After breakfast, Logan managed her way upstairs to prepare and dress herself without John's aid; though he offered, she adamantly refused.
Logan realized though, he hadn't much to say―John was a polite man. She'd even go as far as to say he was a gentleman; albeit, she preferred not to pay the man any compliments. Self directed, he took the initiative upon himself to dress her wounds. He was conscious of her pain, and tended to her gently and carefully. She hated how much she liked it.
Of course, Logan's heart and mind incessantly battled for dominance. In the moments her heart sang, she was quick to silence its glad, hopeful tune, with a metaphoric hammer. Now that his wedding ring sat upon her bedroom night stand, she wanted to ignore it
He waited for her downstairs; when she was ready, together they headed for the Mustang.
Practically falling into the low seat, Logan pulled her legs inside the car before he closed the door and came around to the driver's side; she studiously averted her gaze, looking everywhere and anywhere, in order to avoid looking at John. The interior was predominantly black leather but still held the same vintage dashboard and other polished wood accents. A few modifications had also been applied. John had swapped all three pedals with chrome plated version with small, round rubber grips to prevent slipping. Bucket seats were installed, the flooring and upholstery must have been just lately renewed. The car did not smell old or mildewy either. In fact, Logan safely assumed the vehicle recently underwent a massive overhaul.
Or John had kept the car in immaculate condition since the 1960s.
Once he closed his door, Logan immediately felt the proximity unbearable; his nearness and sheer presence was overwhelming. Pushing the keys into the ignition, the engine turned over, and then roared to life. Logan felt its deep, thunderous rumble from her rump into her very bones, not sure if she liked the way it rattled her teeth, or how she felt too low to the ground, as if she were being dragged against the earth. Even her dirt bike sat higher than John's muscle car.
John placed it in gear and rolled out of her front driveway, towards the gate. Sensing their approach, it drew open automatically. Coming out onto the dirt road, he took a left, heading for the highway.
They rode in silence as the Texas hill country slipped past, falling into the side view mirrors as the earth began to flatten the further north west they went.
John turned on the radio, dialing in a strong station until classic rock riffed through the speakers.
Steppenwolf's Born to Be Wild filled the cab, loud enough to hear every word but soft enough a rumble of thunder snuffed it out. As it faded, the song returned.
We can climb so high…!
I never wanna die…!
The clouds released a trickle of rain that swiftly fell into a heavy deluge. Still, they remained quiet. The drum of the pelting rain and the rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers slid back and forth accompanied the reprise..
Fire all of your guns at once…
And explode into space…
Logan must have dozed off, because when she opened her eyes and looked about, Steppenwolf no longer played and they were parked at the foot of an old, rusted, abandoned silo penned in by tall, green corn stalks. Small holes chewed through by corrosion dripped rainwater like wounds against the metal structure. The hill country was gone and now only the flat, farming plains of Texas surrounded them. Twisting around, she eyed the cattle ranch across the road. The steers and heifers were resting in a gathered huddle, waiting the rain out.
The entire scene reminded Logan of the slasher film, Texas Chainsaw Massacre. It didn't ease her mind how far west they were and that they were actually in Texas.
Facing forward once again, Logan eyed John on her left sitting silently. He was studying a small black item in his hands.
Logan winced as she adjusted her feet; she glanced at what was in John's hand.
A flip phone…
"You have a phone?" she queried.
"No," he replied simply, further scrutinizing the device. He flipped it open before snapping it closed. Flipped it open. Snapped it closed.
Logan blinked, unsure how how to proceed. Sighing, she sat back against the leather seat and stared out the front windshield, following the trails of rainwater against the glass. She didn't know how far she was from Comfort, or why they'd come here to begin with.
Funny, she realized, the irony of her situation versus their location. Comfort was, in fact, the very last thing on their agenda.
Lifting her arms, Logan stretched them out, groaning softly against the pain that tightly clung to her taut muscles.
Wrapping her arms around herself, Logan reflected upon the moment she kissed him. For an instant . . . she believed he reciprocated, however briefly―before he abruptly left her.
