*chapter contains excessive gore*
Every ending had a beginning.
Wrapped in his somber thoughts, John did not feel the bitter cold biting through his clothes nor its harsh kiss against his face. He walked with numb clarity.
Keen eyes swept to and fro through the thick fog that surrounded and smothered his whereabouts. The city's muted lights illuminated the Brooklyn Bridge and skyscrapers just beyond the Hudson River. Ghostly halos encircled the streetlights through the dense fog as he moved methodically, every step a calculating staccato in the heavy silence. He was thinking back to the beginning, to everything, and everyone, friends and enemies. He could count on one hand those he called 'allies'. Of course, there were not many.
Though one did not speak often, John keenly felt Marcus' absence after Viggo exacted his retribution. There was still a very cold, residual anger wrapped around his chest when he thought back, when he remembered the details that led up to his death.
Marcus had many opportunities to end Wick's life. He was the only man who could get close enough. But amidst those endless opportunities, reemerging from his own retirement, killing John was not something Marcus could do. In turn, a trust was established, whether John admitted it or not, but that, too, was short-lived.
John frowned when he realized he was no longer alone on his midnight walkabout. Stopping mid-stride, he regarded the materialized shadow before him.
Standing at the railing beneath the bridge on the otherwise deserted boardwalk, was another dark figure. Warily, John changed his heading, steering clear and giving wide berth to avoid any interaction. He continued along, tension building his shoulders as he moved past. Keeping the figure in his sights, he realized there was something . . . familiar, and his steps slowed until they stopped. John looked over his shoulder, staring quizzically. There was confusion at first, yet John was cautiously hopeful, somewhat daring to believe Marcus was somehow inexplicably alive and well before him.
"What are you really doing here, Marcus?" He whispered into the fog. The stranger heard him and turned. The older man sighed, rising from his slouched posture against the railing before turning and replying.
"Just checkin' up on an old friend." Marcus replied. A black umbrella crowned around his head and shoulders.
John blinked. A tide of apprehension washed over him, before it receded to an ugly recollection no longer suppressed. A familiar pain; the memory, though not exact, was an awful one.
An exchange of bitter smiles between two men long passed their tenure.
"I'm sorry—" John began, as the dark overcast opened into a gentle rainfall. The umbrella lifted, hovering over John, shielding him and filling his ears with the soft percussion as it hit. Studying the younger man before him, the older Assassin noted John's sorrow-filled eyes and anguished expression . . . seeking absolution.
"Don't blame yourself." Marcus gruffly assured. A lingering sadness remained in the older man's eyes as he spoke. "There's no rhyme or reason to this life." His thin lips twisted into a faint smile as he laid a calloused hand on John's shoulder. Despite Marcus' words, the grief remained.
"You look terrible." John observed when he could speak again. His gaze lingered over the craggy face that was a portrait of weariness and a hard life riddled with loss. John wondered if his expression bore the same abuse. Though, they were not close in age, John was no longer a young buck himself.
"I look retired." Marcus retorted, before falling silent. "What are you doing here, John? You made a new life ... find your way back to it." His hand squeezed John's shoulder reassuringly. "It's time to go home."
"Home?" John murmured to himself, confused. His home had been destroyed. Save for his dog, his salvaged war chest, and most recently, his car—John had nothing, and . . . no one.
He looked up to find Marcus gone. His query fallen upon deaf ears. Soon, his old friend faded into the fog.
He glanced around, unable to see the city, its lights, or the retreating figure of his dear friend.
He was alone again, except someone was―
John looked down at the hand wrapped in his, following the lithe arm up, past the tumble of dark hair falling over her slender shoulders, into Logan's eyes.
"What are you doing, John?" she asked. Her voice, but not her words, kicked started his dormant heart.
"Looking at you." He replied with astonishing clockwork.
Logan smiled up at him, tightening the hold within his hand. In his chest, his fortified heart cracked a little as he pulled her closer.
A sound alerted Logan as she stared expectantly into the fog. Following her gaze, John peered into the shrouding mists. Faintly, he heard it too. Certain he imagined it, he listened more intently.
