ta ya right now. Go see Emma if ya need ta talk."

"But I want to talk to you." Jubilee's voice was soft. "Please, Wolvie…"

"Don't call me that! I ain't 'yer Wolvie'!" He sprang to his feet, clenching his fists. "S'always about you, ain't it? You didn't want to get grounded. You wanted ta go shoppin'. You didn't wanna obey the rules. And 'cause o' your stupidity, you got captured an' 'Ro got killed rescuin' yer ass!"

"Logan, please, I feel guilty enough already…but it wasn't my fault really, I didn't kill her, they did, they shot her—"

With a roar, Logan seized the heavy, boxy computer monitor on the table and flung it. "It was your fault! If you hadn't gone and gotten yourself kidnapped, none o' this woulda happened!"

He broke off as the sound of her sobs filled the room. He spun…and saw that the heavy monitor had connected with Jubilee's shoulder and knocked her off her feet. She lay in a heap on the floor, one hand gripping the shoulder that had been hit. And her sobs were sobs of pain, of fear and anguish and heartsick grief, and she was still wearing all black. Had been wearing nothing but black in the week since the memorial service held in 'Ro's home village. He stared at her for a long moment, looking at the tears on her face, feeling guilt for hurting her crash over him like a wave. He felt horribly guilty for accusing her of something that wasn't her fault, but he had never been good at apologies. He froze for long moments, then took a step forward and held out his hand. "Jubilee—"

She flinched away from his hand. It was more an instinctive reaction, and an understandable one given the abuse she'd suffered at the hands of the old O:ZT operatives who had kidnapped her…but Logan had never seen her flinch away from him like that. And he realized that with his angry words and hurled computer, he had probably destroyed her trust. She'd always been able to come to him before for comfort, and he'd always welcomed her with open arms. He'd never hurt her physically. Until now.

The door to the library opened, and Paige and Emma hurried in. "Jubes!" Paige exclaimed, and rushed to her friend. Jubilee turned toward Paige, away from Logan. Emma helped Jubilee stand, her own face twisting as she tried to block out the waves of pain radiating from Jubilee. "We'd better take her to Hank. I think that's dislocated." Paige nodded, and they left the library without a backward glance at Logan.

He was left staring after them, guilt, shame, remorse, anguish, and grief creating a confused welter of emotions in him. Of the three women in the mansion he cared about most, two were now gone; Jean and Ororo. And now, with one careless move he'd destroyed the bond between himself and Jubilee. He couldn't bear to stay around, to see her withdraw from him, to see the fear in her eyes the next time she saw him, fear that he might hurt her again.

So he'd retreated to his room and started packing…

Logan snapped awake. Though he was wrapped in his bedcovers, curled into a fetal position as if to block out the pain of the memories he carried, his whole body felt cold. The sun was shining through his window, sending bars of light falling across the picture of the laughing black-haired girl on his nightstand, and again he felt grief and remorse for the friendship he'd unwittingly destroyed. "I'm sorry, Jubes," he whispered, reaching out to touch the small face. "I hope wherever ya are, yer happy." He almost wished he could stay in bed and just look at that picture the rest of the day, lose himself in the memories of his lost friend…but he had places to go, and someone had been looking for him. And if he knew Carey, she would be coming in at any moment…

"Hello!" came a cheery voice from the doorway, and he smelled Carey's unmistakable perfume. "Are you awake yet?" He heard her footsteps coming down the short hallway to his room, and seconds late she strolled in casually. "Morning," she said cheerfully, putting down the empty laundry basket she carried.

"Mornin' ta you too," he grumped.

She laughed and strolled across the room, pulling the curtains back. "Good morning to you too, grumpy," she said. She grabbed a corner of the bedcovers, pulled it open, ignoring Logan's disgruntled 'get outta here' and slid into the bed behind him.

Her body was warm against his back, and he found himself relaxing as her arms crept around his body. "Yer gonna be late fer work," he admonished as she began to kiss him, nibbling down his neck and across the broad expanse of his shoulders. Despite his words, though, he turned in her arms and began to kiss her back.

"And you are going to be late meeting your 'friend'," she said silkily, her head falling back on her neck as she felt his hungry lips kiss down the line of her throat. "But I don't think we really care…"

He silenced her with a kiss on her lips.