Perhaps his disinterest in her was because he found her too bold, too forward. Even though, Logan was anything but. Perhaps she was? She was so distrusting towards everyone, she never gave herself the opportunity to pass anything more than professionalism. Everyone had an ulterior motive, she thought.
Residual guilt aside, as Logan thought back to that moment, no matter how much she assured herself to the contrary, she was beginning to believe John hadn't kissed her back.
The dawning realization that he hadn't was simply because he wasn't interested in her. This made Logan silently berate herself. But . . . as the old adage goes: better to ask for forgiveness than permission. She wanted to feel his beard beneath her hands, and his lips upon hers, and if that was all he was willing to give her, then Logan did not regret stealing a kiss from him.
Interrupting her thoughts, John opened his car door and stepped out into the rain. He slammed it shut and walked towards the hulled silo's door. The knob was missing and the small window above had been smashed. John tossed the device through the opening and headed back towards the car.
As he did, she watched him carefully. Noting how his arms swung confidently at his side, the certain boldness with each step as he traipsed through the uneven dirt. The terse intensity of his brow with his eyes are cast downward. She recalled their very first strife and how so much contact with him ignited a long dormant part of her. It seemed every passing hour with John, the more alive and unruly her thoughts and desires became. Feeling his hands grip her painfully, sending throws against her, the force behind his legs as they pinned her to the floor...
Logan sucked in a sharp breath and held it until her heart thrummed; the thoughts receded.
The door opened and John climbed in; the powerful car thundered to life beneath them when he turned the engine over once more. He smoothly pulled away from the abandoned building and back onto the highway.
Exhaling, Logan stared out the window, lost in thought and annoyed. What was the point of her coming along if he just wanted to toss a cell phone into an abandoned silo?
Frustrated, she pressed a palm to her face, leaning against her cold touch as her eyes closed. There was no one at the house. Maybe John brought her with him because he didn't want her to be alone.
Nonsense, she assured herself. She was quite capable of taking care of herself.
However...
Not until John came into her life, did she suddenly realize how alone and frail she truly was. All the years that passed, as Logan trained and improved, she never truly considered how she would react when a viable threat emerged. Now that multiple had arrived, she wondered what more could be done? Fully trained to fight, kill, fly, or shoot; it wasn't enough when the second wave hit. Sure, she made it out alive―but far from unscathed.
Risking a glance, she carefully eyed John. Both hands were wrapped around the steering wheel, relaxed but well in control. He was focused on the road and nothing else, apparently. Not her, not the scenery, not the music.
Something assured her she barely skimmed the surface that was John Wick.
Logan only caught a glimpse of the iceberg's tip. Who knew what lay beneath the intricately dark, still depths of this man? Only the shadows that surrounded and clung to him would know.
Staring quietly out the window as the hills gradually rose from the unraveling scenery, Logan listened to the radio. Another old school tune she didn't care to recall.
"That was a tracker," John spoke over the purring engine as they tore down the highway.
Logan furrowed her brow as she maintained her gaze towards the window. How did they manage to find a tracker?
"Kennedy found it." he added, apparently aware of the questions forming in her head.
"Where was it?" she asked, still staring into the granite hills. Her voice sounded odd; small and scratchy, like a kitten, when compared to his smooth, grave tenor.
"Wrapped around the drive shaft." A drop in pitch caused his voice to become a sultry caress. His nearness coupled with an intense glint in his eye had the power to make Logan breathless. Scrunching her nose, she abhorred the unwarranted response.
Nodding, she pursed her lips in thought, and re-crossed her arms. Kennedy must have covered every literal inch of the frame and undercarriage to discover the device; he was passionately meticulous when it came to old cars.
Great. What other news did he have to share?
She risked another glance and asked if he knew who could be responsibly. He said he didn't know.
She inhaled, filling her lungs deeply before releasing a heavy breath. Squeezing her eyes closed, she mentally prepared herself for the rapidly approaching shit storm about to break. John had driven far out into the country to discard the tracker. He hadn't destroyed it, hoping the still functioning GPS would lead any assailants away from their last known location.
