"The forging process is what makes the sword strong. The pressure, the heat, and the pain."
-Tim Kennedy, SFC United States Army.
Chapter is 5.2k words.
The front door of the Ryder Estate swung violently open, smacking against the wall and rattling the frame upon its hinges. The report resonated throughout the homestead in a startling clap, up the stairs,
Already, John was moving into action.
By fluid design and finely executed practice, he was armed and in position, without thought nor considerate effort; an actuating machine by the flip of a switch.
Then he heard voice call out from below and the protocol ended as quickly as it began.
Caldron was here and something was awry.
"Logan?" The emission was loud and reached the top of the stairs distinctly. The tremor, the panic that scratched the parlance.
John glanced towards the bed, sans his pet, the mussed sheets were abandoned. Where was Logan?
Outside, dawn warmed the black horizon.
How did she...?
"Logan!" The voice bellowed again, emotion weakening the sound. "John?"
John stowed his weapon in its respective spot and reached for the bedroom door.
Taking the stairs three at a time, Caldron ascended so quickly he nearly crashed in John as he emerged from his bedroom.
"Where is she?" Caldron panted, flustered. A moment passed, too heavy for the worrisome father to withstand. He yelped impatiently. "WHERE IS SHE?!"
"I have no idea," John admitted calmly, unmoved by the crescendo despite having just awakened. Something had happened, that much was apparent.
Brushing past the hitman, Caldron stalked down the hall, shouting for his daughter. As her father moved, each door along the way was thrown open and the dwelling beyond investigated thoroughly. The bedding was ripped away, pillows tossed, bathroom closets rummaged as he rifled through each room like an addict hunting for his lost stash.
Empty...
Empty...
Empty...!
It was useless at this point, John knew she was gone. Though, they'd gone to bed together after a quick rutting in the hallway, how she slipped away without disturbing him was feat itself. Normally, John was a light sleeper. No, he was a light sleeper; he had to be. However, after being satisfied sexually...perhaps..
John almost blushed.
Caldron returned, hysterical and now breathless. "Please, help me find her."
A sheen of sweat glistened across his bald head. Propping his hands akimbo, he started to pace. Through his nose Caldron took a deep, clearing breath, then the fretting father gave a quick recap of his muggy morning. It started with an early phone call then a request to relocate John, a few ugly choice words exchanged between father and daughter, Caldron―being half-asleep― then made a poor decision.
"She knows," Caldron concluded pitifully. "She knows and now she's gone."
John observed and listened. There wasn't much else he could do. Though the two men had very similar pasts, their approach to personal matters were starkly opposite. Caldron worked in arbitrary fashion. John was systematic. He knew what it felt like to lose someone he dearly loved, but Logan was not lost, more than likely off brooding over the discovery of her father's hideout. In time, she would get over it.
How much did she know besides discovering her father's deception and intentional avoidance?
"To what extent?" John inquired.
"Enough!" Caldron exclaimed, flabbergasted. "She knows enough and she's gonna figure it out." A red hand rose to pinch the bridge of an evenly flustered nose. Caldron was thinking of the worst, dreading the worst and this was not even the more horrific thing to happen, John realized.
Caldron continued to pace, a desperate sigh escaping. "She's not answerin' her phone. I went to the back to put some shoes on and head here, and when I came back, she was gone. She left, went through a dresser and found everythin'."
All the years he'd spent grooming and preparing her for a variety of disasters. The day had finally come. He'd never actually thought anything would happen. Years had gone by―years!And now complacency had bested him.
Calm down, he told himself as John headed downstairs. Unable to sit still in the silence, he followed.
Rounding the banister, the duffel bags Logan had dropped were gone. John continued on to check what else was missing from below. When he entered the vault, jutting out beneath the work bench―whereas it was flushed once before―was his cache trunk. He slid it out and, after a quick inspection, he had lost a coin, not of his own volition.
"Caldron," John called out. Why did she take a coin...
The man followed from behind, spotting the trunk, before dragging his gaze back up to John.
"Did she take anything from you?" asked John, curious. Pieces were falling into place.
Caldron nodded, "A picture, all my coins, and the Marker."
