foreword: I've been having some trouble with FF lately, saving docs and submitting this particular chapter. For those of you who know, seven went up and came right back down. So if you read it, consider it null and void. I was having so much trouble that day with the website, I didn't want to risk further errors.

please enjoy!

Caldron Wayne Ryder reclined against the leather couch and brought a glass of bourbon to his lips. He took a slow sip, reveling that, in all his years, it still took his breath away. Across from him, disheveled, grief-stricken, and bereft as they come, sat John Wick. The men were taking refuge from the pressing heat and seeking solace within each other's quiet company.

Externally, the man was unreadable but Caldron old eyes were keen to telltale signatures of hardships. Cradled in John's hands his glass of bourbon and at his feet a pup, more of a grown dog but in Caldron's eyes every dog was a puppy. Caldron knew throughout his years the time would come. A time when John Wick emerged from the metaphorical grave and called for Caldron's help. In truth, he knew such an occasion would never be advantageous. John's wake was one of crime and corruption, money over lives, and secrets that could be sold, borrowed and buried. The death toll ever rising and it was only a 9-5 for his friend.

In more ways than one, the men shared similarities.

Before John turned to the underground and became the infamous Baba Yaga, both men had enlisted into the Marine Corps.

Caldron was a part of 3rd Marine Division, 4th Marine Regiment as Force Recon, stationed out of Japan. John was also 3rd Marine Division, but 3rd Regiment as an infantryman based out of Hawaii. A work up brought the regiments together and one morning during PT between 3rd and 4th, their paths crossed. In a manner of jest, 3rd regiment infantrymen sought to spar with 4th regiment Force Recon during a combative course. John and Caldron were unwittingly pitted against one another. Caldron's 6'4", 210 mammoth frame should have been advantageous over John's two inch shorter, 30 lbs lighter build. A special forces Marine against a grunt. Though Caldron feigns memory loss, all of 3rd Marine Division clearly recalls the day a grunt conquered a Recon Marine; the newly humbled Staff Sergeant Ryder and Staff Sergeant Wick forged ―in addition to an easy camaraderie from the encounter, as many Marines do― a lasting friendship.

They eventually parted ways and not long thereafter, John did not reenlist. For Caldron, John leaving the Marine Corps was a shock. When they met, the man was an E-6 and barely twenty, a feat unheard of in the Corps. John climbed the ranks so quickly, he made well-seasoned men, like Caldron himself, appear lackadaisical. He also parted with no goodbyes as most do. Neither was there celebration for his new career path though, no one knew what he left the Corps for and why so suddenly.

Shortly after, Caldron did the same―leaving the Marines, but not the war. Contracted with Blackwater, a private military sector based along the east coast, Caldron worked security details and kept eyes on war criminals. The substantial pay increase and the rules of engagement were far less restricting than those of the Department of Defense. Caldron thrived in the worst possible way.

Swirling the amber liquid around, he tossed the remaining bourbon back, and stood. As he moved towards the wet bar, John handed Caldron his empty glass.

In the Corps, John Wick was a man of few words; that should have been Caldron's first warning when they entered the fighting pit together. In the twenty-six years that passed, John had not changed. Still slow to anger, and possessing a certain audacity about him, he rarely raised his voice, even when matters became climactic ― always in control. He wished he had that kind of power over his emotions.

For both men, the Marines were not enough. They parted ways and as each man found footing in their careers, communication slowed to a stop. However, fortune did not favor Caldron; married less than a year, Jennifer was alone when their home was robbed. Caldron discovered his heavily pregnant wife lying at the foot of the stairs, severely beaten and barely breathing. Though she survived the terrifying experience, it was nothing short of a miracle. Placed on a gurney and whisked away behind closed doors, hospital security staff prevented Caldron from following; four burly guards warily and sternly directed the mountain of a man to busy waiting room.

Barely keeping his rage in check, Caldron berated himself. How could this have happened? Why hadn't he given her the means to defend herself? Anxiously and impatiently, he waited for word of Jennifer's condition, his mind reeling with unanswered questions: "Why her - why now?!"

