a lengthy chapter sitting at about 3.6k. please enjoy!
xxx
"This life follows you, clings to you, infects everyone who comes close to you."
The reinforced glass door of a local pawn shop chimed a single carillon of a cowbell just as Caldron entered. Dressed in a white Oxford button down, tight against his chest and biceps, and tucked into a pair of gray slacks, Caldron was there to conduct business. It was the first step of many towards a long, carefully thought out and executed process.
The man of the hour in his late fifties appeared from the back room, a lower receiver clutched in his rough, tattooed hands; muscular stature, brown hair slicked back in a high-and-tight, and just as deadly as Caldron Ryder.
"Holy hell . . . !" the man chuckled, the sound deep and throaty. Setting the parts down on the glass counter, he placed his hands wide on the countertop, and let out a low whistle, critically appraising his friend before he continued "Someone's back from the dead."
Caldron smiled sheepishly, gesturing you caught me with his arms. "How've you been, Kennedy?" he grinned, watching his friend come around from behind the counter, his large hand extended.
Their firm handshake turned into hearty embrace, clapping each other across the back before stepping away. Kennedy respired; the waxed ends of his mustache tilted upwards as he smirked, "Why, just livin' the dream." A modern day Doc Holliday.
"Heard you got something pretty in . . . ?" Following Kennedy to the sales counter, Caldron picked up a knife sharpener, eyeing the small wedge of blades as he spoke. "Mind if I see it?"
"Only if you promise to buy it." Kennedy replied, before turning and disappearing into the back. He called over his shoulder, "I've got one with a scope and without. Pick your poison?"
"I ain't no damned casual, Kennedy." Caldron scoffed, replacing the sharpener into its bucket.
Kennedy returned with a rifle—scope included— in his hands.
"Here she is." He pulled the charging handle back, locked the bolt to the rear and checked the chamber before handing it over.
"Very nice," Caldron cooed, grabbing the heavy assault weapon. He positioned his hand firmly along the guardrail and leaned, bringing the butttock firmly into the pocket of his shoulder. He aimed, feet automatically positioned, and whispered,"Beautiful."
"Right? Sig actually matched the ballistics for the scope." Kennedy reached across the counter to tap the scope's reticule dial with his fingertip. "This is a .556, so the drop compensation will be different if you swapped to another caliber. Tedious adjustments, but fucking precise. That's a SIGM400 Predator rifle and the scope is a Whiskey 3 3-9x40."
Caldron dropped the rifle to a low ready, judging the weight and how it would affect time in the field. "Kinda heavy, don't 'cha think?"
Kennedy shrugged, undeterred. "It's a hunting rifle, plus lesser recoil." crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned against the counter, watching Caldron squeeze the handguard, feeling its sharp edges beneath the weight.
"Don't matter none what I think; what do you think?" he asked, anticipating an inevitable purchase.
Deliberating, Caldron pursed his lips. "I like Sig Sauer, and my daughter is a huge fan; what I'm really wanting's something I can reach out and touch someone with," he muttered, swinging the rifle up a second time, fluidly aiming down sights. Recognizing the parlance, Kennedy's curled mustache rose again in a wicked grin, his weathered, blue eyes glinting with mischief. "I'm familiar with that tone. Gimme a sec."
Caldron carefully placed the rifle down as Kennedy disappeared into the back room again. He returned with a bolt-action rifle in hand, and proudly ticked off the weapon's features.
"This is ArmaLite's AR-30A1 in .300 Win Mag. Five round capacity, twenty-four inch barrel with a two-stage trigger. It don't come with a scope, though. Of course, I can always fix you with one." Kennedy reverently handed the weapon over for Caldron's inspection. Caldron took the rifle carefully, critically appraising its vaunted details, sliding the bolt lever back and forth, admiring its smooth mechanics. "That's some boom stick; if I buy a Sig scope, will they adjust it to a .300?"
"They sure will."
For a bolt-action hardware, it felt lighter than the assault rifle; Sig Sauer was revered for making entirely metal weapons, Caldron knew. It looked good, and it felt even better. A grin tugged at the corner of his lips as he pointed the muzzle towards the floor. He hadn't come to the shop for the weapon alone, but as a means for reestablishing an old friendship―the beginning of a very tedious task. Caldron, of course, had a slew of close friends he could turn to, but more importantly, he needed to reacquaint himself with those he'd lost contact with. The more, the merrier.
Kennedy was an Army Ranger in the days of old, and a damn good one, too. The man retired, built himself a business selling weapons and accessories outside of San Antonio. As his team's sniper, Kennedy was well versed in long-range shooting and had a helluva time making things bleed.