She prayed it worked. Perhaps it would grant them enough time for her to heal.
At length, they returned to the Ryder estate, only to discover a motley fleet of vehicles, from old farm trucks to newer, diesel engine models, and everything in between, spread across her lawn, and parked with their hoods pointing towards the house―causing Logan to instantly panic, her heart pounding, fearing the worst had finally arrived.
They finally honed in on her and John; all coming at once.
Every light in the house was on, and Logan worried that their time had run out, and that the mob had come, guns ablazing. For a fleeting moment, she saw her father's silhouette stroll across a window. He wasn't running or flailing limbs, no blood stained his chest or blouse. Nothing appeared to be amiss.
But Logan was not leaving anything to chance. Before John could fully place the car in park, she threw the door opened and managed to exit the low car without falling onto her face. She hurriedly made her way across the yard, grabbing onto the parked cars for support. Her injured knee screamed with every unsteady, lurching, hobbling, and stride.
Upon entry, Logan was met with a burst of sound. A raucous wave of laughter and loud conversations greeted her; her grey eyes widened in disbelief before they narrowed to flinty slits.
"Miss Logan!" A bystander cheered, causing her father to whip around. She recognized the man; for the time being, she paid him no mind.
Men of every size and ethnicity were present; whiskered, bearded and clean shaven . . . tall, short, round and toned.
Pausing in the foyer of her home, Logan stared mutely at the scene before her. Some men rested on the couch, others were gathered around the fireplace, elbow propped upon the mantle, a long neck in the other, as they conversed. More men were meandering outside, eyeing the blood stains upon the concrete; others were paired up, gesturing towards the hills, before looking back at the house, counting the windows, calculating eyes scanning the house's roof line as they continued speaking in low tones. Several more were comfortably seated at the dining room table, laughing over their beers and clutching their sides as stitch pinched them. The cacophony of voices, ranging from whispers to boisterous tenors filled the air.
Some men were more flagrant in proclaiming their branch affiliation; their meritorious badges of honor were proudly displayed, affixed on denim and leather for all to see; others were discrete and professionally attired; from slacks to denim and vested button-up shirts.
Though she recognized a great many, there were few she'd never seen before and that was not authorized. Caldron hadn't bothered to spare her with a warning.
In her haste to reach Caldron, disregarding all else, her frantic stumbling caused the compression wrap to loosen around her injured leg. Without its demi-support reinforcing her weakened leg, it began to buckle. Logan faltered; before she could fall, she was firmly pulled and held tightly against something solid; it was John. Undeterred, Logan's eyes scoured the crowd until she spotted her father. She lurched forward, intent on making a beeline for the bald man. Anticipating her move, John stepped in, dipping low so Logan could drape her arm across his shoulder as she moved. She winced, but gripped his shoulder tightly, as they made their way towards him. When she reached her father's side, she was panting, as well as anger.
"Speak of the devil!" Caldron smiled, sneaking a quick kiss against her cheek. "Like a beer?"
"Yes, actually." she muttered tersely. Logan's met her father's cautious gaze; the barely contained fury in her darkened eyes instantly put Caldron on notice of her great displeasure, with the promise of an unavoidable, spirited discussion pending. Hastily, Caldron turned away, drifting through the crowd of his militant cohorts towards the fridge. When he returned, she snatched the bottle from him and took a long, heady pull, fisting the sleeve of John's shirt as she drank. Around her waist, she felt John's hold tighten as if she was going to drink herself into a pratfall. Her bruised rib throbbed a reminder.
Bringing the bottle down, she glared into her father's eyes and sat it firmly against the countertop.
"Where did all these people come from?" she grumbled.
Caldron paused at the indignation written clearly upon her countenance. All around her, strangers and acquaintances sent curious glances her way. Many others openly eyed John, sizing him up. Their curious gazes lingered on the unknown individual.
Just what did they know about John?
Logan scowled as she locked eyes with someone unfamiliar, holding his stare until he conceded and looked away.