Too soon, a Nurse arrived, her troubled yet sympathetic expression sending his anxiety level to soar, his heart, already leaded with guilt, began to pound. She guided him into a private conference room, gently requesting he sit down; Caldron remained standing. His mind was having difficulty processing her calmly and gravely spoken words.

"Doctors and nurses are working to stabilize her. The physical and emotional trauma induced preterm labor; your baby is on the way..." Intimidated by his fierce countenance and large hands balled into meaty fists, she hesitantly continued, "Your wife may not make it."

Caldron's face immediately drained of blood as the room began to spin; alarmed, the Nurse helped the large man into the nearest chair.

"Is there anyone I can call for you...?"

In the end, her condition critical and prognosis deemed guarded, Jennifer gave birth.

Caldron couldn't recall the number of days they spent in the hospital. It all felt like a blur. While the police ensued an investigation, Caldron began to plot. No man, in any circumstance, would be granted any degree of pardon after breaking into his home and hurting his wife and child. His history was founded on violence and combat. He had every intention to use it to its full potential.

The more he deliberated, the more insatiable his blood lust grew.

Being thrown in prison was not enough to satisfy Caldron. More must've been done. He wanted to make a statement.

Unable to leave Jennifer's bedside, Caldron was asleep when a nurse came rushing into the hospital room, startling him and his sedated wife. Had John Wick not been immediate to follow, Caldron would have erupted in fury and thrown the woman out.

"Mr. Ryder, I told him you didn't want any visitors!" she claimed.

Stunned, Caldron looked as if he'd seen a ghost; he could not find the words to speak, much less move from his chair. His friend was alive - after these years; Caldron finally found his voice.

"What are you doing here?"

"Just checkin' up on an old friend." John muttered, as if word of Caldron's misfortune had funneled down to the infamous underground.

Caldron considered this, deliberating. How many years had it been, he wondered, studying the familiar stranger before him. John Wick bore no resemblance to the young buck Caldron knew from Corps; gone was the clean shaven face and the high-and-tight. John's still jet-black hair was much longer, his lean face sporting facial hair.

The sun hid behind the clouds, casting Jennifer's room into shadow as Caldron studied his old friend. Decidedly, John Wick was different; there was something else, something intangible ... a guarded hardness in his eyes that drove into Caldron with unnerving focus.

Out of pride and privacy, Caldron had ordered the staff to restrict visitors. Having nearly lost his wife and child in the same breath, Caldron was wrought with a maelstrom of festering emotions. It felt as if grief was waiting for that infinitesimal moment to sweep in and claim his family, leave him to empty ruins. He abhorred the thought of any of his friends witnessing him in such a state, but seeing John changed that. Caldron realized he did not want to be alone.

John Wick's arrival was a mystery at the time.

In the present time, Caldron knew now what brought the man to the hospital and how he came to possess the knowledge. It appeared the roles between the two men were also inadvertently switched; John was now the elite. Caldron, a mere grunt patrolling the war-torn streets.

The questions he had then were nothing short of paltry now. The mystery of John's arrival had long been solved. The man had come to see if his friend needed retribution; the answer was blatantly provided when he saw the state at which Caldron was in.

There was never any confirmation of his suspicions and all his stolen belongings showed upon his doorstep subsequent to their return home.

Atop the trunk was a simple note: "You owe me." -J.W.

John never gave him a price for his unprecedented services, but Caldron knew in time, he would.

Blackwater and the fabled underground were but separate beasts, they did work in close conjunction of another. The underground being the more merciless vein. More often than not, Blackwater and the like worked beyond the undergound's scope of concerns so such crossroads were frequently avoided.

On rare occasions though, they did meet. Despite the narrow separation and unwonted occurrences between the two, Caldron never saw John, but heard a great deal of his carnage. That he was calculated and merciless. A remarkable savagery hidden behind the collected countenance of a quiet, well-dressed professional.