Caldron wanted perimeters maintained when the proverbial 'shit hit the fan'. Attaching a Sig scope would lure Logan to it like a moth to flame; she was an easy-to-please shooter. He knew John can handle himself; what Caldron really wanted, was Kennedy's keen eyes and to tap into his friend's network of cohorts. Securing the Ranger's help would give Caldron unlimited access to other snipers living under the radar, as is customary for their ilk.
"Does this have a threaded barrel?" Caldron inquired, reaching for his wallet in the back pocket of his slacks.
"It sure does," Kennedy eyed him suspiciously. "What d'you need a silencer for?"
Caldron shook his head, sighing, "I got some people tryin' to hunt on my daughter's property. It's really pissin' me off." Technically, he wasn't lying.
"No shit?" Kennedy chuckled. "How is Logan by the way? Still flying?"
Caldron grinned, "She sure is. I'm sure you'll like this: she up and joined the damn Army, the little shit."
Kennedy's eyes flew open, intrigued. "What's she flyin'?"
"Ah, I don't know. I didn't ask; she was all upset when I found out. I didn't want to pry."
"Hell of a child, I tell you. She married yet?"
Taken aback, Caldron's mind went blank. Logan― married? Kennedy sniggered and then guffawed at the bald man's obvious discomfiture.
Blinking several times, he finally stammered, "Uh- well, uh no, actually. She's not." Logan had plenty of time to wait for the right man, Caldron mentally assured himself.
However...
That seemed to surprise Kennedy even more than Logan joining the military, and he stopped laughing at his friend. "Well . . . guess she just ain't found the right man t'keep up with her," he drawled, nodding at his own sage advice.
The right man...
He didn't exist―what 'right man' was even worthy of his daughter? No one he could imagine off the top of his bald head and not anyone capable of 'keeping up with her.'
Except one...
"I guess she hasn't," Caldron murmured; a terrible idea was budding in his head as he handed his credit card over. He'd never once considered whether or not Logan wished to marry. As her father, such events were at the very back of his mind. Albeit, she was getting older, onto her twenty-seventh birthday in the fall. Caldron chewed his lip, hearing, but not really listening to Kennedy's rambling as he boxed the rifle and completed the necessary paperwork.
Against his better judgement, Caldron pondered why he came to the shop in the first place: the brewing storm, the indifference and automatic declination his friends would respond with, when they realized their subject was neither immediate friend nor family.
Nothin' more'n a stray.
No, John was not an immediate friend; however, because Logan directly transfused John with her blood, Caldron's blood literally flowed through Wick's veins as well. It was a technicality that realistically could not qualify John for the assistance Caldron sought from his cohorts; however, there was a way. . . . the only way to address that minor detail―the obvious answer would be for John to . . . become family. Caldron determined that the past would, indeed, have sway over the future―John's future. He would personally see to it.
"Actually," Caldron blurted, going full throttle into a bold lie, "She's talking to a real good friend of mine."
"Oh, is she now?" Kennedy stilled, his interest greatly piqued; he wasn't above enjoying a good piece of gossip from a trusted source.
"Yep," he blurted, hoping if he spoke quickly, the sooner the lie would be over. "'Member that infantry Marine I sparred with back in the day?" The story had spread like wildfire. Caldron had caught plenty of flak because of his stunning defeat; he wasn't embarrassed though. John became a good friend, and later―the very person to execute the unthinkable. In the end, losing that fight saved his wife and child, of that, Caldron was fully convinced.
"Son, I sure do ―why, y'got your hairier-than-your-bald-head, flat ass whooped ―whoooooped, I tell you; why I clearly recall that skinny grunt servin' you a heapin' high slice o' humble pie!" Kennedy crowed with glee; hooting with laughter, Kennedy never tired of reminding Caldron of his very public, very humbling event.
Caldron lifted both eyebrows suggestively, allowing Kennedy to draw the inevitable conclusion. The mustachioed man's laughter trailed off when Caldron remained silent.
Kennedy blinked.
"Him?" Realizing incredulously, he slapped a hand against the counter and started cackling. "Boy―I tell you, God's got a damn good sense o'humor! Hot damn, if I got my ass whooped by a regular grunt, I'd hand the man my Ranger scroll on the spot!"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah―you're enjoyin' this ain't you?" Caldron grumbled.
"Yessir, damn straight, I am!" Kennedy retorted, grinning widely.
"Well c'mon now― you want my money or not? You're doing a shit job with this 'Customers are always right' crap. Don't you make commission?"