"Kennedy made...a few calls," Caldron explained, glancing around himself at the prattle that filled her home.
"A few?" she spat. "Did you not think to give me a heads up? This is too many people, in my house!"
John only listened, uninterested or already informed, she wasn't sure. Her initial prediction now seemed true; she was the last to know.
"Now, Logan." her father began in a placating tone, "All these men are outstanding. They don't know who John is, trust me. I wouldn't bring men of that nature into my daughter's home. These fine lads are here to help." he concluded with a solemn nod.
Logan felt her throat restricting as she glared up at the person she loved the most. Always, when it came to Caldron, she was an emotional mess. Gauging him and predicting his approval was as much an uphill battle as it was a gamble. Had he not seen her efforts from the previous night? Technically, she killed two out of three men. John took care of one. And! her thoughts reeled, she killed the first intruder while John was sleeping! If anyone could supply any help, it was her―not a plethora of rednecks he rallied together in a single night. Filling her home with strangers when she already had difficulties with one―was a sure way to piss her off. It appeared once again Caldron saw to the next development with or without her knowledge and it was because of him she was so distrusting. Now here he stood before her, after those three agonizing years, rallying his militia for a man she barely knew. Hell, he hadn't even given her the decency in explaining why he'd been gone for so long. Not a phone call or email, not even a postcard wishing her well.
And just like that―he shows up, dumping off a man just as complicated and quiet as he was dangerous, with the brutal hounds of hell coming in hot on this man's heels.
How was she supposed to handle this? What was the appropriate reaction aside from anger? Logan couldn't fathom. She felt absolute conviction and largely vindicated in her blistering response. They were keeping something from her . . . something dark and foreboding. Why else would he have all these men? Why would he go to such extremes for one man? Why had John arrived, inches from death, bleeding all over her couch? He even had a bite mark!
Wrenching herself free from John's grasp, she hobbled from the kitchen towards the stairs. Without looking back, she knew John remained behind; she knew Caldron watched her leave, and that she'd caused a scene, because the drone of voices lowered in volume ever-so-slightly.
Pain and fury motivated her onward, past all the openly curious stares. She awkwardly mounted the stairs, and stumbled along her hallway, palming the wall, and using doorframes for support. After entering her room, she slammed the door as a final statement and flopped onto her bed, focusing on her throbbing knee.
Despite herself, she slid her glare to the nightstand where, unfortunately, the ring still awaited her.
It complicated matters for her even more.
Logan groaned and stared into her ceiling, eyes burning as they began to well with hot tears. They fell from the corners, running into the temples of her hair when she blinked. Her throat was tight, that perpetual knot taking hold. Between emotional pain and physical, Logan preferred the latter.
A soft knock on the door hardened her glare.
"No," she barked tersely.
It opened anyway, to reveal her father.
"Can I talk to you?" he asked, a concerned, tentative expression on his face.
Logan frowned bitterly, gruffly responding,"No."
Ignoring her answer, he stepped in and closed the door quietly before seating himself along the edge of her bed; the coiled springs beneath her squeaked under the additional weight.
A deafening silence would have fallen between them, had there not been a rupture of laughter floating up from the ground floor.
"I owe you a massive apology," he finally began, his rugged appearance markedly softing. From the corner of her eye, Logan saw how Caldron sat, his back hunched over with guilt. He opened his mouth, but she cut him off.
"First, tell me why you were gone for so long."
"Work," he replied softly, hoping to avoid the brunt of Logan's righteous anger. As his devastatingly pretty girl, his only child, Caldron couldn't stop himself from spoiling her when she was very young; unfortunately, his parenting choices frequently put him at odds with Jennifer, paving the way for future problems. When ignited, Logan's temper was her only fault; Caldron was puzzled as to why her temper had recently taken on a hair-trigger quality. "You know this."
"So what about the years before? You had the same employer, did you not? What made the following years so different?"