Peals of laughter drifted behind his line of sight while the fog slowly dissipated. The joyful sound grew louder and closer. Unseen, tiny carillons of laughter danced on the fringes of the eerie gray veil.
Gradually, the miasma lifted, revealing its little contents; children.
They stopped mid- play unaware of their audience. John could clearly see before him the boy and girl—twins, with dark crowns of hair. The boy took his sister's hand and pulled her close. Cupping his hand beside his mouth, the boy whispered into his sister's ear. Their mischievous gray eyes looked between the adults before fixing intently on John. The girl giggled delightedly and nodded her head.
In tandem and with the sudden burst of energy, they raced towards them. Their little arms flailing at their sides, shrieking giddily while they flung themselves into John's embrace.
"Daddy!"
John opened his eyes.
"Daddy!" A little girl's voice drifted down the hall; the culprit to his bizarre dream.
The drapes were opened, allowing harsh morning light to pool in and heighten the pain behind his eyes.
Waking gently, John lifted his head up and squinted around the room. Gathering his thoughts and last recollections, mouth foul tasting from the previous night's tonics, he recalled the gyrating crowd he shoved through in search of Logan. Focused, hunting, determined. He scoured the block until finding her at Mad Dog's British Pub. The sea of patrons was dense but despite this, maneuvering the pub posed no issue. He found her lingering at the entrance, bumped into him even, but he kept moving. Drink in hand to blend in, far too well dressed and groomed to be in such an establishment. His attire caught several side glances from the female sex and comments but none were deemed dangerous or of ill-intent. When he found a table, from there he watched and waited. Logan was uncomfortable in the crowd. It was written all over her face, but she managed as best as she could. Drinking until she was comfortable, wandering out onto the dance floor with another man. John remembered he downed his first drink in a single pull, immediately ordered another. Why?
Why?
He didn't know the answer but his eyes never strayed from her. He knew every spot her dancer partner touched her. How long his hands lingered, every inch of her pressed against the stranger. His second drink was gone, then a third, and then she was moving across the dancer floor towards the bathroom, and someone was following close behind.
His gaze lowered to the woman beside him. Tucked snugged against his frame, Logan's hair was mussed and tangled. It spread fanned out like spilled ink and she was completely naked; so was he. He hadn't imagined it. The bed sheets were tangled between them and…
Blood?
John jarred awake, disturbing the slumbering woman in his embrace. His head swam from last night's intoxicants as he looked her over, ignoring how the light felt harsh against his eyes. She shifted slightly, only to sigh and turn over onto her back.
"Logan," his morning voice croaked. He didn't want to sound alarmed.
Thick lashes eased open and her drowsy gaze peered up at him.
"Hmm?" she grunted sleepily.
Reading the urgency on his face, she pulled back from him and blinked, eyes alert and wide, "What's wrong?"
Following his gaze, she looked down, feeling what he felt and what he saw. Her thighs and John's pelvic region were covered with smears of encrusted blood. More blood blotted the hotel's white sheets in alarming contrast, making it appear more startling than it should be.
"Oh my God," she gasped, jerking upright, frantically pawing at the sheets and her legs. "Oh fuck.."
Throwing the sheets aside, Logan hauled herself out of bed and hurried for the bathroom.
The door slammed and John was left to stare at the folds of white sheets and red stains in silence.
He had no idea….
But then...why would she tell him?
Long before they stumbled through the door, both polluted in mind, John wanted her. He'd been wanting Logan. Badly. Last night, there had been no avoiding it. John had already sifted through the numbed guilt, accepted his weakened inhibitions, and thus his desperate need and pent up desire exploded to the forefront of his mind. He knew what she liked, to be roughed up, pinned down and dominated. He could be that for her, that release she sought. And Logan could be his.
Their relationship was anything but casual; it was many things. Now, it was contorted, wrong, hard to read, and difficult to define, much less label.