The Baba Yaga, he would later learn.

But the fact remained: Caldron owed John and for quite some time. That time had come and as a Texan, as well as a man of his word, he intended to uphold that promise even if he had to rally the entire state for his cause. Caldron knew what it was like to come close to losing everything. As bitter and lingering as grief can be, Caldron had only a small taste.

Unfortunately, for John, the grief had claimed all of his senses, reducing him to turn to Caldron's lasting word.

Caldron withdrew from his reflection, standing before a small wet bar and decanting both John and himself another glass of bourbon. Outside, the Texas heat came as a heavy blanket along the gentle hills of limestone and granite. A mocking bird swooped down for a drowning bug against the surface of Logan's cerulean pool.

The Baba Yaga was backed into a corner, unable to differentiate friend from foe. Trust was costly and Caldron was to tread as lightly as he could until that trust was re-established. The house was picked as John's refuge for more than one reason: It was off-the-grid, self-sustainable, and protected. Comfort was also scarcely populated but was not far from any major cities. San Antonio and Austin were east of Comfort but here, no one knew John.

With John not at his most trusting times―if that had ever been the man's trait, Caldron understood the nature of his paranoia. The world was hunting him. He had been stripped of his resources as the bounty continued to loom ominously over his head; fourteen million dollars for John's life. Though the odds were unfavorably staggering, Caldron knew a great many friends willing to scrap when push came to shove. Texas men with hard hands, hell-bent hearts, and loyalty as strong as any militant brotherhood were at their disposal.

But first, he needed to convince them John was worth fighting for. Being connected to Caldron might not be enough to sway their decision. Texans looked after family and immediate friends. John was not an immediate friend. Perhaps he should consider falling under the latter category, Caldron thought.

"John," he muttered, returning from the wet bar to his seat along the couch, offering John his glass. "I know it was difficult making that call and you have no reason to trust anyone. Not now, but in the long haul, I have a few things in mind that might pull through." He patted his lap and the dog ambled across the cushions to lay against him.

"Until then...," Caldron lifted his glass. John mirroring the gesture.

"To?" John asked.

"Texas."

With the heat bearing down on her, a pressing ache throbbed behind her eyes as she marched towards her front door.

Behind her as she strode for the door was her father's truck, he had come unannounced and uninvited. The thought alone should have thrilled her, but the circumstances had changed. Caldron wasn't here to see her, his only child. The visit was not for Logan by a long shot and that was fine, truly.

It was fine, she lied to herself.

Dressed in an multi-camouflaged, government issued flight suit, Logan's dark hair was slicked back and spun into a neat bun. She paused at the door, staring at the knob as she readied herself. The double front door was entirely glass with intricate swirls of wrought iron so she couldn't bide too long; she could be seen. Caldron was unaware Logan had joined the Army. He knew she was a pilot but had taken the college route beforehand, obtaining her license and degree in a civilian field. It was spite that drove her to the recruiter's office three years ago and now the secret was about to be revealed. For a time she had prepared herself for when the moment came. But after so many years, only now had the opportunity presented itself.

Unable to withstand it any longer, she unlocked the door and stepped inside.

The last bits of discussion ended as she came through the door. She caught the end end of a toast and then all eyes were on her. Even the stag above the mantle appeared to hold its breath.

Logan paused in the doorway. The Texas heat rolling in, the sun glaring over her shoulder.

Behold! Your daughter has signed her life away, she wanted to declare facetiously.

A leather cigar chair her father purchased from Fort Worth faced the door and held the first person she made eye contact with: John Wick. Strewn leisurely across the couch was her father with a dog in his lap. He seemed happy to see her, a smile spreading across his face, until he noticed what she was dressed in.

Logan forced herself to look away.

Despite her irritation that he came to visit John instead of her, her father was still her weakness. Logan loved her him more than anything. She couldn't stay mad at him. She would try though.

