Winston received yet another call; incessant, they were. Hardly a moment passed before the next call came.
With the speed and wrath of a devouring wildfire, the news of John Wick's demise spread internationally — to all Underground factions, in less than twelve hours. So many Associates called to offer Winston their condolences, as if he was the executor on John's behalf. Others simply wanted to know if the rumors were, indeed, true.
Could it be? The Baba Yaga is dead? Who did it? How were they capable? Who will rise and take his place? Will there ever be a more infamous, ruthless, and respected professional such as himself?
Winston answered the call with his characteristic indifference, "Winston."
"It's Wayne."
"Wayne...?" The kingpin echoed, feigning ignorance, though he knew his caller well.
"Ryder," the voice spoke tightly.
Winston's brow lifted, his interest and curiosity piqued. He certainly wasn't expecting this call.
"Mr. Caldron Wayne Ryder--" He was toying with the man. A smile threatened the corner of his lips.
"Yes."
"That's a name I haven't heard for years," he said.
Winston smiled in mild amusement then glanced at the portrait of Miss Ryder and her parents. Over two decades, he surmised. But who kept a running tally on the dead?
"I wanted to keep it that way," Ryder muttered in exasperation. "But I'm not too smart and I never learn my lesson."
"Or complete your Markers." The smile fell from Winston's lips.
Ryder took a breath to speak, but held his words back. Silence encompassed them. What was there left to say? Ryder, back from the grave, unable to finish his task, and now wanted more out of a bargain than he could afford.
"Fool me once," Winston drawled calmly, staring at the thin wisp of steam rising from his espresso. "Fool me twice…."
Winston simply couldn't help himself now. He picked up his cup and took a tip. Things were certainly panning out nicely, he thought. So long as the fairer Ryder survived long enough to see to his plan's end. But if she perished before Caldron made his heroic appearance, then... one more body to bury.
"Please," the single word jumped from Ryder's mouth in a strangled whisper. "Jesus Christ, Winston. Please, please, don't hurt her."
Winston fell nothing in the implore. Not a twinge of heartfelt guilt or crack within his resolve. This was the oath they swore by. There were rules to be followed or the very foundation they constructed upon would crumble and the very empire would collapse.
No, he wouldn't hurt her because...
"It's not her life I want."
Logan remained on the floor, flanked by two dead men.
Blood, still warm from the wound, soaked the carpet, and created a solid black shadow beneath her. The air was thick with a macabre medley of gunpowder, hot metal and the coppery tang of blood; the blood spattered on Logan's face felt cooler against her skin as the night air dried it, and her ears still rang from the firefight. Clenched tightly in her hand, the slide of her pistol was locked to the rear, exposing the warm, empty chamber. The silence was deafening. Her frantic gaze darted the brass and red shotgun shells that littered the small room and the two additional figures that arrived; as far as Logan could tell, the imminent threat was neutralized, but the violent cacophony that erupted within her small motel room would inevitably summon law enforcement officials, with reinforcements en route.
"I know you," Logan growled, pulling herself up onto unsteady legs, "You laced my drink."
Standing, she faced them; unmindful of her state of undress.
The flame haired woman winced, ignoring Logan's rabid, motley appearance; her companion averted his gaze from the younger woman clad in a large, loose-fitted t-shirt barely covering her panties, and blood soaked socks.
"I had to-I'm sorry."
"She tends to do that," the man muttered; lingering in the doorway, he looked all ways, searching for hidden gunmen.
The redhead shot him a chastising look. When she swung her gaze to Logan, it was gone.
"We must go," she implored, "You can't stay here."
Logan eyed her suspiciously, "Alright, then I'll leave."
Simple enough, she thought. Her stuff was packed already.
Stepping over the large corpse on her right, she reached for her duffle bags.
The woman glanced at the man, who continued to peer out into the parking lot. Dressed in a bespoke grey suit, his hair slicked back, Logan could see the neck tattoos creeping up beneath his crisply pressed collar. Logan instinctively knew the pair before her screamed trouble; she reached for the pair of shorts she set out.
"We were instructed to get you," the man said, "You're coming with us." Logan immediately identified his Russian accent, and that he wasn't giving her an option to leave on her own accord.
Who the hell is he -?! She thought.
Logan resented his authoritative tone and shot him a look over her shoulder, only to be pinned in place with his even harder, menacing stare. Addy's silence and strained, grave expression gave his words weight and clarity. Logan glared in response. If she wasn't safe here, she had no problem heading back to Texas, or Washington, or even Colorado. But she wasn't leaving with any of Winston's henchmen, much less back to the very establishment that nearly sent her to an early grave.
