For New York City, the traffic was unusually light, and Logan returned to her motel without encountering the gridlock of the typical morning commute, or even a red light.
Paranoid as ever, she kept a watchful eye on her rearview mirror, but no vehicles tailed her. Would she able to discern if she was being followed? Was it as obvious as the movies portrayed? Logan wasn't certain, but she remained cautiously optimistic. Waking from her unnatural slumber was a great relief. Walking out of Winston's private office and emerging unscathed from the proverbial vipers' nest was an incredible feat itself; perhaps her charmed streak would continue and she wasn't being followed.
Arriving at her hotel she parked behind the structure and entered a breeze way between buildings; barefoot, she slowly and carefully tiptoed across the cold grainy concrete, her heels hanging from her fingertips. Logan unlocked her room, and checked one last time for prying eyes, before she quickly and quietly slipped inside.
The room was pitch black. Coupled with her paranoia, Logan's senses were heightened. What if someone was lurking inside her room, waiting in the shadows?
Fretting, she quickly slapped the light switch on, and the empty room revealed itself.
Her nostrils flared with relief; respiring quickly, Logan was on the verge of hyperventilating as she quickly slid the deadbolt of the flimsy door home, tossed her heels aside and peeled off her dress. She was drained emotionally and physically. She needed to shower and sleep.
Logan shuddered as she reflected upon her dream. It must have been just that: a dream. Her mind replayed the realness and terror she felt when submerged beneath the water. The despair, confusion and feeling of utter betrayal, to be rendered completely powerless, by the hands of someone she trusted, no less.
But Logan Ryder knew better.
The memory of her drowning was faulty at best, yet instinctively, Logan knew her father was the one to pull her from the water and resuscitate her. She vaguely recalled him sobbing hysterically after she revived, completely overwhelmed by the miracle before him.
Her own mother — drowning her child?
That wasn't possible … or was it?
Logan knew Jennifer was not the best or most tenderhearted example of motherhood; she attributed it to Jennifer's privileged upbringing— to high society breeding at its finest. Shaping and refining a girl into cultured womanhood emphasized class and eloquence, not gentle nurturing or sentimentality. Logan wholeheartedly believed Jennifer desired a marble statue for a daughter, an automaton devoid of emotion, contrite and meek. That would never be Logan. She was too much like her father.
If it wasn't a dream …
Did the drug-induced coma unlock her mind and release a traumatizing memory deeply buried to protect her sanity? No, Logan assured herself. That was a rabbit hole she dared not explore.
The estrangement between them spanned years and further strained their tenuous relationship; the maternal figure every little girl desperately needed was nonexistent in Jennifer Ryder. Furthermore, Caldron made Logan believe the world was after her. If it was because of her mother's transgression, she was uncertain what her father's motive was. His overprotective, incessant safeguarding of her fueled that belief.
Caldron shaped and forged his only child into a fiercely independent and self sufficient individual, raising her to be strong, to stand alone; affection was rationed—a hug or terms of endearment were treasured and worth striving for. What approval Logan received in abundance were grunts or nods of approval, or additional tactical and weapons training. She quickly learned that emotional displays were considered signs of weakness, and tears were a luxury Logan was not allowed. What Caldron believed would protect her when he could not physically ensure her safety, unfortunately, backfired; the result was the hardened, undemonstrative and distrustful woman who desperately craved and wanted love - or as the licensed professionals referred to as insecurity and attachment avoidance.
Caldron's well intentioned but misguided beliefs were the extreme, polar opposite of Jennifer. Unlike Jennifer, Caldron wasn't trying to kill her, he was teaching her to fight for her life, to survive. Of course, that was before he, like his wife, abandoned her; Logan decided that loving someone was too costly emotionally. She'd rather deny it, if it kept loved ones within reach. If not, the absence of love preserved her sanity when the inevitable did transpire: they're departure.
The dull throb at the back of her eyes spread, forming sharp daggers of pain at her temples. Her nausea returned with a vengeance, and she padded into the bathroom; there was only one solution for this.
Pulling the toilet seat up with one hand, she dropped to her knees and stuck a finger down her throat with the other. Shoulders hunched, she gagged and her stomach clenched; the sickness rose, and Logan performed the same motion again, until her mouth slicked with saliva.
Or more time. She shoved her fingers against the back of her throat and puked.
Bile the color of her drink from the Continental splashed against the white porcelain.
When was the last time she ate? It didn't help matters that her stomach's contents was only the sugary concoction and whatever drug Winston slipped into it.
Time passed while Logan emptied her stomach; and she finished, the nausea abated.
Logan brushed her teeth, showered and dressed for bed. She'd sleep the day off and leave for Texas at dusk.
Or maybe Colorado.