Beneath an inscrutable visage, John's chest tightened. The image of the poorly quartered woman re-emerged. As disturbing as it was, surely this was Logan seeking vengeance. Even if emotionally, she was unreadable. Any indication of her distress was not displayed which proved difficult to gauge her response. But where were her leads? John retraced his memory and the conversations between Logan and himself. Aside from the glaringly distracting bouts of passion they haphazardly conducted, there were moments they weren't interlocked physically.
New York, where it all began.
He'd shared that with her once before.
The coins. The Marker. The arsenal in tow.
Even still... to think, to believe, she could do something of this magnitude―for her mother?
While she barricaded herself to the confines of her room, John reviewed the cam feed. The box seemingly fell from the sky, kicked out of a low flying aircraft more than likely, which explained why the alarms never triggered. Moreover, only one crime family had a stint for vivisecting...
In the end, running was still not an option. John had no intention of leaving. He made it this far, killing Marshall and his crew, obtaining Desmond―Aurelio's greedy little nephew―who now had no tongue or fingers, but was released on behalf of pity; a painful, but valuable, lesson was learned. The lesser partner was removed, left to bleed out in a field from a chest wound signed by 12 gauge. As for Logan, she was more than welcome to leave at her own discretion; one less life claimed in his wake.
But this, barreling for New York with the intent to cut the snake off at the head...
It was beyond her scope of understanding and capability. It was another dimension of death and corruption. She couldn't, wouldn't, last long on her own.
Still, she was Caldron's daughter and the scenario felt oddly familiar.
Furrowing his brow, John removed the lid from his trunk and stared fondly into his possessions. The choice was his. It always had been. He could wait it out, slaughtering those who continued to come for him. A Marker bound Caldron to John, as it so often did to its participants. But without Logan, Caldron's heart was not in it.
Perhaps, neither was John's.
In the little time he was exposed to Logan, complicated barely scratched the surface. She was difficult at times, undoubtedly. Moody on all accounts, but for the lot of her actions, she was quite straightforward with what she wanted.
Whether that be John, her father, or in this case, revenge. For that, he could admire.
And the only man connected to John who could provide a direction―that Logan knew―was Aurelio.
Shutting the lid, John stood knowing there were two ways it could go.
He'd have Aurelio ship her back, or he'd have to go get her himself.
Both were high on the echelon of Shit-That-Keeps-You-From-Retiring.
Logan drove twenty-seven hours straight, stopping only for gas, restroom needs, and her eighth cup of coffee. Her appetite was lost beneath the vestigial heart ache from recent revelations and the drive kept her mind busy; like a tethered dog desperately straining to break free and tear across open space, her grief and anguish would have to wait for release once the emotional restraints grew weak and weary.
Lying on the passenger's floor board was her lifeless phone. Powered off, it would remain so until the task was done or the gates of hell swung open.
For reassurance, Logan checked and rechecked the rear view mirror, even after she reached her destination.
Comfort was no longer home for her, perhaps neither was Texas. For years Logan had been on her own and looked after herself for so long, her present location and situation did not faze her. Logan adapted, whether in the blistering heat or the frigid cold, it mattered not.
She considered selling the house as is before disappearing. Surrendering her father to the proverbial shit storm would have been the easiest route. If Logan were selfish … or a psychopath.
However, she was neither―in a hopeful sense.
Caldron was still her father, and the bonds of unconditional love held her fast. No matter how often she feigned indifference, or raged against the invisible tether, Logan would never be free. Reaching New York and successfully mitigating the unknown but inevitable hazards would prove her worth. Even though at the time, she wanted to hurt him spitefully, she was still his daughter and still she wanted to make him proud.
"If you had just given me the chance…"
Logan squeezed the steering wheel tighter as she drove, lost in the churning storm of her conflicting thoughts. Yes, they had gotten too close. Yes, her inexplicable dedication to Cauldron and John was irreversible. And yes! She hated feeling this way, regardless of who was the subject of her affections.
John… There he was―plaguing her thoughts again and again...and again.
They'd spent so much time together, Logan feared they became conjoined; where did John end, and Logan begin? Their existence seemed symbiotic. He was an extension of her now; it was impossible for her to not think about him, and ludicrous to tell herself she didn't…
She gritted her teeth, refusing to allow the words to even manifest as thoughts.
