With the threats eliminated, Logan could finally calm down. Unfortunately, as she did, pain coursed it way anew throughout her body. The wound along her shoulder re-ignited, while her legs visibly trembled; weary from her adrenaline fueled exertions, her right knee began twitching uncontrollably.
The scene before her was nothing short of a crime riddled display; bullet ridden vehicles, numerous empty shell casings scattered in all directions, the sliding door to her home gaping open . . . bloodied corpses set against the backdrop of an ominously dark sky. Dropping the dead man's arm, she pulled her blade free. Blood coated her hands, and spatters of it were mottled across her thighs and clothing. Logan's tangled hair was in spectacularly wild disarray; her filthy, disheveled locks framed her grimy visage as she slowly took in the quiet results.
Logan dragged her wide-eyed gaze to John, feeling her heart soar in response at the mere sight of him. Fresh from a shower, his wet hair was slicked back, his facial hair neatly groomed. The form fitting, dark shirt hinted at his muscled arms and chest, and was untucked over neatly pressed khaki pants. The only blood Logan could see is upon his hand that gripped the bone from man's scapular compound fracture.
Though pain continued to radiate through her like a flowing tide, seeing John unharmed alleviated her emotional turmoil. They would live to see another day. Exhaustion quickly fell in step with her relief, now that his safety was verified and Logan faltered in place. Her hand gripping the Ka-Bar tightly as she stilled, too fixated was she on the pain that weaved through her, strung out from the subsiding adrenaline; it hurt to even breathe.
How did John do it? How did he manage to look so calm and composed and she couldn't?
Logan reacted like a terrified, rabid animal when the men first arrived, crawling through a creek and clambering up rocks. And then, there was John, impassive as he was steadfast.
Face shrouded with mild concentration, he nonchalantly stepped over the mangled body and stalked towards her, a man of focus. She wondered what would it take, to stir a man like John Wick. What made his heart race? Did it ever? What made him smile? Could he even?
No, Logan realized, death and gore were nothing foreign or unknown to John. It was an extension of him―in his air and his deportment. As new and startling as her evening turned, it was nothing more than trivial for him.
This sudden clarity should have frightened her―and perhaps it did; instead of repelling her, it only fueled and strengthened her infatuation, darkened it with an intense longing, desiring to understand him, to learn from him.
She wanted to feed the beast that was John Wick.
Upon reaching her, John gently peeled her bloody fingers away from the black hilt, releasing the blade from her white-knuckled grip. It clattered against the concrete as he tossed it aside. Stepping closer, his eyes methodically moved over her, taking in her wounded shoulder and every additional injury she acquired during her hazardous journey from one end of her property to the other.
Logan closed her eyes, attempting to quell the combination of sharp pains and throbbing aches, focusing on John as he examined her wounds. She felt his hands gently cup her chin, carefully tilting it in all directions, mentally cataloging every nick and rash she got when the bike crashed. He investigated the bruising along her upper arms, including the gunshot wound, which had finally stopped bleeding.
He circled her slowly; too weary and exhausted to move, much less guess his thoughts, Logan stood quietly, working to breathe around the pressing pain. Then she felt his hand brush her thick braid over her shoulder and his rough fingertips tracing across her upper and lower back, actually moving her clothing aside to view any wounds hidden beneath the fabric.
As the seconds turned to minutes, Logan's knee worsened. The faint tremble had become much more, and began quaking beneath her.
Testing its strength, she shifted her weight and it buckled immediately.
Logan braced for the hard concrete, but John's arms came around, catching her before she fell.
Sagging against him, she dragged her boots against the concrete, forcing herself to stand back up. Wincing sharply as she rose, despite her knee markedly trembling in protest, Logan stubbornly managed to stand―but not without his assistance. She must have bruised it when the bike dropped on top of her leg. But why did it hurt to breathe?
"Can you walk?" John asked, reminding Logan of the time she asked him that very question the first night they met.
Were they going upstairs? If so, probably not.
"Yeah," she murmured, "I can walk."
Determined, Logan took one step and her knee immediately collapsed, a shooting pain emanating from her injured knee spread upward, forcing a terse grunt to punch out of her mouth. Before she could fall, John carefully eased her downward, supporting her body weight; Logan swallowed a whimper. She could not allow such an admission of weakness, with John so close. That would be for later, when she was alone.