"I'm not going back to the Continental," Logan stated firmly. "I don't know why he sent you in the first place." She slid her glare onto the redhead.
"We don't have time to explain," the woman pleaded, stepping forward with her hands laced together impatiently. "You're not safe here; we are not safe here. We need to return to the hotel."
Logan took an involuntary step back and said, "I'm not going back there."
"Please," the redhead asked. "You're safe-"
"We're running out of time. Addy, stop." The man cut her off.
He turned away from the door, crossed the room in two strides, and stood before Logan. He glared down at her, and Logan sullenly, stubbornly met it with her own, despite his menacing stance, and fact he was almost a foot taller than she. His groomed, thick beard and neatly slicked, brown hair belied his fierce expression. The pleasant smell of his expensive cologne washed over Logan, who found it difficult to maintain her derision, especially when he looked and smelled so nice.
Her job here was done. She stirred the proverbial pot - the news spread, people were up in arms about John's death. Why wouldn't they just let her leave?
"You're out of ammo," he hissed, "In nothing but a shirt and underwear. You look ridiculous."
The scathing insult sounded markedly worse with his distinctive accent. Logan's ears burned hot as her anger bloomed.
"You have no idea what's coming. You can try to run on your own, but they will find you, and do unimaginable things to that pretty little face . . ." He spat, but his words did not make Logan feel pretty at all. His pale eyes contemptuously raked over her darkening expression, then lowered to her neck, and traveled down the planes of her t-shirt, where her chest heaved, hot with impotent anger, before ending at her bare legs and bloody socks. "And other parts."
Logan saw a flash of images. The battered rectangular wooden box. The circling vultures overhead. Hacked body parts; the crude, dismembered remains of her mother. She wisely decided to heed his fatalistic warning.
A glint of orange light refracted off the barrel of his stainless steel pistol when he turned away, and strolled to the shattered doorway. He stepped out into the night air, glanced left and then right, before nonchalantly settling his gaze onto the redhead. Sirens wailed over the voiceless drone of the city. Logan wondered if they were coming to her.
"We leave now." he said, sotto voce.
They went by Addy and Abram. From their body language - Addy often rested her hand along his forearm- Logan correctly deduced the woman's uncertain attraction to the older man, who, unfortunately, was clueless. Logan sympathized with him; when it came to the finer points of attraction and romance, she was just as daft.
Abram claimed to be an old, mutual Associate of both Winston and John. He did not provide further details; interestingly, Logan wondered why he bristled under her curious gaze. From experience, Logan knew Addy worked the hotel's wet bar. She learned the auburn haired woman slipped drugs, and other sedatives into people's drinks, by order of it's kingpin - Winston. Logan deemed the practice as shady, given that Continental grounds were considered to be absolutely neutral and safe territory.
Despite the pressing circumstances, Logan was relieved and encouraged to find other people willing to help John Wick, regardless of the impressive bounty on his head. Perhaps she wasn't insane to come to New York City and stir the pot.
"You're going to ride with us," Addy said as she helped Logan quickly gather her things.
Logan paused, the duffle hoisted midway to her shoulder. "What about my truck?" It was her father's, and she didn't want to part with it.
"What about it?"
"I can't leave it," she snapped, irritated with having to explain herself while she peeled off her blood-soaked socks. Her toes were stained a morbid red, a wave of nausea rolled in her stomach.
"It can stay."
"No, it can't." Logan declared; she shoved her feet into a pair of tennis shoes and snatched up her car keys. The truck was not staying.
"Okay, fine."
It didn't seem like an elaborate ruse to kidnap her; they could have killed her, but didn't. Also, they were taking her back to Winston, another person who could have killed her, but didn't.
Logan stopped short of the doorway. One hand gripped her truck keys. The other held the duffle bag's strap.
What if, Logan thought, Winston changed his mind, and now wanted her returned to the hotel so he could finish the job? Logan didn't mention the small arsenal stowed in the tool box. She wasn't taking unnecessary chances with them.
People were after her, with guns blazing. Addy and Abram had a prime opportunity to kill her when she was stuck under the heavy-set man. Winston could have fed her to the birds, but he let her go. Addy and Abram could have let the man bludgeon her to death, if it weren't for Abram pulling the trigger…
She needed to trust them, even if it went against everything she implicitly believed.
As they made their way outside, Logan bitterly concluded despite her survival and martial arts skills, tactical and weapons training, she was very easy to kill.
They were stuck in rush hour traffic - the infamous New York City gridlock. In all directions, roads were congested with taxis, buses and cars. Pedestrians and bicycle riding couriers flowed between idling vehicles lining the streets, in an unending current of humanity.