This head versus heart she endured; it was constant tiresome battle for Logan, an individual who abhorred any form of emotional attachment. Once a festering wound as a child, now a puckered scar she couldn't ignore as an adult. The mere thought of losing Cauldron, even if he wanted to be lost―or John, frightened Logan more than she could verbally express. Losing either of them pumped her stomach with battery acid.
But this trip was not about John. It wasn't. It was about Jennifer, Logan's unloving, dead mother. She had to get even, retribution was afoot. Wasn't that why she dropped everything and was bound for New York? Did she truly believe it―or was it a convenient excuse to leave John and Caldron, the persons she cared for the most? As if proximity was what ailed her, as if by physically removing herself, the inhibiting effects would disappear and she would be better once more.
Out of sight, out of mind as the adage goes.
More than three years passed since she saw or spoke to her mother. Long healed were those wounds, until that dreadful box was opened. It was pointless to care now. Oddly, Logan hadn't cried … yet; if Cauldron was in that box... she kept the thought at bay. There was no sense in getting worked up over a hypothesis.
Now Logan feared her subconscious was manifesting, compelling her to flee, to run from everyone she cared for, as if fate was attentively listening, bent close and waiting for her heart to win over her mind to finally claim them all.
It had nothing to do with John...
But it did.
Revenge was only reflexive.
Everyone knew that.
In her kitchen, Addy watched the steam rise in languid tendrils, before it dissipated against the sunset. All day, Addy tossed and turned. Sleep eluded her, and she passed time staring restlessly into the ceiling until an umbra from the setting sun crept across her ceiling. Now fatigue clung to her sense as she stared into the surface of her hot drink.
The cause of her insomnia was a man; not just any man―Abram Tarasov―who was sound asleep in her guest bedroom, while she waited downstairs, still clad in her pajamas.
It was her fault he was there.
Addy wasn't completely in the loop, but she knew enough. As the Continental's barkeep, she rarely asked for information. Working strange hours brought strange happenings to the Continental through the eventide and into nightfall. The irresistible combination of her potent beverages, a dash of something―when sanctioned by her employer, and swollen egos relaxed even the most taciturn lips. With drinks at ready provision, all Addy had to do was wait … and listen.
By order of the Continental's Kingpin, Winston, Addy was only to drug the Russian, and stand aside as the fell nature of the Underworld took its course. Mr. Tarasov, like the masses preceding him, came before Winston with the same incentive:
Find John Wick and collect the fourteen million dollar bounty.
Greed's effects swayed even the most mentally sound men to make reckless decisions. Abram's predecessors shared an irreversible fate but instinct told her Abram was different. Addy could see it when she looked into his blue eyes. As he watched the revelers on the dance floor, she watched him. He was older, and not her type, yet she was drawn to him. Unbeknownst to Abram, the colored strobe lights and play of shadows that danced along the contours of his face fascinated his server. What caught Addy's attention was the thrill in his eyes; it was not driven by the desire for riches or reputation, but fear. Abram was afraid of John Wick―and rightfully so. She imagined a recent encounter with John left a lasting impression, or scar.
Against her better judgment, by the time Abram finished his laced drink, Addy made a startling decision.
Above her, the wooden floor groan and creak. Addy smirked fondly, taking a gentle sip of her spruced up coffee. Milky and sweet, like her. She opened a cabinet and produced a second mug. Filling it with coffee, like many men, she assumed he preferred it black and unsweetened. Oddly, she found how a man liked his coffee said much about him. Abram seemed like a black-drip-kind-of-man, but honestly, what did she know?
Carefully balancing both mugs in her grasps, she headed upstairs.
With her foot, she eased open the cracked door. Abram was sitting up shirtless, confounded and glancing about the unfamiliar room as his mind replayed the last of his horrific hours cognizant. The room which he woke in was predominantly white with chic decor and hardwood flooring. The ambiance was light and airy. By the bedside along the floor was a fluffy, white throw rug. She hoped waking in such a place would ease his apprehension. It wasn't a dungeon and she certainly didn't tie him to anything.
When he noticed her, the fitted grey shorts and a loose fitting, yellow, racerback tank top clung to her slender frame, her dark copper hair swept to one shoulder. He did not recognize her, save for the tattoos.