Tossing her keys into a bowl, she threw her bag along the floor next to her work boots and walked into the kitchen. Holding a certain air, she strode past as if there was nothing peculiar about her arrival or her attire. It was just another day in the Ryder household. Which it was, sans the two men and a dog sitting in her living room.

Drawing the fridge opened, she grabbed a beer, twisted the cap off and took a long, heady pull.

Caldron muttered something in the living room and she brought the butt end of her bottle against the counter hard enough to interrupt his comment without shattering the glass. Her body still retained heat from her drive home, even the flight had been quite stuffy. Her gunner was far too talkative for her liking. Today was just… she sighed.

Twisting in his seat, the leather groaned as Caldron looked over his shoulder towards her.

"What the hell are you wearing?" his Texas lilt carried into the kitchen.

Around the bottle, her hand tightened. Here it goes. Caldron was a special forces Marine at one time. He was also highly observant. It wasn't a far feat to assume he'd repelled or, at least, parachuted from every airframe of helicopters and fixed wing that the American military possessed—with the exception of the Apaches and Cobras, of course.

Out of respect for her father, Logan bit back all snide remarks and comments. She had already delivered a few foul things to him over their last conversation in which the consequences had not yet laid claim to her actions. In due time.

"It's a flight suit." she muttered with a certain blasé, focusing on the sweat that ran off the side of the bottle.

A heartbeat passed. She was afraid to glance at John. Caldron was not above making a scene in front of guests.

Logan swallowed thickly. It was loud to her own ears. Her gaze skirted the foot of the stairs where she wanted to run up and take refuge in her bedroom. Unfortunately there was work to be done around the ranch. The traps needed to be checked, her dirt bike needed refueling, and she needed to ensure the property sensors were still functioning after the other night's break-in. Her father knew about the occurrence, but whether there was a plan of action he wished to take, she didn't know. At this point, Logan assumed she would always be the last to know.

"I know what it is," he grumbled. "But why are you wearing it?"

Logan took the bottle, bringing it long neck down and bottom-end up. She chugged the rest, foam and all, before throwing it in the trash. She headed for the garage. Back into the sweltering heat, she marched across her front yard towards the garage that house Caldron's car collection and her dirt bike and several neglected four-wheelers.

From behind, she heard the front door slam; her father was not done with her.

"Logan Michelle!" his authoritative voice barked, spreading out through the oppressive heat. A martin bird darted out of its birdhouse, flying for the tree tops.

Logan slowed to a stop, propping her hands akimbo. When she turned, from the across the lawn, father's face was unmistakably red and terse. Under his disappointed gaze against her spiteful resolute, she felt a tightness swell in her chest, a knot ascend her throat, while the remorseful burn stole her cheeks.

Rigorous training aside, Logan was not immune to human emotion. She still suffered from insecurities like doubt and a worry. In the end, Caldron was her father. The last thing she ever wanted was to deliberately disappoint him. But she was mad, so mad. True, it was spite that brought her to that moment before the recruiters office, but not until now had she felt pangs of regret.

In the end, she only wished to make him proud and currently, she had not.

"I'm sorry," she blurted before he could fully reprimand her. His hands fell to his side as Logan lowered her gaze to the ground. Cowboy boots peeked out beneath the frayed ends of his faded blue jeans. He came to her, closing the distance.

"I just," she capsized and the sunshine rippled. The grass of her lawn melded with the large white truck parked next to hers. "I did it out of spite. I missed―"

The words caught in her throat as she tried to force the tears back. It was useless, they broke free from the corners of her eyes.

Logan tried to catch them, to stop them before Caldron could see how upset she was. She also didn't want John seeing her in such a manner. A man with his disposition would see her as emotional and exhausting. In truth, she still wanted to be of use in the eyes of her father and John.

In a heartbeat, her father's arms came around her in a tight embrace, squeezing the air from her lungs, disabling her ability to weep as he held her.