The Glass And Tap was dimly lit, and the morning crew went about their cleaning up after the previous night's drunks. Some of those drunks were still asleep at their places at the bar and in assorted booths around the room, and several of the barmaids were going around and waking the patrons up with a cup of black coffee, on the house. They weren't quite open for breakfast yet, and one barmaid, a freckle-faced girl with reddish-blonde hair tried to stop him as he walked in. "Sir, we aren't open yet…"

"Don't bother, Madeline," said the barkeep, a tough, crusty, older woman named Kathy who Logan had hired himself. "He owns the place. He comes and goes as he pleases."

The girl looked at Logan, eyes wide. "You…oh, sorry, sir," and she quickly ducked around him, heading for the nearest table to start wiping it while keeping a surreptitious eye on Logan.

He strolled up to the bar. "'Madeline'?"

Kathy never stopped wiping the glass she was holding. "One of the new girls. She likes working here, and the customers like her. Lots of eye candy. Though just between you and me, there's not much between the ears." She looked at him. "Why? Friend of yours?" She blinked. "Or the daughter or granddaughter or great-something-daughter of a friend of yours?"

Logan turned and looked back. Maybe one of Nate's offspring? Or Rachel's? "What's her last name?"

"West. Madeline West."

He shook his head. "Naw. Just looked like someone I knew once, is all."

Kathy grinned as she put the glass back into the cabinet and picked up another one. "When anyone's lived as long as you have, everyone tends to start looking like an old acquaintance." She looked at him shrewdly. "But you didn't come here looking for a bedwarmer, or discuss my staffing choices."

"No. I heard someone was stayin' here who was lookin' fer me."

Kathy nodded, her jovial demeanor dropping as she slipped into the coded words that assassins used. To anyone else, it would sound like gibberish. To Logan, it meant something different indeed.

"He's been here before. He's still here. He refused a room, and he took a table back there." She nodded to a far corner of the restaurant/bar. "He's still there. Fell asleep sometime late last night. I told the girls to leave him alone and not wake him with the other patrons. He's the rough kind, and I think the last time he was here you didn't like him at all. You refused his 'business offer'."

Logan gritted his teeth. Spinning away from the bar, he walked toward that section, which was one usually reserved for the clandestine business that took up his spare time.

The man was dressed in a dusty black jacket and jeans that had once been black but were now a faded, washed-out gray. He was slumped over the table, snoring slightly, his tangled mop of mousy brown hair waving gently in the breeze coming from the AC vent over his head. Logan sniffed. Yes, he'd recognize this particular man anywhere. His hygiene wasn't that good.

Logan reached down, grabbed a fistful of jacket, and hauled the sleepy man upright. "Up, bub," he snarled. The man blinked, trying to wake up, and Logan wrinkled his nose at the fetid smell of the man's breath. Grabbing the jacket a little lower, he pulled the guy upright, out of the seat, and stood him upright on his feet. As he did, a small yellow envelope fell form the man's hand. Logan reached for it.

Despite all the newfangled gadgets that had been invented the last century or so, those involved in 'under-the-table' activities still preferred the feel of solid, hard cash. Although there were still many different countries, currency had basically been reduced to only a few kinds; the US dollar, the Euro, Russian Conglomerate kopeks, Middle Eastern rupees, and Japanese yen. All forms of currency were spendable in other countries, and the exchange rates for all of them had been standardized. A definite improvement over the 'good old days'—at least in this one instance.

This envelope, though—Logan looked in it, and was surprised at its contents. A wad of bills, all of them higher denominations from every one of the five currency groups…and something else. He reached into the envelope, pulled out a picture. It was of a smiling, blond-haired woman holding a little child; a mother and daughter, he guessed from the similarity of expression. The second picture…well, the pose was the same. That was about all he could say about the picture. The mother, the blonde from the first picture, was lying on a garbage-strewn floor, obviously dead. The child, the little girl—about four, he guessed—was lying in her mother's arms, also dead. Horribly, bloodily dead. And the expression on both faces wasn't a happy one.

He stared at the photos for a long minute, then pinned the unkempt man with a steely, icy gaze. "What the hell is this?"

The man swallowed. "It's my daughter and my granddaughter," he croaked hoarsely. Logan suddenly saw the dark circles under the other man's eyes, saw the slump in the guy' shoulders, and felt a sudden surge of pity. He didn't allow any of that to show on his face as he continued to stare. 'They lived on the island of San Juarez, what used to be called Cuba." Logan waved a hand for the man to continue irritably. He didn't need a geography lesson.

"'Lived'?" he prodded.