He shook his head in disbelief then wiped the sleep from his eyes. Was she real?
"Am I dead?" Sleep deepened his voice. Bruising made his features more haggard than his age alone and the bridge of his nose had a nick. The blow was hard and precise enough to send narrow wings of purple and green bruising beneath the bags of his eyes. Winston was merciless, but he had to be. She didn't blame him. If she had as much power, she would do the same for John in such harrowing conditions. It wasn't fair.
Addy smiled. Despite the sleeplessness, she'd been smiling quite frequently. She handed him his coffee which he took without protest.
"There's nothing in it," she admitted, then realized it was far too soon for such a statement, considering this is how it all started―her drugging him.
"I mean," she bit her lip, ashamed, " I didn't add any cream or sugar, or anything else," she added quickly.
He seemed wary at first, but he was here now and well within good hands. Addy had nearly begged Winston not to kill him. During her years at the Continental, corruption had a look and feel.
Albeit, Abram was no angel; he was no heathen either.
Winston felt the sincerity in her pleas. Abram was spared and given to Addy like spoiled left overs. It broke her heart watching Winston's men lug an unconscious Tarasov into the back of her white Volkswagen. Their hands were rough, shoving his slack limbs out of the way, tossing immobile arms across his battered chest before slamming the car door shut. In now, the innards of her car smelled like metal and expensive cologne
Naturally, Winston warned her about Tarasovs. Of course, she assured him everything would be alright. Abram was the lesser of the few evils that were the Tarasovs. In fact, Abram was the last of his name. Viggo and Iosef Tarasov, the more ruthless fist that held the name, had recently passed.
Perching at the foot of the bed, she tucked her legs beneath her and watched him take a small sip.
He sighed softly, the warm coffee touching his battered soul.
She smiled some more, recalling how well-kempt he was when he walked into the speakeasy. Hair slicked back, beard conditioned and groomed, and a charcoal suit with a canary yellow tie. Perhaps it was the tie. Yellow was an innocent color, too innocent for a callous Tarasov.
"Where am I?" His accent was more detectable now that the drowning club music wasn't there to snuff it out. Addy admired it.
"You're at my apartment in Manhattan," she explained.
"Why am I here? Where is Winston?"
Tilting her head, she answered, "Winston is at the Continental. You're here because," she bit her lip, unsure how he was respond to her intervention. A risky feat it was to follow Winston to his secluded industrial park where he brought his subjects. But Addy was no heathen; she was no angel either. She meant well and Winston trusted her. "I couldn't... I couldn't let him kill you."
She met Abram's gaze and a warmth of demure colored her cheeks. Uncomfortable, Abram looked away first. He wasn't used to a pretty thing like Addy looking at him like that. He didn't understand why Winston spared him. At this point, it was rhetorical. He was alive, for that he was grateful. If Addy had something to do with it, there was a reason.
"I should thank you," he muttered, the Tarasov pride proving hard to swallow; a woman had saved him. He stared out of the bay window that faced the coming dusk. Though buildings hemmed either side, there was a breadth of passage, almost by serendipitous design, that granted the evening rays bypass. In the light, the flecks of grey in his beard looked silver. The bruises blending with his tattoos, the mussed hair; a fallen angel Addy had captured.
"You're welcome," then came her gentle smile, assuring him even if that wasn't her intentions. His heart leaped.
No longer obscured in darkness, Abram could see her hair color was a tumble of natural red with hues of gold, not brunette as he initially thought. Intricate tattoos carved a path just above her elbow and followed upward, cresting her shoulder and peaking out along her neck from beneath her fallen hair.
She was pale, like Abram, but it was flattering, unlike Abram. His heart did a most uncomfortable rhythm within his chest.
Suddenly aware of his bare torso, he grabbed at a pillow and placed it on his lap, halfway attempt at shielding himself. Rich, revered―a Tarasov―but still rather daft and insecure when it came to pretty little things. Before, money had bought such attention. Abram didn't pay for this, he didn't even ask for it; none of it.
"You're welcome to stay here and get some rest." Addy offered, untucking her legs and standing. "I've got to get ready for work."
New York City.
Dusk revealed the distinctive skyline against the horizon. The sinking sunset light the background in burning hues of oranges, outlining the city's silhouette. Above the towering skyscrapers were softened by the following cool indigos and muted starlight of early gloaming.
