"I might be so drunk I'll have to crawl home but by God I'll crawl like a Marine."
"Welp!," Kennedy clucked, polishing the rest of his beer off before it clattered against the empty glasses already in the trash can. "That makes three. We got my buddy, Ayrie, from east Texas comin' and another fella' I met humpin' up the Hindu Kush mountains named Morgan, who said he's down for some plinkin and myself."
Trudging lazily towards the marble counter, he leaned, resting his folded his arms atop its cold surface, fixing Caldron with his unwavering gaze. "I reckon we got ourselves a cavalry'."
Pursing his lips, Caldron shook his head, frustrated. "It won't be enough."
"Hell, I know that!" Kennedy twanged before releasing an impressive belch. "Just give it some time. They'll be comin' outta nowhere once the goin' gets gewd. Especially when they realize little Logan's got her sights set."
And what more convincing reason then two star-crossed lovers hellbent on love to lure the cavalry in?
Even the rough and rugged had a romantic side.
Caldron lifted his eyes towards the staircase just as John descended.
Kennedy followed his gaze, turning his thick neck to peer over an even larger shoulder. Caldron wondered how Kennedy managed to accomplish anything, much less fit into a ghillie suit and move with the stealth of a ghost. The man was solid―built like an oak tree and pushing 6'5',' he made the scales groan, easily topping 250 lbs. A strapping man himself, Caldron looked like one of them Ewoks compared to the towering Kennedy.
"Well, looky here." Kennedy drawled, coming to stand. "Speak of the devil himself. Don't believe we've met; name's Kennedy." He turned from the counter, meeting the man halfway with an extended hand.
"John," Wick replied. Taking a firm, confident hold of Kennedy's hand, their steady and respectful gazes met. Silently weighing and measuring the other, they gauged the other's reaction, sizing up both the man and the beast within. Kennedy smiled, obviously pleased with his assessment of the man.
"Now tell me if I'm oversteppin' my bounds here," he began, "But what in God's revered name's got you all tangled in this much trouble?"
It seemed the moment Logan just closed her eyes, she was waking again. Outside, a quiet rain fell over the sloping hills, feeding the creeks and lake. Lazy rivulets traversed down the window panes, obscuring the murky, gray skies. It was a quiet storm, unlike the one that heralded John into her life.
She awoke in the exact position she fell asleep in, and felt a great reluctance to move. Familiarity with pain did not render her immune to its debilitating effects; she felt more like an old, rickety machine. Bones literally creaking, a dull, radiating pain flowed through every part of her body, competing with the sour-tasting nausea filling her mouth from her gnawing, sharp hunger pangs . Very carefully, Logan turned her head, wincing as every sore and tender muscle stiffly protested. Her neck felt whiplashed and her skin felt tightly wrapped around her achy bones.
Survive. Evade. Resist. Escape. The Army way.
Who knew she would utilize such training in her own back yard?
Logan grunted at the irony. The three weeks she endured of being locked in a dark box and starved, followed by a rough extraction from her enclosure, only to be blindfolded, shoved, prodded and hustled into a truck for a lengthy jarring, rough ride . . . and then propelled out of the rear of said truck, and land sprawled onto the rocky ground, blindfolded, no less―dropped in the midst of unknown, simulated hostile territory, tracked and hunted, had finally come in handy. Her mission: survive the unknown elements, evade and resist certain capture. Plot and successfully execute her escape, should the unthinkable happen. Her Army training did serve her well―on the the roles are reversed; when John stumbled into her life during a storm that eventful night - terribly injured and literally at death's door, Logan had taken care of him without question, and of her own―somewhat reluctant―volition.
Now it was John's turn to return the favor; a debt repaid, no questions asked. He simply did it.
How long did she sleep?
Logan glanced at the clock, but did not see the time. She couldn't, not when the tungsten ring immediately snagged her attention.
Slowly reaching for the silver band, intent upon securing her astounding discovery, the only sound Logan heard, the only sensation she felt, was the pounding of her heart in her ears.
Plucking it from the nightstand she carefully examined it.
Sighing, Logan dropped her hand into her lap.
Please, no...
"Don't be John's ring," she whispered to herself, bringing the ring up again to study it more closely. It was not her father's; Caldron had a tattoo as a ring. Kennedy was not married; had been, but was too wild for most, and had no reason to wander upstairs and place anything on her end table.
Deep inside, her stomach twisted into a solid knot as she placed the ring into the palm of her hand. The question that overshadowed all else, and was incessantly loud in her mind: what did it mean and why?
Had something changed overnight?
Logan did not like change.
Curling her fist, she held the ring tightly against her palm a moment longer, before gently returning it to its resting place. It was most definitely real.