Here was her home, her sanctuary. Where her qualms and questions no longer plagued her. A place where the world could be burning down in a firestorm of sulfur and brimstone but as long as she remained here, her safety was assured.

Logan threw her arms around him, holding herself together by embracing the one person who meant so much to her. She breathed in his cologne, refreshing every memory the scent alone elicited.

"I don't know why you're crying," he huffed nonchalantly, gripping her and giving her a gentle shake. "I didn't raise a crybaby!"

Against the tears, Logan laughed. His arms around her tightened, if it were possible. Like the times she was small, she relaxed her knees, forcing him to hold her up. He swung her around with a grunt and placed her back onto her feet.

"Now c'mon," he chirped, steering her back to the house. "I'm a little ticked off you didn't tell me sooner, but I'm alright with your decision. Are you happy?"

For a moment, Logan wondered how to answer that. Was she happy? She never really thought of it in that way. In a sense, she was content but was she happy?

"I am," she muttered with indecision. The hesitation fell onto deaf ears.

"Well, good!" They reached the front door. "Now give John a tour of the house, will you? I'll start cooking."

Logan lead John throughout the estate while Caldron remained downstairs in the kitchen, preparing dinner. She took John upstairs, showed him the balcony that started at her bedroom and ran a length towards the small reading alcove directly above the patio. John was familiar with his room so she saw it unnecessary. Next she led him to the office where the reading nook resided. The alcove was entirely glass and presented a breathtaking view of the hill country and the wide, blue sky.

"I don't know if you're aware," she said, quietly admiring the stretching land. "But Texas has a little bit of everything." Turning away from the sweeping hills, she lead him back downstairs. He'd seen the kitchen, the dining room, and living room already, but it was underground she was eager to reveal. Altogether, the house offered 4 bedrooms, 5.5 baths, a basement and came to nearly 10,000 square feet.

Reaching the ground floor, she led him behind the creme marble staircase to another shut door. They took the stairs beyond it, descending into the level below. At the bottom was a thick, black vault door. John leaned against the wall as Logan entered the access code. Heavy steel rods disengaged with an audible thud just as a small light turned green above the key panel. Logan grabbed the polished spoke handle and yanked. The heavy door yawned open, allowing Logan and John to slip into impenetrable darkness. Flipping a light switch, a narrow fluorescent light bar across the room flickered on. Before the pair, the soft light illuminated a large cave of weaponry.

Hanging from pegs, the arsenal lined all four walls.

Assault rifles. Shotguns, both tactical and hunting. Break over, over-under, pump and semi-automatic. Pistols, single and double action, some dual. Bolt actions rifles and lever actions rifles. Brands ranging from Glock, Berreta, Benelli, and KELTEC. There was Sig Sauer, Smith & Wesson, Remington, and Ruger. Savages and Henry's. Even the flashier Daniel Defense rifles which attracted the more ostentatious eye. There was hardly a tried and tested manufacturer on the market that the Ryders did not own. Around the floor were ammo cans ranging from smaller calibers such as .22 to larger, more devastating rounds like the .50 BMG.

Lining the room against the walls were large thick tool boxes the size of desks serving as also workbenches where Logan spent her free time tinkering, disassembling, reassembling and modifying when the ranch didn't demand tending to. On a much more discreet level, and mostly just as a hobby, Logan also partook in gunsmithing. In a variety of the drawers were smaller arms, silencers, muzzle brakes/compensators, flash suppressors, and mitigators. Clips, scopes, flip-up sights, holsters in leather or kydex, and pistol grips.

Still reeling from the rekindle of her father's affection, Logan allowed herself to smile. Turning to John, who lingered on the short steps, she gestured to the impeccable array of weaponry.

"Impressive." John muttered, slowly absorbing the collection, but not entirely moved. He seemed distracted.

"Isn't it?" Logan lowered her smile, still a rather guarded person. She wasn't sure how much of herself she was willing to show John, considering there wasn't much he'd shown her. "There's a pantry in the back where we store dry food and non perishables in case of an emergency." She knelt down, picking up a piece of hardware from the floor and placing it on a nearby workbench. "Do you happen to have a favorite?"