Inch by literal inch, they made progress. Addy rode with Logan in her truck, following Abram, who led the way. Logan presumed Addy came along to prevent her from veering off on her own, as if personally escorting her could stop Logan from doing what she wanted; the revolver strapped beneath her seat would help even Logan's odds, should her situation became unfavorable.
Every street light glared an angry red; people hurriedly walked across, and in between traffic, regardless of who had the right of way. To be in the city was as unnerving as it was over-populated.
Logan squeezed the steering wheeling impatiently; beside her, Addy sat quietly in her seat, unperturbed by their standstill, and stared calmly at the towering skyscrapers. They agreed to follow him back to the Continental.
"The city that never sleeps," Addy muttered softly, star gazing as night fell.
Logan ignored the comment. She knew they were on borrowed time. Those searching for her were probably scouting the motel grounds. If they knew what vehicle she drove, Logan was either smart at moving it, or stupid for placing herself in the midst of traffic, like a sitting duck.
The light turned green; in front of them, Abram's dark green Gran Torino pulled forward. Logan eased off the brakes and rolled forward, easing into the intersection. She braked hard, when several pedestrians stepped out onto the crosswalk. Abram had cleared the intersection and was continuing on, when, from nowhere, a vehicle slammed into the passenger side of the truck.
Glass exploded into the cab, from both the passenger's side and the rear window. The cab lurched; despite their seatbelts, the impact forcibly tossed Logan and Addy about the cab like ragdolls. Logan's head slammed against the window, sending bursts of light dancing across her eyes.
Stunned, the world became submerged, as if she was underwater. Immediately, her mother came to mind, spiking Logan's panic. She shook her head to clear it. Through the mental fog, bystanders gathered to gawk at the wreckage, while others hurried on their way. The engine hissed and smoke rose from beneath the twisted hood. She felt Addy against her, alive but hurt.
She opened her eyes, and watched the world oscillate, before righting itself. A warmth bloomed down Logan's face. Logan touched her face and winced. When she drew hand back, blood coated her fingers. She squeezed one eye shut as blood seeped into it, blurring her already distorted vision.
The driver's side door was yanked open, and Abram appeared. He worked quickly; unbuckling her, he pulled Logan from the lopsided cab.
"We must go," he barked, helping her stand. Still dazed, Logan tried to remain, while seeing through one bruised and rapidly swelling eye.
"Addy! Addy, get up!"
Logan turned her head as Addy, stunned and battered, crawled across the truck bench toward them. She fell out of the vehicle, almost landing in broken glass, but caught herself in time. The dazed woman staggered forward, nodding towards Abram.
"I'm alright," she said.
Abram wasted no time. He pulled Logan along behind him; Abram's car made it through the intersection seconds before the other car ran the red light and crashed into Logan's truck. The distance wasn't far, but there was already a crowd of witnesses watching Abram, Addy, and Logan flee the scene. Cursing in Russian, he hurried them towards his car, even if meant dragging Logan when she stumbled. Addy was close behind them when -
A gunshot rang out.
Then another.
And another.
The bullets whizzed past their heads and ricocheted off the tail end of Abram's Gran Torino, causing flashes of sparks that sent a wave of hysteria rippling through the gathered crowd of people. The bystanders and curious onlookers yelped and screamed as they scattered, covering their heads as they ducked and sheltered wherever they could. Unfortunately, this only served to fully expose the trio to hostile fire.
At this very moment, Logan finally understood the severity of her actions.
Breaking into a run, they reached the car and Abram pushed Logan into the back while Addy limped towards the passenger side. Sinking into the driver's seat, Abram shoved it into gear, peeled out and began weaving through traffic.
As the city lights flew past, Logan popped up from the back seat. The rear view mirror gave her a clear view of her disheveled state. Her hair was a mess and there was a slit along her eyebrow, a bruised, bloody knot already forming.
Abram and Addy shared a look Logan could only gather as a quick inspection of one another. The heavy rise and fall of their shoulders mirrored her own.
Logan twisted around and silently watched the crash shrink into the distance from the back window. Her belongings were in the truck - her clothing, money, identification, and all the weapons her father had given her.
If they didn't know who she was before, they did now.
Dra9onf7yz: thank you for your kind and rare review!
Guest(s): I'm so glad! Sometimes, I stress myself out writing these.
Happy Marine Corps birthday to any devildogs that may cross this story, but we all know yall can't read!
jkjk.
Also, Happy early Veteran's day. Thank you for your service.