"Put your arm around me,"
John's low, gruff instruction sent shivers along her arms. Logan did not hesitate. Shamelessly, she clung to him; placing one arm behind his shoulders, the other across his chest, she laced her fingers together, and held on, glad for the excuse to touch him. Every nerve in her body screamed in pain and in excitement, but mostly pain.
Mindful of her injuries, John's upper torso dipped closer, and Logan caught a faint whiff of his rich shampoo; carefully, he placed his arms behind her knees and back, cradling her gently and securely in his arms. Against her body, Logan felt his taut chest muscles moving beneath her fingertips as John adjusted his grip upon her, avoiding contact with the worst of her injuries.
"Ready?" He asked, glancing at her.
Nodding in reply, Logan's lustful explorations vacated her thoughts as her body tensed in anticipation; she buried her head into his chest, pressing her lips against his shirt to stifle her moan of pain when he stood. Logan almost didn't catch herself in time―to stop the overwhelming urge to bite him.
Despite the circumstances, Logan's heart swelled painfully, euphoria blooming, battling her afflictions while being in John's arms. even if the scenario was a mocking caricature of what should have been a romantic experience, a dream Logan secretly longed to come to fruition, and envisioned on her wedding day: when her newly minted husband would sweep her up in his arms and carry her over the threshold of their home, to begin their lifetime of wedded bliss, except this was not a perfect world and John was not her husband.
Instead, John Wick's long, purposeful strides were carrying her through her back yard, littered with carnage and destruction, past two dead bodies, the remains of the third assailant in the wilderness, somewhere on her property. As he drew closer to the open sliding door, Logan shoved her fantasy aside. Determined to not surrender even a shred of her heart's desire to a man who did not want her, Logan refused to even glance at his face. Instead, she kept her eyes forward as they entered the house, at the exact moment her father and another man barreled through the front door.
As they drove down the highway, en route to Logan's home, Caldron tossed his phone into the cup holders within his truck's center consol, frustrated that his daughter wasn't answering the phone.
"Still no answer?" Kennedy asked from the passenger's side; arm resting out of the opened window, he was enjoying the feeling of the wind blowing through his fingertips.
"Naw," he muttered, returning his hand to rest at the steering wheel's 12 o'clock. "Prob'ly outside messin' with the ranch. Last few days have been pretty busy for her."
Through the corner of Caldron's eye, Kennedy nodded.
They drove in companionable silence; soon, Caldron's eyes immediately saw the broken fence line along the right side of the road. Braking quickly, they came to a near complete stop, solemnly noting the heavily damaged portion parallel to the highway. Leaning over the console, Caldron peered through the passenger's opened window towards the toppled barbed wire.
"What's that look like to you?" he asked, even though the answer was evident.
"Like someone done ran through the barbed wire." Kennedy drawled, chuckling. "I bet you anything that busted their damned tires. Prob'ly some fool kids on fourwheelers." Caldron wished his friend was right; he hoped it was that simple, but he knew better; his gut instinct told him otherwise.
"Shit," Caldron cursed and muttered something under his breath as he slammed the gas pedal down. Kennedy used his hands and feet to brace himself against the truck's roof, floor and dashboard as they sped along.
"What the hell's gotten into your bald head?" Kennedy yelled as they flew around the bend that dipped into a valley of steep crags and cacti. Caldron ignored him; taking an immediate right, he followed the dirt road towards Logan's property, the tires kicking up billowing plumes of dust in their wake.
After they cleared the damned, too-slow-to-open gate, Caldron peeled out―tearing up the driveway.
"What the hell, Caldron?! Dial it down, son! You'll give yourself a stroke!" Kennedy advised his friend, bewildered at the man's explosive reaction. Caldron didn't answer, afraid of what he'd discover. The awful memory of coming home to his battered wife and ransacked home returned with a vengeance―Jennifer had not been answering the phone either.
Ahead, he was relieved to see the home wasn't set aflame; however, the presence of an unfamiliar car next to Logan's, an old Mustang in perfect, mint condition, did not ease his mind.
"My God―look at that beautiful thing . . .!" Kennedy gasped with awe at the American muscle car. "Is that yours?"
"The hell it is," he snarled as he slammed the gear shift into park, barely able to free himself of the restraining seat belt fast enough, before jumping out of the truck. Puzzled, Kennedy found no cause for alarm, Caldron thought otherwise as he raced for the front door. His friend was close on his heels―in case something was afoot. Caldron threw the front door open the same moment John Wick entered the house through the patio door.