"I'm partial for Glocks." he told her.

Logan winced as if she was insulted.

"Glocks?" she scoffed.

Grimacing, John stepped down, still leaning against the wall for support. He started hunching over.

"Are you feeling alright?" Logan furrowed her brow. Was he about to be sick?

"Not really," he grunted.

"Here," Logan turned, grabbing a nearby stool and setting it down next to him. "What's wrong? Did your stitches tear?"

"I think so," he sat down, his hand pressing to his side where small flecks of blood soaked through.

Logan went to the pantry room and retrieved a first aid kit they kept down there. When she returned, John had already removed his t-shirt and was investigating the source. Along his back were several tattoos she'd never seen. An assembly of words across his shoulders caught her immediate attention: Fortis Fortuna Adiuvat.

With recognition, the phrase was not lost to her; her father had the very same thing tattooed across his chest.

Coming to John's side, she spotted the loosened stitches next to his navel and popped the kit opened. Small trickles of blood ran down, soaking into the hem of his pants. In the blue lighting, the crimson rivulets came as a deep purple.

John lifted his arm as she knelt and began removing the torn sutures. Her curiosity on the steady rise.

"Were you a Marine?" she asked as she pulled the small pieces free with surgical forceps.

"I was."

The tear was nothing severe aside from uncomfortable. Then again, he was so beaten and bruised, she assumed he was aching all over. Upstairs in her bedroom she had pain killers she could give him for the ache. Logan took an alcohol pad and dabbed the site quickly. His torso flexed against the cold, bristling under her touch. Once it dried, she applied iodine and began resuturing the wound. She couldn't help but notice the faint trail of dark hair that led from the bottom of his navel and downward, disappearing beyond the fabric of his pants. She tore away her gaze.

"My father was a Marine, as well." she added, finishing up.

When she stood, John met her eyes. The pale blue light bar across the room barely offered enough illumination and threw layers of shadow over John's expression. Logan felt a quickening beneath her chest. What was happening to her?

"That's where I met your father," he explained with a tone so low and sultry, it stirred something deep within Logan. Against the low light and casting shadows, black and abysmal were his eyes; a perpetually unreadable expression. Apart of Logan wanted to crawl into his head and rifle through his secrets. Another part was also afraid of what she might find.

Hexed, she swallowed. The words barely a whisper as they stumbled over her lips. "How old are you?"

John broke eye contact to examine his new sutures, "How old do you think I am?"

Blinking, freed of the immobility that claimed her, Logan took a step back lest he captivate her a second time. She gave his question some thought. Her father was in his mid-fifties. John didn't appear to be that old, even despite the small bit of gray that peppered his beard. Caldron had mentioned John's interference around the time of her birth, that alone made him 26 years older. If he served in the Marines, the youngest he could have joined was 17.

"45?" she guessed carefully.

"Close enough." He placed his shirt back on and stood.

As he moved, Logan took in a deep breath, hoping a scent rolled from John, something she could savor. Instead, she smelled her father's cooking drifting from upstairs into the basement. In response, her stomach gurgled.

"Are you hungry?" she swiftly changed the subject, feeling breathless and confined.

"I am."

That was her cue. Turning away, she drew the door open for him. As he passed, she shut the light off and locked the vault.

A huge thanks to Holly for basically being my editor. I spilled my guts and she eloquently sifted through them. Not all heroes wear capes.

Faedulin: Welcome to the addictive FF world! I'm flattered that this story is what convinced you to join our cult haha! Trust me, I want a steamy, unforgivable session between John and Logan, but I want it to be believable. I feel like John is introverted and so is Logan. Neither would still sling clothes off and have at each other, not without establishing a connection.

together25x3: Thank you so much!

Sylarfan: I'm very glad to hear that. I hope I can continue to deliver an enticing story.

Guest(s): Thank you for the kind reviews, as always!