foreword: this is a rather long chapter, so please do get comfortable and enjoy!

In the furthest corner, beneath amber lights tracing dark coffered ceilings, sat a man. Languid piano riffs floated through the historical architect like a rich fragrance, entrancing and hypnotizing. Conversations are hushed; the patrons relaxed, mesmerized by the warm, inviting atmosphere offered by none other than the Continental Hotel.

Winston, owner and proprietor of said establishment, sat alone in his private booth. A smoldering cigar rested in a heavy crystal ashtray; a scotch, neat, sat beside it while a leather bound ledger lay open in his hands. Lifting his blue eyes from its weathered pages, reading glasses perched atop his nose, he watched the man maneuver his way around the tables. Folding the book, Winston sat back and took a sip of his scotch, savoring the smooth taste as the impeccably dressed, dark-skinned man in his late forties reached his booth.

"Good evening, Sir." Charon greeted the Owner.

"Have a seat." Winston murmured.

"Thank you, Sir," Charon sat and laced his long fingers together upon the table.

"I have news." Winston's Concierge and right hand man had proven his uncanny resourcefulness once again; it was but one of his many valuable talents. Winston raised his eyebrows with mild interest.

"You do? Pray, tell."

"Our suspicions are correct; Mr. Wick resides in Texas." His quiet words, elegantly articulated with a charming, lilting accent, were for Winston's ears alone. Winston could not fully suppress the smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"How is he?"

"Still alive, Sir. That is all I could gather."

"Excellent." Winston smiled widely.

John Wick; alive. His most favorable guest. Such a tragedy business concluded the way it did; as all Assassins knew, they lived by a code. If not for rules, man would be no better than beasts.

Speaking of beasts...

"What news of the dog?" Winston queried. "Was it delivered to him?"

"I believe so; however . . . " Charon paused with disappointment.

Winston found his eyebrows lifting again. That could only mean one thing. "I take it the mini Ms. Perkins did not follow my advice."

"No, sir. She did not." The statement was enough; the girl was dead, despite his strict instructions to deliver the dog and nothing else. She'd come to the Continental one day, asking after her older sister; if Winston had to guess, the younger Perkins could not have been older than twenty two. When Charon located John's dog wandering the outskirts of New Jersey, Winston believed her to be the perfect candidate for the task: unknown and unconnected to the ruthless and unscrupulous denizens patronizing the Continental. Driven to find answers of her missing sister, and foolishly impetuous by nature, the younger Perkins held no connection to the underground sans her late sister. The underworld would not miss - much less look for her; thus, John Wick remained safe at his undisclosed location. As safe as any fugitive could be, while professional killers en masse tirelessly scoured the world for him. Winston's intuition warned him the younger Perkins would not heed his warnings.

The girl was dabbling in affairs dangerously beyond her mental and physical abilities - matters best left to those bereft of conscience and possessing a questionable moral compass. She was but a mere child caught up in the tempestuous whirlwind of her older sister's dark profession. But, Winston sighed, the apple never does fall far from the tree. In the end, the younger Perkins stood not a chance against John Wick.

"I warned her, did I not?" Winston murmured; he had to be sure. Picking up his glass of scotch, observing the way the thick liquid listed to the side as he turned it, the older man met the Concierge's steady gaze.

"You did, Sir." Charon affirmed, with a slight tilt of his closely shaven head.

Winston snorted a laugh, his lips twisting into a wry smile as he spoke, "I say … John Wick was never one to kill a woman. Are you certain it was he who ended her?"

"I do not know the exact details," Charon explained, "When I attempted to contact her, the phone line was dead."

"Very well." With a devilish gleam in his eyes, Winston took a swig of his drink, breathing around the scotch's smooth burn.

"Find the last location of activity from her phone. I want to know exactly where Mr. Wick is hiding in this wild, wild west Texas so proudly claims to be."

Charon stood, adjusting the ends and smoothing any wrinkles of his well-tailored suit, "It would be my pleasure, Sir."

Aurelio was focused on a mangled drive shaft when the chop shop's phone began to ring. Its shrill, insistent report bounced off the aluminum walls, tearing him away from his work. Annoyed, he strode across the stained concrete and plucked the phone from its receiver; leaning against a nearby car, he pressed the phone to his ear.

"This is Aurelio."

"Good evening, Sir." A succinct, accented voice politely replied. "I apologize for calling at this hour. My name is Charon; I am a representative for the Continental Hotel. Are you familiar with the establishment?"