The man nodded miserably. "'Lived.' Two weeks ago their town was overrun by soldiers from Dictator Estillo's palace. They were a poor town, they didn't have the money to pay the tax he demanded from them…so they killed everyone." He swallowed hard. "My son was visiting another town on business. He returned to find everyone dead." He looked at Logan. "Everyone. My granddaughter had just turned four. They killed her too. And my daughter…my daughter had to watch. And then she was killed too. I came to ask you—" he paused for a moment, then rushed on, as if afraid he'd lose his nerve, "I came to ask you for a favor. I want to offer you a contract on the dictator's life. I drained two bank accounts to fill that envelope…but if it isn't enough I'll get more. I promise. Just…" he looked like he was struggling visibly. "She was all I had. My little girl. I tried so hard to protect her, raise her…and this happened. Please…I'm begging you…you're the best freelance out there. I'll pay you whatever you want."

"Sit down," Logan growled, giving the man a shove back into the seat. Not as hard as he normally did, though. Then he sat himself, in the seat across from him.

He didn't normally get involved in politics. And this man was trouble. Once, ten years ago, Logan had accepted a contract from him. The target had been a murderer, or so he'd claimed; the target had killed a lot of people in the last war with the Middle East countries. Logan had accepted the contract and gone out to perform the deed…and found he couldn't. Whatever the man was guilty of, he was now a father several times over. He'd turned over a new leaf, helping out with different charities, devoting the rest of his time to raising his children and caring for his wife…and Logan had returned, given the man back his money in a temper, and told him he didn't want to see him again. "I killed a lot o' people in the two centuries I been alive, and many o' them was fer money, but I'll be damned if I go an' kill an innocent. I never done it before, I ain't gonna start now."

But this wasn't an innocent. Killing a child while the parent watched…Logan remembered with sudden clarity the sickening pit that had opened up under his heart when he and Bobby Drake had pulled Jubilee's limp, lifeless form off the cross she had been so cruelly nailed to. He remembered his panic giving way to a dull despair as the minutes passed, Warren got weaker, and still Jubilee didn't move, didn't wake up. And the wild flutter in his stomach when she had finally spoken, her whispered words followed by a joke because she had seen the worry and fear in his eyes and she wanted to ease his tension. He hadn't lost her then; he'd driven the wedge between them by himself. But he hadn't lost her. She might not care or know where he was; but he knew where she was. And even though he could only watch her from a distance, she still felt very close to him. If this were her…would he do the same? Would he want to kill the man who had done this to her? He remembered his barely contained desire to rip Bastion apart when he'd first seen her out there in the desert; the memories were still as clear in his mind as if they'd happened yesterday.

"I'll do it," he said, more to himself than the man.

His visitor perked up. "You…what? You'll do it?"

Logan looked at the man, at the two photos he held, and at the money. Opening the envelope, he took out the wad of US dollars and counted off a few thousand, and handed it back. "Give them a decent burial with this. For me." He slipped the envelope into his pocket, then took the photos of the mutilated bodies and handed the happy picture back to the man. "Keep this. This is how you want to remember them. Not like this." He waved the photo of the bodies in the air. "Now go, 'fore I change my mind."

The man stood, relief filling his face. "You'll do it? Thank you, I'll pay you more if you want…"

Logan shook his head. "Keep yer money. I heard stories 'bout Estillo. Bout time someone did somethin' bout him. Since the governments ain't, we gotta do it." He stood up. "Beat it. You'll know when he dies; it'll be all over the news."

Logan walked back to the bar. "Kathy. Got a light?"

She started searching behind the bar for something to create a flame with. "Oh, here," she said finally, coming up with an old-fashioned, antique lighter. "Dunno if it works. What do you need it for?"

Logan dropped the picture in an ashtray. An affectation only, since cigars and cigarettes were now illegal, but they made the place seem a little more like the good old days.

Kathy looked at the picture, and her face hardened. "That come from that man?"

Logan nodded.

"You took the contract?"

He nodded again.

Kathy was silent for a moment, then dropped the picture in the ashtray and watched as Logan set fire to one corner of the photo. Both of them watched the coated paper curl and shrivel in the heat, and finally flake away to nothing., Logan handed her the lighter back and started to head for the door.

"Logan?" Kathy called to his retreating back.

"Yeah," he said gruffly.

"Give 'em hell for me." Logan remembered that Kathy had younger sister expecting her first child. A daughter.

"I will." He resumed walking.