Just outside Manhattan, Logan checked into a suitable motel. After unloading her luggage, she wearily stripped down to her sport bra and panties. Logan sat on the edge of the bed, carefully studying the portrait in her hands while the shower warmed.
The stolen photo was of them―Caldron, Jennifer, and herself; she had never seen the monochrome picture, until now. The professionally stylized, matte print captured Jennifer, poised and daintily seated before an elegant grand piano. Her pale, slender hands rested delicately in her lap and her long, dark hair was smoothed back into a lengthy braid that fell past her posterior. Situated on a vintage settee atop hand-carved, wood clawed feet, and attired in a pale three piece suit, was her father; upon his lap, sat Logan. They were looking at each other. Her little hand was reaching up for the smile spread across her father's face.
Logan's fingers trembled as she tucked the photograph safely away. Physically exhausted, she remained mentally alert, for this was only the beginning. Before she could forget, she called her employer through the motel's phone and negotiated some time off. If she made it out, at least she wouldn't be unemployed.
Eyeing the luggage near the door way, she narrowed in on her phone, still off and it would remain so.
No… who knew what havoc awaited her once she turned it on; in due time.
Contemplating her current unplanned circumstances, Logan laid back along her bed and stared into the ceiling. Outside, an engine failed to turn over with the ignition was applied. The machine sputtered and coughed before finally dying. Several moments past, and the user tried again.
It's dead. she wanted to step out and declare, just get to the noise to stop. They'd need someone to come tow―
Aurelio!
A wave of excitement surged through her, only to be quickly extinguished by the realization she did not know the name of Aurelio's tow truck company, nor did he divulge his last name. Searching for Aurelio via cell phone was not an option; she was not ready for that.
Tiredly mulling over her limited options, Logan's throbbing headache made it difficult to plan; and then she remembered the guest computer in the main lobby.
Aurelio was rolling a brand new tire across his work shop, when his lead mechanic emerged from the office, waving his arms to catch his attention and shouting to him across the busy workspace.
"Ay, Boss!"
Aurelio glanced up. The thickset man tossed a dirty shop rag over his shoulder, before jutting an equally thick thumb backwards.
"Some lady's at the gate."
It was well past midnight―much too late for ordinary visitors. Puzzled, Aurelio motioned him over and gestured for him to roll the tire to its destination across the cement floor. He took a moment to survey the work floor and his men as a swell of pride came over him.
Aurelio's demanding work ethic and attention to detail acquired him a reputation, earning his shop an enviable listing on the Continental's highly selective roster of approved vendors that provided premier goods and services, and for specialized, advantageous patronization.
Like many things associated with the shadowy Underground, appearances were deceiving, and yet they were everything. The chop shop's plain and unadorned exterior cleverly disguised an extraordinarily clean and organized interior that operated 24 hours a day―attesting to Aurelio's outstanding ability to render services in a timely manner within the highest level of discretion.
The time and effort he invested to recruit and assemble his rigorously vetted, carefully selected team paid off handsomely. Each individual on his payroll had a specific task to perform. Impressively efficient, his employees meshed well together―Aurelio's generous wages and bonuses ensured they kept silent about the shop's more clandestine operations, and his leadership, tough but fair, rendered their loyalty. For most, at least; some were beyond even his repair.
At a nearby work station, bright sparks arced and spewed forth, bouncing off the man's protective helmet and gloves as he welded. Another repairman carried two empty tubs of hydraulic fluid towards the hazmat bin. Aurelio's new hire, a young and talented grease monkey, placed his arm elbow deep into the engine compartment of an old Crown model, tinkering away at the faulty carburetor.
Entering the office, he studied the monitor projecting the camfeed; he didn't recognize the newcomer.
Cocking his head to the side, Aurelio used the mouse to manipulate the camera, seeking a better angle on the woman in the frame; it was a challenge, for she kept glancing around and looking over her shoulder, before she turned completely around and peered into the surrounding darkness. Despite the video feed's high resolution and night vision technology, Aurelio still did not know who stood at his door. His dark eyes narrowed as he continued to adjust and zoom in on his subject.
"Quit moving …," he muttered, zooming in on her profile.