Wiping the corner of his eyes, Kennedy's cackling subsided to a weary groan, "Man, oh, man. Alright; well, you're good t'go on the paperwork. Hey, you wanna get any ammo while you're here?"
Caldron sighed as he gave it some thought. "Might as well."
He turned then, eyeing the shelves of neatly stacked ammunition. Kennedy had everything a man would need―from brass to battle buddies just as reckless and dangerous as he.
"Kennedy," Caldron muttered, staring at the shelves, the proverbial cogs turning.
"Yessir?"
He turned, eyeing his old friend. "How much do you miss it?"
Caldron did not have to elaborate upon the topic he regarded. Another sly grin wrinkled Kennedy's eyes, lips curling, baring his straight, white teeth below his peppered, waxed mustache "Every damn day! My ghillie suit still fits . . . an' I miss havin' good reason t'wear it." he replied softly.
Caldron correctly assumed as much; it was just his luck that he was right. Kennedy loved his days in the Army. He was ruthless, often throwing aside his weapons to fight solely with a knife. The man was wild as they come, and Caldron admired that berserker quality.
"What if . . . I told you, I had something coming up that just might be of interest to you? Somethin' that would require a man of your . . . particular skillset to achieve?"
A ominous, darkening overcast loomed over the southern horizon, quickly spreading northward. Gusty winds listed the treetops, rustling their branches while cooling the sweat upon Logan's brow.
She needed something mind numbing and laborious ―something to keep the lingering guilt and embarrassment at bay; tending to the ranch was the solution.
What was she thinking?
Perhaps the problem was: she wasn't.
Her memory replayed their . . . encounter in an endless loop, and it only worsened her disposition, setting her cheeks aflame, her pride burning with humility as she savagely dug out a portion of her fence. Dry rot claimed several of posts, weakening their ability to hold up the barbed wire. Only three post were affected; of course, the first one was giving her the most trouble.
This fence line followed the highway; every so often, a car would pass by then disappear into the horizon. A wheelbarrow filled with replacement wood waited behind her as she dug through the packed soil. Any other day, the arduous farm work would have abhorred her. Unfortunately, today she felt she needed a little bit of abuse, anything to knock some sense into her.
The wind kicked up, blowing loosened strands of hair into her eyes, which she swiped away, growing frustrated with the buried stump. Sweeping her tangled, windblown hair to one shoulder, she hurriedly weaved it into a single braid, unable to capture the short strands around her temples; the tendrils of hair, damp from sweat.
Using the heel of her boot, Logan kicked at the post, hoping to jar it loose. The stump jutted out far enough to grab hold off; freeing it from the clinging earth remained the issue.
Dropping to her knees, Logan wrapped her gloved hands around the post and yanked. It didn't budge. Undeterred, she pushed and pulled, trying to shake it loose from the packed dirt, but her hands slipped instead. She flew back into a pratfall, landing on her bottom with an 'oomph!'
Momentarily defeated, Logan sat there, glaring at the protruding stump while she fought back her swelling sense of shame; it did not help matters that Logan was a literal hot and sweat-drenched mess: her knees were scraped and dirty, her clothes and the edges of her steel-toed work boots were caked and spattered with mud; adding insult to her injured, miserable state, was that she was very, very hungry; she skipped breakfast and did not replenish the dirt bike's saddlebags' emergency stash of protein bars; Logan was a truly pitiful sight to behold. Against the small of her back, the hard, metallic pressure of her Ka-Bar's hilt reminded Logan she could always dig the bugger out; doing so would quickly dull the blade.
Sighing, she straightened her legs out against the hard soil and hung her head against her chest, the very picture of defeat. The wind kicked up again. Logan listened for the chimes hung from her patio, but she was too far away. She was at one end of her roughly thousand-acre property, placing her just under a mile from her house.
Off to the side, was Logan's trusty dirt bike, patiently resting against its kickstand. Despite forgetting to refuel it again, the contraption somehow managed to transport her without issue. Remaining optimistic, she hoped it'd get her back to the house, as well. The very thought of returning home, and to John, made Logan's stomach drop to her feet. All the previously fluttering butterflies now felt like a pile of lead weights in the pit of her belly. Studying the twisting oak trees and short, stunted mesquites, Logan briefly considered digging a grave deep enough to bury herself―and her humiliation beneath their large, gnarled roots.