"I am." Aurelio said, his expression knitting with concern.

"Excellent. You have possession of a particular 1969 Mach 1 Mustang in gunmetal black."

"Yeah, well -." Aurelio was becoming more confused as the conversation progressed. "What's this all about? If you're tryin' t'buy the vehicle, it's not for sale," he added quickly.

"No, sir. I wish to pay for the restorations, and then have you personally deliver it to its rightful owner."

"Deliver it..?" Aurelio echoed incredulously. He paused and looked around his shop to ensure he was alone. "Y'mean to John Wick?!"

"Yes, to Mr. Wick." the voice confirmed. Taken aback, Aurelio's mind went blank momentarily. He hadn't expected such a call regarding his old friend.

Which meant John Wick was still alive!

The last news Aurelio heard of his friend, was the man's inevitable sentence of excommunicado from the very syndicate he was now speaking with. John fled the city, as any sane man would, when a lucrative bounty for his life warped into an international manhunt.

"Holy shit..." he breathed. "W-well, where is he? Is he alright?"

"I do not have the details, Sir. I do believe that he is…alive and that his is location resides in south central Texas. Do you agree to the terms I have proposed?"

"Yeah -!" Aurelio blurted. "Yes I'll do it!" Of course he would. John was his friend.

"I am very glad to hear. I will make the financial arrangements."

Click

The call ended and Aurelio looked around, finding himself still alone within his chop shop. Mechanically, he replaced the phone onto its receiver. Glancing across the shop, he eyed the mangled drive shaft pulled from a vibrantly red Lotus Spyder; it would have to wait.

Upholstery and carpeting replaced, the interior fully restored, John's Mustang was down to its last repairs. Unsure how soon he'd have to make the long road trip, Aurelio glanced at his wristwatch, then to John's car. The windshield was still smashed and needed replacement. The tires were deflated; save for painting and minor cosmetic repairs, not much else remained to do. He could perform the maintenance alone, but it would take all night. He glanced at his watch again; cursing beneath his breath, Aurelio removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and headed for the gunmetal black Mustang.

Time passed without further incident at the Ryder residence. With the exception of another person in her home, Logan's daily routine remain unchanged; she worked while John healed. Gunshot wounds required more time to mend than others - aside from fractures and broken bones, which luckily, John did not have. It troubled Logan how her houseguest-turned-roommate wore clothes similar to her father's. In an effort to learn more about the enigmatic man through his clothing and style preference, Logan asked John what he liked to wear.

"Something comfortable."

John's noncommittal, unrevealing answer frustrated her. Given his vague response, Logan purchased clothing she considered fitting for ... situations they may find themselves in. Painfully conscious of the contracted killers relentlessly hunting John Wick, she wanted him comfortable but prepared - and protected. A more selfish portion of Logan also wanted to see how the fabric hung from his hips and across his toned shoulders.

She gathered Undertech gear for holstering weapons, knives, clips and other manufacturer related articles. Considering how Glock was John's weapon of choice, Logan purchased for his wardrobe, several Sig Sauer t-shirts - her weapon of choice. For pants, she selected a variety of khaki, denim, dark blue and black tactical pants, whose pockets and hidden holsters would not hinder full-range mobility. Logan secretly hoped the tactical purchases made on John's behalf were to his liking. In the end though, she could care less, for her objective was for John Wick to be able-bodied, combat ready and appropriately attired with maximum movement.

Logan stood near the edge of the swimming pool while her father tended the grill. Overhead, the bright sun gleamed and danced upon the surface of the rippling pool, while the patient dog sat upon his haunches, licking his chops hopefully at Caldron's feet. The tantalizing aroma of steak and peppers wafted on the warm air.

John stood nearby, gazing at the sloping, limestone hills in the distance, his hands resting in the pockets of his new slacks. Logan studied his tall form; admiring him from afar, she is inordinately pleased with herself. John cleaned up very nicely. Before Logan allowed her thoughts to carve ideas, she tore her a gaze from his dark hair and into the pool. Under a knitted brow, her expression grew pensive; tilting her head, she focused on the water, curiously peering into its depths.

Something was at the bottom of the pool.

Narrowing her eyes, she knelt by the edge to get a closer look. Her father glanced up in time to see that something in the pool commanded his daughter's rapt attention.

"What's wrong?" he called, squinting over the smoke rising from the grill, his own curiosity piqued. The dog at his feet whined and swung his tail to and fro, staring eagerly up at Caldron.