Caldron sighed. "Those initial years I spent doing remedial training. I shot a civilian during a raid. My performance was under heavy scrutiny. After that, my team got captured during a patrol―turned out to be an ambush. In fact," he chuckled. "A Ranger team came in and got us out; one of which is downstairs right now."
Logan didnt' care to inquire just whom he spoke of and continued to stare unblinking at the ceiling, soaking in and processing the flux of information.
"While I was there," he cleared his throat, "they did just about everything to me. Nothing I couldn't handle, of course. But they threatened to find you and your mom. I couldn't allow that to happen."
"So you just dropped off the face of the earth," she remarked disdainfully.
"Yes, I did―to protect you."
Logan drew in a deep, measured breath through her nose. "What about John? I want to know everything. I can't ask him." she bitterly spat, "His word count doesn't exceed fifteen words an hour."
A long beat passed.
He went onto explain their meeting between regiments during a work up many years back.
From beneath her eyelashes, she studied her father's profile in the grim light. He sat facing away from her, staring at the long ago locked in his mind's eye, recalling every memory of those early days, of a younger version of himself and John Wick, with concise detail.
"He killed the men that beat your mother, and brought my stuff back. He killed them all. I can't imagine how he did it; he just did, and that's what's unique 'n steady 'bout him. He's focused and determined. Incredible will power, that cuss has; John gets it done―whatever it is."
"I continued to work with Blackwater, and we had a few men running guns through New York City. My team got involved, 'cause the target had been on our list for sometime; I caught wind about John Wick from several witnesses we interviewed trying to track the target down. I never saw him; didn't have to. Wherever he went, there was a wake of death and shattered families. He once went into a nightclub and shot the whole place up without killing one civilian―which is more'n I can say. He was after some crime lord's kid, wasn't our problem."
Caldron did not blink; his eyes were unfocused, fixated; Logan couldn't see what her father saw; a mental veil was placed, vividly replaying before his mind's eyes all the terrible scenes discovered . . . the defining moment when contingency plans were made, the crucial actions executed, and the binding words uttered―both by Caldron, and his old friend, Wick. All the significant events woven together were coming to a terrible, full circle―like the barrel of a gun.
"Though, it helped. A few men I knew were caught by the balls with the Russian mafia. Once he died, their deeds were forgotten. I was stateside when John called me."
He leveled his gaze onto his daughter, pinning her with the weight of his stare as his retelling took a dark, revealing turn.
"I hadn't heard from him in twenty-six years. I heard about him, but of course, I didn't think it was true. But it was―all of it. John has a very," he struggled to find the word, "...unique past. He was good at what he did, too good in fact. But his kind turned on him―threw him to the wolves and placed a hefty price tag for his life."
Logan lifted up, trying to understand. "How much is he worth?"
"Does the number make a difference?"
"Not really," she admitted softly, ashamed she'd asked, "I know he's your friend but…," she had to know why Caldron chose the route that he did despite how cruel it sounded. "Why didn't you just kill him yourself?"
"Because," Caldron said simply. "You're alive because of him. Fourteen million is not enough to forget what he did for my family, for you and your mother. I can't put a price on y'alls life. I owe him, Logan. I won't let those greedy bastards come after him because he honored a blood oath he couldn't refuse. He was tryin' to leave the underground, desperately at that. Now I need you to kick it into gear, Logan. It's time to repay this debt. Stop this petty bullshit you've been throwin' around. I raised you better than that. Things are about to get very ugly, very fast."
Logan considered snarling a response. Already physically beaten, she didn't need him adding insult to injury. Instead, she fell back against the bed and threw a forearm over her eyes, groaning in exasperation.
Shaking his head, Caldon blanched when he noticed the silver ring on Logan's nightstand, glad he was already sitting down. He began to sweat, feeling the moisture appear on the crown of his bald head, his face growing warm.
Best get this over with.
He took a deep breath, wiped his sweaty hands upon his pant legs and plunged ahead, struggling to keep his voice from cracking, to speak calmly and in measured tones.
"Uh―ahaha" he chuckled nervously. "Kennedy and all them guys down there . . . I told 'em you and John are engaged."
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