Downstairs, she didn't hear the raucous laughter that followed Kennedy wherever he went. She also didn't hear her father, who would certainly be up this early.
Very slowly, Logan brought her legs over the bed's edge. Planting her bare feet firmly against the rug along the floor, she stood, keeping one hand against the surface of her bed.
She needed to pee…
After Logan tended to her bladder and morning ablutions, she carefully, at the pace of frozen molasses, and painstakingly, made her way downstairs.
The kitchen was cleaned, not an empty bottle or shot glass was in sight; Kennedy and her father were also nowhere to be found.
Leaning against the couch for support, Logan peered outside where she'd last seen the bodies. Both were gone, including the heavily damaged truck, and all that remained were the bloodstains, almost concealed against the wet concrete.
That would need to be removed, she mentally noted.
Logan limped, scooted and groped the rest of the way into the kitchen, grabbing the empty coffee pot. As it filled with water, her mind bounced from John's wedding ring, to the fight, before veering off to her father's growing league of extraordinarily skilled individuals, and back to that ring.
After pouring the water into the coffee machine, she readied the grounds and filter. Pressing brew, she hobbled towards a barstool and hoisted herself atop.
A heavy sigh filled the empty kitchen as Logan stared out into the early morning.
The machine clicked and bubbled.
A soft jingle drew her absentminded gaze towards the staircase. Having heard her commotion, John's dog ambled sleepily down the steps and then into the kitchen. Sitting upon his haunches at the foot of her barstool, he licked his chops; his pleading, glistening eyes looked up at her as he softly whined.
Logan furrowed her brow, puzzled. Then it dawned.
"Oh; you're hungry," she muttered, glancing around the kitchen. Logan didn't have any dog food that she is aware of. Perhaps her father had bought some for John to use, but after rummaging the cabinets with much difficulty, no kibble was discovered
When Logan glanced back at the dog, his long, slender tail wagged in response. Glittering, black eyes and a hopeful expression bore into into her, tugging gently at her heartstrings. A feeling she was not well acquainted with. Looking away, Logan outwardly scoffed. She didn't believe in pets, never really liked them.
Though . . . he needed to be fed.
Yanking the fridge open, she removed a package of thawed chicken, an egg, and a large, bright orange bowl from the cabinets.
Peeling the plastic bag, she dropped a breast and two drumsticks, and then cracked an egg atop it all. Using every inch of flat surface for support, Logan came back around and sat the bowl down before him.
"Shit," she grumbled. "Forgot your water."
After another series of hops, Logan managed to bring the dog a bowl of water. By the time she sat the water down, the dog had already cleaned up his meal and now licked the bowl, sliding the plastic across the tile from each application.
Moving his large head over the water bowl, he lapped the remaining water up greedily, slinging drops everywhere, filling the kitchen with the noise of his sloppy guzzle.
Pouring herself a cup of coffee, Logan finally sat down and relaxed. Wrapping her hands around the base of the mug, she sat quietly while the dog drank and then meandered around the room. He paused at the back door, subtly swinging his tail as he watched the storm. He turned away from the glass partition.
Staring unseeingly out the back patio, Logan felt a paw press into her leg. Glancing down, she spotted the Dog staring up at her once again.
Logan stared at him, and he stared back, the tip of his tail rhythmically sweeping the floor.
"I fed you," her voice cracked, from sleep or exertion, she wasn't sure. "And gave you water."
His tail wagged even more, ears back, his bright eyes pleading wordlessly.
Logan reached down, pretending to hold a tasty morsel between her fingers, but the dog did not sniff or lick; instead, he pressed his broad forehead against her hand. His tail continued wagging furiously.
Frowning, she retracted her hand.
C'mon, Logan. she heard her father's voice. Don't be like that…
"Fine," she grumbled.
Slipping from her barstool, she eased herself down, onto the floor, wincing as every muscle ached. Whining a happy note, he leaned his solid body against her, his tail smacked painfully at her wounded arm.
"Ooo! Ow! No, stop," she grimaced, pushing on his haunches until he sat. Still leaning against her, his rump slid further along the hardwood floor and nudged at her face, licking her chin and wriggling lower until he lay sprawled across Logan's lap. With his mouth wide open, displaying his large teeth in a canine grin, his pink tongue lolled out from the side. She palmed his chest, and then his stomach, before rubbing and scratching his belly. With every stroke, pat and scratch, he grunted, eyes closed, legs reaching skyward, his large paws relaxed.