Wrong? He tried a different word. It was dangerous, because Logan was nothing like Helen, who was gentle and sweet. Logan was aggressive and stoic, constantly switching between wanting him and avoiding him, as if she couldn't make up her mind. Now that both their lives were on the line, one or the other would eventually kill her.
John reached down, pulling the covers away. He found his boxers and donned them quickly, then crossed the room towards the closed door where he listened.
Inside the bathroom, Logan stared at the smeared, dried mess across her thighs, instinctively knowing the state between her legs as she sat on the toilet. Unsure where to put her trembling hands, they hovered over her quivering thighs as she worked through her tumultuous thoughts.
It wasn't her first time seeing blood, but this was much different - because it was ... unexpected. Logan wasn't mortally wounded. There were no cuts or injuries. It was startling because it was her blood that she wasn't prepared to see. It was extraordinary, yet regardless, Logan knew these things happened; when becoming intimate for the first time...sometimes things happen.
She knew.
It wasn't an earth shattering discovery.
She knew!
But why was she so scared? Why did this, of all things, startle her?
Logan reflected to the night before. How John's hands gripped her thighs and his mouth scoured her throat. In her chest, her heart thrummed. Was she scared because it was with John? Because he did this to her?
That was the point! She scolded herself internally. There was no love for or from John. She could have what she wanted from him without any emotional upheaval or frivolous courtship. No strings attached. It was primitive and crass
Logan thought back to her father, their talks, and how embarrassed she felt sitting in the living room, and to his credit, he managed to explain the fundamentals of what a man and woman who love each other do, the terminology and mechanics of the physical act. What John and Logan did. Cauldron had fumbled and stammered an explanation, but Logan tried in earnest not to listen, to be anywhere else but there and discussing that.
Logan mentally scoffed and always tuned her mother out, as Jennifer explained to her daughter the finer details of love, the complex and abstract range of emotions that accompanied a romantic relationship. Logan did not listen to her mother. It was useless; the suitors who presented themselves unfailingly proved that Logan was merely the means to a lucrative end. It was natural, she told herself, and not a cause for alarm. She was a woman, and had been for some time.
"Take it easy…," she whispered to herself.
Dropping her hands, Logan shakily drew a steady breath just as the bathroom door eased open.
Logan immediately bowed her head as she crossed her legs; instinctively, she shielded her chest. The man had already seen her fully exposed, had been inside her, kissed every inch of her, yet she couldn't stop how vulnerable she felt while entirely naked before him.
John closed the door and knelt down before her.
Brushing away her mussed hair, he tilted her chin up and solemnly looked into her troubled eyes. He wiped away the tears she unknowingly shed with steady hands, while her heart leaped and thundered. The feelings were caught somewhere between hysteria, despair, uncertainty and an astonishingly intense longing for John to comfort her coming in fast.
He stood, pulling her with him, and pushed the shower curtain back. Taking two towels from the shelves, he set them aside and removed his boxers. They both stepped into the falling stream.
He pulled her close, turning so that he took the brunt of the water with his shoulder and the runoff cascaded between their chests.
At their feet, the tinged water spiraled down the drain.
The Texas sun blazed high and unforgiving in the clear, cloudless sky when John and Logan checked out of the Menger Hotel. Stepping outside, in mutual silence, they strode past the Häagen Dazs ice cream shop, skirting the growing line of sweating patrons seeking relief from the sun. The Menger's bar and the Alamo fell into the background, as they headed for the valet parking where a white Corvette and a black Mustang awaited them.
The young valets exchanged curious glances as John continued towards his vehicle and Logan sank into hers.
Both engines roared to life, filling the parking garage with their powerful, resonating purrs. John pulled out first while Logan wrestled her shoes off and tossed them into the passenger's floorboard. She was not far behind as they headed west for Comfort, Texas.