"I don't know," she murmured, focusing beyond the water to the bottom of her pool. "I can't tell, but … something's down there."

Caldron set his tongs down and ambled over, drawing a hand towel from across his shoulder to wipe both hands. Logan stood just as he came to her side, her eyes still trained on the water.

"Where?" her father squinted, jutting his head down.

"Don't you see it?" Logan bit her lip to keep from smiling. "It's right there!"

"I don't see anything," he said, frowning; the pool's rippling water and intricate mosaic pattern made it a challenge to find what his daughter discovered.

"What is it?"

"It's you!" She pushed him.

Making sure to trap his feet as she shoved him, Logan pulled away when his arms reached out to grab her; ducking beyond his reach, Caldron fell into the pool with a mighty splash, the water silencing his indignant shouts of protest.

Logan sank to her knees at the poolside, clutching her midsection as a fit of laughter consumed her. She could barely breathe. A dull pain throbbed her side as she tried to collect herself. Her father soon emerged and began to pull himself from the pool on the other side.

"That's how you wanna be?" Caldron huffed, slinging water against the surrounding concrete. Bald head glistening wetly in the sun, his drenched red beard streamed water as he traced the edge of the pool, coming for Logan.

"Wait!" she shrieked, leaping to her feet. She ran in the opposite direction, keeping the pool between them.

"Logan," he said sternly, "Come here."

Keeping a bead on his daughter, he lunged towards the edge of the pool, darting for her. Despite his colossal frame, Caldron was quick and light on his feet, nearly snagging the ends of Logan's flailing arms as she bounded away. For reasons beyond her comprehension, Logan ran straight for John ―as if the man could prevent the inevitable. Giddy with childlike happiness, Logan was focused on evading her father and not much else. Forgotten were her secretly harbored, amorous feelings for John Wick.

Logan threw herself behind him; placing her hands upon his back, she used him as a barrier as she peeked out from behind him. John remained stock still, solid and unmoveable as Logan attempted to maneuver his body as a shield, intent on steering clear of her advancing father. The smell of steaks, onions, and roasted peppers greeted her as she hunkered carefully behind John.

"Don't drag him into this," her father warned. "You brought this upon yourself. John?"

In a blur, before Logan could react, the ground disappeared from beneath her feet. Caught up and wrapped securely in John's arms, he handed her over to her father. Logan could not believe how John quickly and efficiently handled and surrendered her; understanding the how of the puzzling man quickly took a back seat as Logan struggled to escape her inevitable fate. The sounds she emitted were a cross between screams and laughter as she thrashed against her father's unbreakable hold. He slung her over his shoulder holding her securely as he slowly walked towards the pool. Logan's eyes grew larger as the water drew closer; she doubled her efforts; wriggling madly and throwing her legs, she tugged and clawed at Caldron's shirt, wailing like a banshee.

The world pitched.

Logan briefly saw the sun before it spun away, and then - SPLOOSH!

She smacked the surface before the water engulfed her, suspending and surrounding her in a cloud of bubbles rushing towards the surface. Logan emerged; coughing and sputtering, hair plastered to her face, she pushed it away; despite herself, she threw her father a smile of pure happiness while Caldron choked with laughter. John came to stand by the pool's edge, and their eyes met. Logan expected to see his usual impassive, sphinxlike mask, the guarded, hardened reserve in John's eyes. For a fleeting moment, his expression was vacant, somehow .. vulnerable.

Her heart quickened in response before her mind caught up to the effects of his stare. Seeing John at his most unguarded moment set a flame in her heart. It was too much, too soon, too … intimate for Logan. She tore her gaze away, once again repressing unprecedented ideas. Sinking beneath the water once more, Logan swam to the other side of the pool and hauled herself out; she refused to look back.

Working through the night and well into the early morning, Aurelio's highly competent crew slowly trickled in, to discover their boss already hard at work, and they quickly pitched in to help. With their collective efforts, in short order, John's beloved car was sanded, buffed and primed, and then fitted with high performance tires. Given John's location to be somewhere in the vast Texas landscape, the wheels' all-terrain tread are well able to grip asphalt and power through clinging mud, loose gravel, dirt roads and packed clay. The Mustang's new windshield was lowered in place and installed as Aurelio polished off his fourth cup of coffee. With the utmost care, his men moved the vehicle to the painting bay. Pulling on his gear, Aurelio determinedly shook off the mental fog clouding his tired mind; tension, anxiety and anticipation tightened his shoulders, clinging to the base of his neck, yet he smoothly and steadily painted the vehicle its signature gunmetal black.