Caldron slid to a halt; the burly man behind him managed to avoid crashing into him as he, too, came in with hot pursuit. Both Kennedy's and Caldron's wide eyes took in the scene before them. Blood and broken glass trailed a macabre path along the hardwood floor . . . leading to John Wick. Caldron's heart literally almost stopped in his chest when he saw Logan in Wick's arms, covered from head to boots―in blood.
"What the fuck is going on!?" Caldron bellowed, too shocked to move.
Upstairs, John's dog was barking and whining incessantly. Beyond the windows, they could see a dark colored truck literally parked against the back patio, nearly running over the grill. The driver's window was busted. Looking between his friend and the unfamiliar man holding Logan, Kennedy's stance shifted; his beefy hand rested upon the bowie knife strapped to his belt, ready to take action at a moment's notice. Cautiously, he continued to look between them, body tensing. Taking his cue from Caldron's reaction to the situation at hand, Kennedy realized the stranger holding Logan was not a threat; he relaxed and lowered his hand.
Curiosity aroused, he wanted to investigate the room. Unfamiliar with John but well acquainted with Logan, Kennedy was comfortable enough to move around Caldron, examining the floor and other evidence of the obvious fight that ensued. Scuff marks from boots, sweeps of smeared blood, even tufts of hair mottled the floor. Caldron was not shocked by the sight, rather perturbed. Relieved that his daughter was not dead, the father strode towards Logan, ready to take her from John, who―after calmly meeting the older man's eyes, made no move to hand his daughter over to him.
"We had a few uninvited guests," John gruffly replied, stepping past him.
Caldron had no choice, but to watch John's retreating figure, with Logan's boots dangling off the side like a ragdoll.
This wasn't good.
Logan said nothing as she passed, offering not much more than a blank stare. To remove Logan from John's arms may raise unwanted questions from Kennedy―as any father knew when he was being replaced. It was not a risk Caldron was willing to take; he must proceed with caution and handle the delicate situation as carefully while having his own questions answered.
He hated that he had to fib but what other choices were there? In truth, Caldron needed to keep track of the web of lies he felt he had no choice but to weave―lest the wrong words, the wrong actions tangle and ensnare them all, destroying what Caldron was working so very hard to protect―his daughter, his old friend Wick, and Kennedy, a virtual innocent caught up in this madness―as innocent as that maniac could be.
Caldron also did not want to lose Kennedy's respect . . . or friendship. John Wick's bleak circumstances made Caldron reevaluate his life; those he kept in it, who'd drifted out it . . . and how greatly past choices and misdeeds impacted the future. Wick was already mounting the stairs; Caldron's eyes briefly saw the last of Logan's boots drift from sight as they disappeared into John's bedroom. His stomach began to churn, filling with acidic, ill ease.
Ironically, the bald man had the formidable fugitive to thank, for this very moment. Had it not been for John, Caldron couldn't be standing here now, stricken with worry that something brewed between the two. His daughter was fully grown now...
Where did the time go? He asked himself, bewildered.
An accomplished, fiercely independent daughter that Caldron would not have if . . .
The surmounting realization continued: Logan and her mother would not be alive―if not for John Wick.
John fuckin' Wick . . .
Blood and pain were his wake, infecting all who came into contact with him. Any sane man would have turned Wick away, but Caldron could not―not when he was presented with a Marker… Unwittingly, he and all Caldron held dear, had been dragged into the deadly, high-stakes game of the underground.
In for a penny, in for a pound . . .
Even if his life depended upon it―which it certainly did―Caldron could not deny his friend, John. Beneath the undertow of his loyalty, he knew it could very well be the death of him and in turn, Logan.
But now his daughter was in far deeper than he anticipated.
People don't change, but times―they do . . . Or do they?
Caldron's head ached, his mind reeling from his disquieted thoughts. Forcing himself to calm down, Caldron focused on pushing it all aside; he would have to deal with it later.
"Holy shit, Ryder . . .!" Kennedy's soft voice floated towards him; standing at the back door, his friend was staring towards the pool.
"What?" Caldron blinked. "What is it?" Heavy boots crunched the glass littering the floor, gouging the hardwood beneath it, as he swiftly moved towards the rear of the house. At Kennedy's side, he followed his friend's gaze into the back patio. Before them lay a scene of death and destruction. Together, they walked outside for a closer inspection.