Exasperated, he muttered a string of curses softly under his breath. She heard the faint sound of the motor, and looked directly up into the camera.
"Shit." His eyes widened with surprise and recognition.
Ah, yeah―this can't be good! Aurelio thought, fighting to remain calm as fear and apprehension rose. Her presence only meant bad news.
Wiping a hand down his face, Aurelio reached over and buzzed Logan in.
Aurelio prepared himself for the inevitable news as she pulled in and killed the engine. The garage fell eerily quiet, despite the night crew still on the clock. They moved about the concrete and automobiles warily. It was in the air; everyone could feel it.
"Say it ain't so," Aurelio sighed as she got out and slammed the truck door closed. The time had finally come.
"Can we talk?" she asked, sliding a look towards his workers, "In private?"
Stomach clenched, he nodded and gesture for her to follow.
Why wouldn't she just come out and say it? Aurelio thought, turning away and leading her across the shop.
John Wick was dead. His friend was dead.
Aurelio took her to his office where he shut the door and closed the blinds. Drawing two glasses from his wet bar, he decanted himself and his visitor a drink.
"A'right," he sighed, easing down into his chair. His stomach continued to twist and churn, forming knots. "Let's get to it."
Logan stared at her hands momentarily, picking at the callous along her palms while she contemplated what to say. Deciding, she started with the truth. "I need your help."
It was undetermined how much she could share with Aurelio or if he truly was on John's side. She hadn't forgotten how he led Marshall to her backdoor. Though, not directly, it was still a pivotal moment for all of them. In truth, she knew a car mechanic couldn't solve all her problems but at least it was a step in the right direction. She felt it.
Aurelio took a sip of his drink and kept quiet, allowing the words to sink in.
Hemming, he asked. "What's it that ya need?"
Logan looked up and held his gaze. Where to begin? How far back did she need to go? Moreover, who was responsible for all that was happening? She just wanted to understand.
Testing her theory, she spoke carefully. "I want...I want to find the people who did this to him."
Aurelo's stomach plummeted despondently. John was dead. Oh God no...
After a moment's consideration, Aurelio admitted he was not the man for Logan. She'd come all this way seeking unanswered questions and found Aurelio to be hardly of any help. Alongside the useless conversation, he appeared crestfallen and distracted, which puzzled her more than anything.
"It's difficult," he explained. "The underground isn't your run-of-the-mill club. Ya can't just walk in there."
Logan grimaced, but kept quiet.
Aurelio stared into his fourth glass of tequila. Its effects were finally taking the edge of. It'd help him cope, but only for so long. "I admire whatcha doin' here, Logan. Comin' all this way, trying to finish what he started. But ya in over ya head."
Logan stared across the shop, reflecting deeply. Could she confide in Aurelio, she wondered. It was Aurelio who delivered an assault directly to her doorstep. Had he not, the car would have never been delivered. The tracker would have never been planted. One thing after another, and now her mother was dead.
Gauging her decision, she looked at him, searching for an answer in his eyes. "Do you care for someone, Aurelio?"
He blinked, caught off guard. After a moment, he said nodded. Of course he did.
Logan looked away. "I want to know what that's like." To care for another without it consuming you. It didn't feel right to her, to lose yourself in another so comprehensively but she knew no other way. Love seemed like a bottomless pit and right now, she clung to its edge.
He tilted his head, studying her. "You've never loved someone before?"
She told him no.
"I find that hard t'believe," he scoffed with a small smile. "Whattabout your parents?"
Between an estranged father and dissected mother, her options were limited. Aurelio didn't need to know that.
"Not that kind of love," she confessed. Something deeper, less forced, and reciprocal. That's all she truly wanted. To love without the fear of losing.
"It might be too late," she murmured, staring at her hands again. "I'm just trying to help."
The subject changed. He knew she was referring to John again.
"You are helping," he assured her. "You've kept him safe, off the radar for as long as you could."
"That's not enough, Aurelio."
He grew quiet.
Respiring, Logan said, "I'd like to know what I'm dealing with. I want on the inside..."
If that were the case, he truly did not have the answers for her.
But he knew someone who did.
I'm finally on a regular schedule again. So updates won't be so sporadic. Thanks for your time reading!