Unzipping his disposable coveralls, Aurelio removed his breathing respirator and wearily swiped at his burning, red rimmed, bloodshot eyes. Standing back, he rubbed the ache at the nape of his neck. Surveying the results, he allowed himself a tired smile of pride and satisfaction, pleased how the high gloss of the car's fresh paint gleamed beneath the shop's bright lights as it dried.

"All right, guys - nice work! Marshall, bring the curing lamps over and place 'em around this car."

Marshall, wearing blue coveralls soiled with grease and soot, grabbed two curing lamps and brought them as instructed. The lamps were positioned to face the front and rear of the vehicle. A timer was set for three hours, long enough for Aurelio to power nap while his men readied the truck for the road.

Under cover of darkness, Aurelio loaded John Wick's car onto the flatbed of his tow truck, and locked it down before shrouding it with a nondescript tarpaulin, doing his best to disguise its distinctive silhouette. Leaving detailed instructions with Marshall regarding shop affairs―for his crew's safety, a false destination point was given, before Aurelio climbed into the cab and headed southbound.

The drive alone was approximately twenty-seven hours, the route taking him through New Jersey, Philadelphia, a small portion of Delaware, and then into Virginia, before heading over into Tennessee and downward. The sprawling city and bright lights of New York were now behind him, the landscapes and weather conditions changing, and the road stretching ever onward before him, as he drove through the green mountains of Tennessee and passed the rivers of Arkansas.

At length, Aurelio finally reached the state line of Texas; however, seven hours of the journey still remained. Necessary stops to refuel and readjust the tarp, and time for himself to catch some sleep, were kept to the absolute minimum, for Aurelio was anxious to return John's car to him, lest the wrong eyes recognize the infamous vehicle.

From the east and southward direction, Aurelio passed tall pine forest and deciduous groves. Thereafter the land flattened into plains reigned by mesquite trees and thick, deeply rooted oaks. Gentle hills drifted over the horizon after he left Dallas and neared Waco. Hours later, he pierced the edges of Texas' capitol, Austin, and then the navigation system took him due west.

One hour and forty-one minutes remained of his journey. He completed the last stretch of the drive alone; Aurelio was eager to see what brought John Wick to Texas.

"Of all the friggin places…!" he muttered in disbelief as the warm wind blew through his gelled hair, his elbow resting along the window frame while he drove on.

Aurelio felt he might as well have driven to Mars. Though Texas offered its share of cities, the land between New York and Texas was dramatically different, and seemed to have no end, stretching indefinitely. The few stops he made, Aurelio found it comical every time he spotted cowboy hats, oversized belt buckles, and boots.

Was this place for real?

The Austin skyline sat on the horizon behind him, leading to wide open ranges, hills and creeks on either of him. Dallas and Austin combined could never equal, or hope to exceed the bright lights of Broadway, or the pulsating, vibrant tempo of New York living.

Nothing could compare to home…

Aurelio reached Comfort, Texas at dusk, the horizon a rapidly fading silhouette against the burning orange sunset, its fiery edges cooling to a deep, dark blue as twilight heralded the night.

Pulling into the only gas station since leaving Austin, Aurelio parked the tow truck and reached for his cell phone, certain his navigation system led him astray. It indicated he was less than seven minutes away from his destination; looking in both directions, no other car was in sight, the road eerily empty. Large, dry tumbleweeds and prickly cacti stretched in all directions, as far as the eye could see in the fading light..

With his thumb and index fingertip, he zoomed in on the small, blinking indicator, then peered into the gathering darkness. Driving was exhausting enough, scouring the all encompassing dark for a small cabin would be another trial in itself.

Before Aurelio allowed something as insignificant as mind numbing fatigue to spoil his attitude, he thought of his friend, and the dire circumstances placing Aurelio far from home, in vastly unfamiliar territory―alone in his tow truck and parked at a gas station―in the middle of nowhere. Tilting his head, Aurelio wearily eyed the '69 Mustang silently waiting atop the flat bed from the rear view mirror. He solemnly reminded himself it was John's favorite car; his only car. Furthermore, the man's life was in literal shambles. A much loved, now deceased wife; his dog, a cherished last gift from her, cruelly killed not long after. John's once peaceful home laid in ruins - destroyed. Blown up with a grenade launcher. And his car ... also destroyed, until Aurelio repaired and restored it to its former glory; hopefully the same can be done for its rightful owner.