Logan was enjoying herself immensely, though she would never admit to it. Her dealings with animals on her property were for game purposes; strangling snakes, and fishing on the small lake on the east end of her land to round out her menu was not unusual; nor was chasing skunks, or . . . killing the occasional, unfortunate stray animal in search of sanctuary on her property. Soon, Logan couldn't stop herself from cooing and inadvertently adoring the stocky pup. She squeezed his paws and poked at his dark, wet nose, before cuddling and tickling the pooch, laughing gently with delight at his antics, as she rubbed his silky ears. She marveled at the sense of longing, a feeling that so foreign to her. In fact, she was so focused on examining this newly named emotion, this affection for a dog, Logan hadn't heard John wake, nor did she notice him at the foot of the stairs, silently observing her.
A soft noise; a throat clearing.
Both dog and Logan froze, turning their heads towards the source.
Twisting around, the dog immediately jumped to his feet and scampered on his bowed legs to greet his owner. John knelt, accepting the canine's eager licks and nuzzles with gentle scratches and rubs against his short fur, before he stood back up and strode into the kitchen.
Logan reached up; gripping the edge of the counter, she hoisted herself back onto the barstool.
"How are you feeling?" he asked as he entered the kitchen.
A quick mental inventory of her physical hindrance told her to say 'like smacked ass.' Quickly, she opted against the impertinent remark.
"Sore," she decided with a mutter, running the pad of her thumb against her cup. John opened a cabinet door and withdrew himself a mug. His choice was a black hand thrown cup with Benjamin Franklin's famous illustration of a snake dissected into thirteen parts, representing the original thirteen colonies. The only difference between the two being, instead of 'Join or Die', it read 'Coffee or Die'―which Logan found rather humorous, even if it was a bit dark: with or without coffee, they were going to die. At this rate, she would be the first to go, she thought gloomily; for all her skill in Krav Maga, Logan was dismayed to admit she learned how vulnerable she truly was.
Pouring himself a cup, John came to stand next to the large island, before taking a careful sip. He sat the cup down, staring at the ink-black surface with consideration, before turning his dark eyes towards Logan. It did not escape his notice, how she quickly averted her eyes, when he caught her staring at him. A small part of him was amused at her obvious discomfiture, despite her feigned nonchalance.
"We need to talk," came his voice, hoarse from sleep but still steady and assured―a trait she admired.
Again? she mentally groaned, inwardly steeling herself.
Logan recalled his wedding ring on her nightstand, and her stomach lurched in response. Swallowing thickly, she felt a blush warming her cheeks and ears, her nerves besting her.
Finding her voice, though small, she asked. "About what?" Silently begging him to remain silent about his ring. Logan utilized every ounce of her discipline to avoid glancing at his left hand. John had that very hand wrapped around his mug, taking a measured sip, before setting it quietly back down. Logan refused to acknowledge any refraction of light glinting from his finger, even though she knew it wasn't there.
"I want you to get dressed."
There's another chapter coming directly after this one. Another 'twoofer', because consolidated, the chapter was over 7k. That's way too much. Y'all have to eat at some point, maybe go to the potty or sleep! 7k is a lot for one sitting.
Inkandtrees: I did it to show you I was listening to you! Much of the chapters are already written out. Holly and I just comb through them time and time again so no details are missed!
jayjay0815: You know what's crazy? I don't get emails that you review a chapter. It's only you. You're a sneaky one.
Your Delusional Fantasies: Now I'm VERY jealous! I've never been to Comfort. For all I know, it could be a dump. But its in the hill country and there's a 3.2 million dollar house there that inspired the details to Ryder's estate.
Sylarfan: You like Caldron AND Kennedy?! This warms my heart that you like more than just the two main characters. Albeit, they all have a huge part.
Suzzie: John is a conflicted being. Also stoic, so stoic. It's difficult to crawl in his head with there isn't much to go off expression wise.
Guest(s): I'm so happy y'all enjoy Logan AND OMG THERE'S ANOTHER TEXAN! This is my first jab at an OC and I knew what I DIDN'T like about OCs so I tried to steer faaaaaaaaaar away from those traits.
Mo Eazy: To keep it short and simple, the models used (between both movies) were two G17(a carbine conversion being one of them), two G26s, the G34 (which I saw on display at the most recent Shotshow in Las Vegas. Glock had the actual gun Keanu shot) and a G19. Then there's the two HKs in his trunk and a HK rifle. You see the ratio? Thus, I settled with Glock as his gun of choice.
For your second question: Yes, Texas is a strong 2nd amendment state. But within that little chapter, I mentioned Kennedy likes to toss guns aside and fight with a knife. It safe to assume Caldron is always carrying, but barreling into a house his daughter is in guns ablazing didn't sit well with me. Logan didn't have hers on her because I wanted to pack more of a panicked punch when all she had was a Ka-Bar. Thank you for the outstanding reviews. It was all legitimate inquiries and I hope to hear more from you.