To Logan's surprise, John did not speed. With long stretches of open road before them, the hills and bends offered perfect hiding places for lurking police cars. She was certain that was the reason for their law-abiding pace, which was driving her mad. In under an hour, they reached Comfort's city limits. It'd been quite some time since Logan had a night to herself, if one would even consider it such. But now she was very eager to get home and not just remove her uncomfortable dress. Her phone was dead, her stomach was nauseatingly empty, and she had a pounding headache ―fitting consequences of her questionable escapades from the night before. Not to mention, her mind kept drifting back to all the blood she woke up in and flaming her cheeks with embarrassment.
As John entered the access code, to Logan, it felt an eternity had passed before the wrought iron gates opened wide enough for the vehicles to pull through. At last, she could see her home ahead and...something indistinguishable at the doorstep large enough to be seen from the property gate.
A box?
It was too large to being anything Cauldron ordered, unless he ordered a rocket launcher, or a turret. But why deliver it here and not Kennedy's store and leave such item for the world to see? Why didn't he take it inside? Logan never offered the gate code to any postal service. Unless Caldron had escorted them onto the property and, out of laziness, left the parcel at the door step. With the aid of the headache, she felt herself getting frustrated.
The Mustang swept across the driveway and parked. Logan pulled up behind John, parked and quickly got out. John, who had seen it too, emerged from his vehicle, peering intently over the hood towards the large, rectangular item.
Logan moved around her car, leaving the driver's door wide open. She paused briefly, uncertain; the shift in the air came with unnatural stillness. No birds sang, no wind ushered her along … something was terribly awry. Craning her head back, she looked up to see several buzzards slowly circling overhead. She looked back towards the box and then again towards the birds. Apprehension was on the rise.
Settling her gaze onto the package, the lid sat askew, the wooden edges stained an unmistakable, brownish- red hue that left her with more dread than curiosity. Scuffs and jutting splinters marred the flat surfaces, as if it'd been tossed aside or kicked out of a moving vehicle. There were gathering indications a common postal service did not deliver this over sized item.
Glancing at her, John knew her intentions.
"Logan," he warned as she stepped forward.
It didn't matter, Logan had to know what was in the box.
John came around her vehicle in two strides and intercepted her. Logan eluded his efforts. She darted around, faster now―absolutely certain there was something terrible inside the package. John caught her upper arm which she yanked free from, stumbling forth.
The overwhelming smell hit her as she neared. Her fears worsened and her heart lurched into her throat, clawing its frenetic path towards her throat. She wanted to gag, to step away and cover her nose, but the growing, consuming dread compelled her, luring her towards the ominous package that may have been rigged with explosives or a pressurized, corrosive poison.
It didn't matter.
She had to see.
The frantic questions thrashed around in her head, screamed her worst fears, putting people she loved and cherished into places they shouldn't be.
When she reached the box and fell to her knees, with strength born of fear, Logan pushed against the heavy lid. Her head throbbed in tandem of her heart. The heat, the stench, the effort. She tried to hold her breath, to not breathe in the assaulting fetor of decay baking in the Texas heat as the lid fell aside. When it hit against the concrete, no longer contained, the smell was unbearable.
Logan lurched back, covering her mouth as her body dry heaved while the scene before her unfolded.
She could feel John grabbing her, trying to haul her to her feet as her eyes scoured over the gruesome contents within.
Body parts.
A pair of severed legs cut unevenly at the knees and hips, arms from shoulder to wrist, but no hands. Where were the hands? Her hands. Dirt and bracken clumped together from the spilled blood suggested she was murdered, dismembered ... hacked apart, and then delivered as a grisly package. Long sweeps of dark brown hair obscured the corpse's face as they laid unnaturally twisted and mangled in their final resting place. The matted hair followed stickily against her pale body like old cobwebs, resting lifelessly against what was once a person, a living being.
More importantly, the hair.
Dark hair Logan was very familiar with.
Too much like her own.
The odds were against her now, inevitably.
She reached forward and gently brushed aside a clumped tendril, stiff from dirt and blood.
That was enough, she knew the answer, but kept going until she had cleaned away the dirt, blood and hair from her mother's face.
hello again! i hope y'alls weekend is sunny and nice! It's HOT here in Texas.
LadyJavert: Thank you for all those awesome reviews!
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