Even now, the sensation of his lips and mouth against hers impossibly lingered, as did the bristly feeling of his beard against her face and beneath her fingers. She couldn't shake from her mind, even if she carved them out with her Ka-Bar. John Wick left Logan bewildered by her own actions and completely mortified. Logan was not necessarily inexperienced when it came to romance. She wasn't unattractive― far from it; young, healthy, intelligent and athletic . . . and she looked very good in a white bikini. Being an only child only increased Logan's appeal tenfold, for she had no overprotective siblings to watch over her―or compete with, when taking possession of her eventual inheritance―she is the sole heiress to the sizable Ryder estate. Logan Ryder had nothing to lose and so much to gain.
During her teenage years and well into high school, Logan did go on a date or two with boys she considered potential; however, it did not take long for her to realize they weren't truly interested in her. The impressive house, her father's money― wisely invested, steadily contributed to her already sizeable dowry; the Ryder name alone lured many fortune hunters. As a result, Logan channeled her energies in other areas; excelling in her academic studies, seeking ways to win her then-mostly-absent father's approval, and her passion: learning to fly. Her social life consisted of training in the art of Krav Maga; Logan had no time to be lonely, when her mind and body were kept busy gaining knowledge and brutally forging herself into what she knew Caldron would approve of. Her father, of course, thought otherwise. Thanks to him, because of her continued disinterest to seek a boyfriend of her own choosing, he brought to his daughter, the 'boyfriends' he was convinced she needed in her life.
During her childhood summer vacations, all throughout her teenage years, at her mother's insistence, Logan attended finishing courses and fine etiquette workshops; she could sip a variety of tea from delicate bone china just as daintily as any newly-introduced-to-high-society debutante; just as easily as she swigged her beer, Logan could ballroom dance. Though fully capable of flawlessly setting a formal table seating, using all the heavy silverware in her mother's fine china cabinet and repeat―in detail, the expectations fine manners and etiquette demanded, when advised by her father of a potential suitor's impending visit to the house, Logan conveniently forgot all her high society training; she did not practice proper oral hygiene, and she did not use her deoderant. Logan deliberately made herself as unappealing as possible. Whether it be her dour, shrewish, indifferent attitude, or ill-manners at the table: chewing her food as a cow does its cud, picking and dislodging food from her teeth, sweeping it away with her fingers or fingernails before wiping it on the table ―if at all.
In the end, the boys Caldron had hoped would spark Logan's interest, called less frequently; in time, any efforts to secure a date with the lovely and talented Logan Ryder markedly lessened, and eventually ceased; she knew her father meant well, however, she hated the prospect of it all; she did not want to end up like him―with three unhappy and failed marriages. The men who weren't interested in the Ryder estate, and all it entailed, simply failed to elicit, much less hold her interest.
Her father was keen to her. Caldron was well aware of her antics; disappointed, he made no attempt to correct them, and he ceased all well-meaning, but misguided matchmaking efforts. Given his silent consent, Logan assumed he was satisfied with being the only man in her life; she certainly was.
Until, of course…
Logan snuffed the thought, too proud to admit such a detail, even to herself. Of course, fate cruelly placed the one man Logan desired far beyond her reach, twisting the proverbial knife by rendering John Wick emotionally unavailable, and . . . unobtainable.
Like the stiff breeze blowing across the land, Logan's shame spread across her very being, much like the rapidly approaching storm. Bending her knees, she planted her works boots against the dirt and picked herself up from the ground, dusting her rump off; briefly glancing up at the sound of obnoxiously loud, pounding music blaring from a dark truck as it drove by. Logan returned her attention to her task; glaring at the jutting stump that seemed to challenge her. She grumbled, trudging towards it for another go.
The truck slowed; the engine's high pitched whine alerted Logan, when the driver shifted the vehicle into reverse, and began erratically driving backwards; quickly, she backed away from the fence line, gauging the truck's speed and distance before they reached her. She did not have to wait long. The brakes locked and the wheels froze as they came to a screeching stop directly before her.
Out of the driver's window, the barrel of a pistol emerged.
y'all like cliff hangers? heh.
Holly, thank you. I'd shower you with hearts but fanfic will just put a bunch of '3's.
Inkandtrees: I'm glad you enjoyed that. You can definitely see a favoritism between Winston and John. He showed Wick mercy when Perkins was not so lucky.
jayjay0815: YASSS, it makes complete sense to me! I feel like Winston has a LOT of power. So much to play with.
Sylarfan: Ugh, John Wick is so enigmatic. It makes me feel so good when someone tells me I'm keeping everyone well within character.
AydenW: HELLO, YES THANK YOU! I'm glad it was intense. IT WAS INTENSE WRITING IT!
Chase Ford: Thank you!
Guest: YAY! Not gonna lie, writing John's POV is intimidating.
I hope y'all enjoyed it. As you can see, next chapters gonna go out with a bang. PUN. INTENDED.