Or Washington…
Despite the late hour, the city emanated enough light to stave off nightfall. Against the indigo sky, incessant bugs bounced off orange parking lot lights. A stray cat jogged towards a nearby, rank smelling dumpster that sat askew in the dirty motel parking lot. A Crown Victoria entered the lot, and double parked behind several cars. The driver and passenger exited, leaving the headlights on, and the engine still humming.
They approached room 208. The taller, broader man leaned in and pressed a listening ear to its surface. The second man counted to three.
The first explosion jarred Logan from her sleep. The shotgun's cocking report punctuated the ejection of the spent shell from its chamber. By the second blast, she was scrambling across her bed, hoping to put it between herself and whatever calamity that chewed through her door.
The third shot blew the motel door wide open, and threw it back against the wall with a loud, startling clap. Wood cracked and splinters spewed onto the carpet. A jettisoned cartridge rattled hollowly against the concrete.
The parking lot lights spilled in, and two black silhouettes entered her room.
Hunkering down, she dumped herself between the wall and bed frame with the pistol she kept on her nightstand. Everything else was packed sans the small sidearm. Just in case Winston's warnings were true.
Thank God, she praised internally, Thank fucking God.
Logan had seven rounds, and one already chambered. It was enough for both of them, but she knew at least one had a shotgun; both were surely armed.
Another blast interrupted her thoughts and shredded the cheap comforter across the bed. A peppering of tightly concentrated holes blew through the wall just above her head. Her ears rang from the blast's concussion as she scrambled beneath the bed.
Then the mattress dipped under his heavy weight, making the bed springs groan. Another round went off directly above her. The shot blasted through the mattress, the hollow box spring, and came out the other side, several inches from her shoulder. The ringing in her ears was deafening now. It took Logan's entire willpower not to panic and scream. She was trapped.
The shot missed, but a direct hit was inevitable, for there was rapidly disappearing mattress between her and his barrel, and limited space for her to maneuver around in.
A second pair of boots came into view beneath the bed as he strolled past. She watched them migrate towards the bathroom then, kick open the door. Obviously, it was empty. Behind him was a small closet. He turned and yanked it open.
"Where is she?" he asked.
The man above her chuckled darkly.
"Let's see…." he drawled.
The distended mattress recovered its normal shape, and then suddenly dipped extensively again and again. The springs on either sides squeaked in rhythm. Each bounce knocked the mattress against her backside, expelling the breath from her lungs, crushing her against the rough carpeted floor. She tried squirming out of the way.
They found her.
The boots near the bathroom returned.
She was cornered.
Twisting around, Logan extended her arms, took aim and shot the man twice in the same leg. A howl filled the room as his knee gave out. He dropped and Logan moved, wiggling to the far end of the bed as the second man began emptying his shotgun into the mattress with four quick blasts.
Logan scooted back as fast as space would allow, taking several pieces of flying debris to the shoulder and face. Though superficial wounds, they burned exposed skin, and her adrenaline level surged, nearly abating her pain. Each shot was closer than the last, and sent Logan's heart slamming against her chest.
Click, click, click…
Like the wounded man's agony, the sounds were music to her ears; Logan crawled out from beneath the bed. She emerged from the opposite end, aimed and fired two more rounds. The eruption of pistol shots joined the cacophony of shotgun blasts that still hung in the air. Each violent discharge emitted a flash of light in the darkness. She swept her night sights across and fired two more into the first man's flank.
His anguished cries stopped, and he slumped onto his side, gasping for air with shallow breaths. She must have hit a lung. Blood poured from between his fingers, ink-black in the shadows.
The second man charged her.
He was colossal and bellowed with fury like a wild animal; the heavy metallic tang of blood filled the air with his war cry.
Overwhelmed, Logan redirected her gun up and shot two more times. The rounds met his stomach; he faltered, but kept staggering forward.
She aimed at his head and pulled the trigger.
Click….
"Oh, shit-" Logan breathed, bracing for impact.
Another shot rang out.
Not from her.
Not from him.
His knees gave out and he collapsed onto her. She caught the brunt of his weight and they both dropped. Logan was sprawled on her back, with her dead assailant's carcass atop her.
Warm blood sickeningly trickled from an exit wound through his left temple, and onto her face. Out of reflex, she pursed her lips tightly and turned her face away. The bullet had slammed into the back right portion of his skull and exploded out the other side. His eyes were fixed open and unfocused — dead.
But someone else was here now.
Panicking beneath the heavy weight, Logan grunted as she heaved the corpse off of her, pulling herself out from under slacked limbs. She was looking towards the first man for his weapon.
"Relax," a man's voice purred, "We're not here to kill you."
Her eyes darted towards the doorway where two silhouettes stood; a male and a female.
The smaller figure stepped past him.
A slender redhead. Logan recognized her from the Continental. The bartender.
The one who brought Logan her drink….
The one who….
"It's alright," the redhead smiled gently. Logan must have looked wild for the woman displayed both her palms in surrender and spoke softly. "It's okay, Winston sent us. We're here to help."
Happy Halloween everyone!