And Aurelio sat in his truck, frustrated because he drove from New York to Texas and night had fallen; the bright stars overhead and a dim, flickering neon light of the gas station's 'closed' sign did little to keep the encroaching darkness at bay.

Seven minutes, he reminded himself.

He'd come this far.

Nightfall aside, if it meant traveling on foot to find John Wick's location, Aurelio was determined to do it.

Logan stood in the laundry room, closing the dryer door, and pressing the 'start' button; as the machine began to tumble, she closed her eyes and imagined John in his room, putting away his new wardrobe and preparing for bed. Along her shoulders and back lingered a tingling warmth, an affliction elicited by John's touch despite the passing hours. Try as she might to rationalize how their too brief contact profoundly affected her, she simply couldn't; nor could she deny the sudden, keen awareness of his touch and his warmth. She was digging herself deeper into a hole she couldn't recover from; the unwanted, unexpected yet undeniable and growing attraction Logan felt for John Wick would be her undoing, of that she was certain. He was a stranger to her, yet her treacherous heart yearned and ached like a wounded animal, begging to be placed out of its misery. The man still wore his ring … the platinum symbol of her love was still firmly in place, making it quite clear John was not ready to let the memory of his wife go.

It was that simple … John Wick was still in love with his deceased wife…

A small part of her stubbornly clung to that notion; she needed to leave him alone, he was still married. Albeit, he could easily have stepped aside, retreated into the house, or called his dog to him and observed the father and daughter from afar. But he didn't; instead… Her skin prickled at the fond memory, racing down her spine with exhilaration. Her thoughts were interrupted when the alarm sounded; Logan assumed she mistakenly pressed the wrong button when the first sensor beeped.

BEEP!

Logan turned her head towards the source, a frown knitting her brow.

Was that the sensor?

BEEP!

No, it wasn't …!

Moving quickly, Logan entered the small office space by the dining room where she kept her computer and the camera feeds. Stirring the mouse to awaken the screen, Logan leaned against the desk and peered intently at the night vision displays. A tow truck parked itself outside of the gate. Along the back, covered entirely with a tarp, she made out the shape of a vehicle.

Immediately, Logan thought of her father. Perhaps he had purchased another car to add to his collection.

If so, why have it delivered so late - why hadn't Caldron mentioned this?

Her father was not on site to confirm her suspicions. Both John and Caldron mentioned people, en mass, were looking for him. The initial girl was only a drudge sent to die trial by fire.

Straightening up, she watched a man step out and press the buzzer. Unsure of herself, Logan stilled, staring into the monitors. Perhaps meet him out there? Mindful of the men and women on the hunt for John Wick, Logan had no intentions of allowing the driver access.

Not without a gun.

The call tone rang, startling her.

As the shrill sound splintered through the quiet household, Logan deliberated whether or not to answer. Had the time finally arrived for full engagement? If so, Logan was more than ready.

Resolute, she mashed the button and spoke confidently, "Yes?"

"Ugh, good evening!" The voice was loud over the intercom, filling the large living room with an accent not local to Texas, "I'm lookin' for someone who owns this car."

A New York accent.

Upstairs, John's bedroom door opened while Logan's stomach churned with apprehension.

"What's the owner's name?"

Along the feed, the man propped his hands onto his hips, almost pacing with uncertainty. He scratched his chin and threw his hand into the air. "I―well you see, I'm kinda on a covert mission here, alright? I'm lookin' for him. He's been in some trouble and, well, I fixed his car. I wanna tell him it's ready and give it to him in person."

John appeared at the top of the stairs, lured from his bedroom by the voice. He descended the stairs quickly, coming to her side to look into the computer screen.

He took one glanced and muttered, "Let him in."

John was always laconic with his responses. She barely gave herself a second thought.

It must be someone he knows and trusts...

Entering the access code, the gate swung open.

I couldn't do this without help from Holly, holy crap!

lilmissbrave: Yes! That's what every author wants to read!

together25x5: Thank you!

jayjay0815: I appreciate your kind words.

Sylarfan: This means a lot. I'm not a huge fan of OCs, truth be told. So when I take a chance to make one, I want them human, believable. I'm glad you like Logan!

Guest: WHOA, big shoes to fill there! But I'll take it!

Thank you all for reading!