Two bodies lay face down on the concrete. Pools of blood bloomed from beneath unseen wounds, turning dark as it began to congeal. They'd just missed the action. Caldron felt as he did during the Iraqi war, when he'd kicked doors down―only to discover the house already raided and hulled of life. He remembered how pissed he felt coming in right after a SEAL or Ranger's raid, as if Recon were there to tie up their loose ends and were left with their sloppy seconds.
The smaller figure laid closest to the patio door―a shoulder bone jutting from his back; a heavier set man was sprawled spread-eagle nearest the pool's edge, his thickened blood contained by the sculpted edge; Caldron noted the deceased's back is drenched in blood, a clean tear in his dark blue uniform. Across the concrete lay the combat knife Caldron had given Logan for her eighteenth birthday, a solid black Ontario 498 Ka-Bar. He could see drops of dried blood tracing the knife's shadow where it rested.
"What in God's good name happened to this man's back?" Kennedy exclaimed, eyes trained on the flesh and bone protruding from the wound. "How the fuck does that even happen, huh?"
Not many things made a Ranger like Kennedy gape in shock but, of course, John Wick just had to be the one. Caldron's gray eyes scanned the horrific display, merely grunting in response. He wasn't nearly surprised.
"Are these the people you're talkin' 'bout?" Kennedy inquired, shooting him a quizzical look over his massive shoulder.
"A few of them," Caldron stepped around him, mentally listing what would be required to pull the blood stains from the concrete. Wandering towards the truck, it was no surprise all tires were flat. The license plates were orange, reading 'New York' at the top.
So―someone had discovered John's whereabouts...
Caldron felt his face grow hot; his head began to sweat and his finger tips tingled. He needed a drink.
"Damn," Kennedy breathed, dropping to a squat as he eyed the smaller corpse. "I thought you were talking about some poachers or some shit. Not this. These folks are thugs."
"Yeah well," Caldron trailed off, scratching his bald head. He'd made a promise to John, that was certain, but he hadn't anticipated just how detrimental that promise quickly grew. With that thought aside, the plan remained unchanged.
If anything, it gave him a better time frame; he must work meticulously faster.
Now that a small gang had discovered John's location, the news would spread faster than the fire of Caldron's personal defeat back in the Marines.
Sucking his teeth, Caldron wanted to pluck one of the dead men from the concrete and slap him for being so damn dumb.
"Well hell!" Kennedy bellowed, throwing his hands up. A sly grin spread across his face as he wagged his eyebrows excitedly. "Time to get the ghillie suit ready!"
"Kennedy . . . you don't have to mix up in this, brother-" Caldron said quietly; his friend's eye twitched, the fierce expression on his face caused the bald man to pause.
"The hell I don't! You take those damned, fool-words back, or I'll kick your flat ass from here to San Antonio; is your bald head missin' brains as well as hair?! You an' Logan are family. And if that there's her man, so's he; we look after our own!" putting his large hand out, Caldron grasped Kennedy's in a heartfelt, affirming handshake.
"I'ma make some phone calls to a few buddies of mine; just so's you and Logan know - I'ma callin' down the thunder, and hell's comin' with me - I'm in it to win it. Now, d'you mind?"
"Not at all!" Caldron replied, grateful for his friend's support. The mustachioed man spun on his heel, practically strutting back into the house.
And that was how Caldron managed to wrangle the aid of a few Army Rangers.
HOLLY THE GREAT should be your name.
Guest(s): Thank you! We still have an arsenal of weaponry on standby *wags eyebrows*
lilmissbrave: Well, I don't want to make her some BAMF. I still want a believable OC, a humble Texan if you will. But I'm glad you think so! Little miss Brave!
Your Delusional Fantasies: You understand better than most the instant bond Texans hold for each other. You're also really close to Comfort, Texas. I'm JEALOUS. I've never been. (I live in Fort Worth―yeehaw)
Sylarfan: Perhaps I should have put more emphasis on him. Welp, nonetheless, HE DEAD.
jayjay0815: No worries! Of course, like any writer, I LOVE reviews. Y'all make me laugh.
Suzzie: Good! And thank you! I have help getting the words out. It's all trapped in my head and takes some coaxing (and beer) to find my muse!
Inkandtrees: Thank you. I think I have the most fun drawing blood and shooting guns!
Thanks for the reading/reviewing!