Save for the ever vigilant bellhops, the Continental was peculiarly devoid of its patrons, and silent as a crypt. The shattering emission of the crash, the volley of gunfire, and the heavy heartbeat thrumming inside Logan's chest was forgotten when the hotel's doors closed behind them; calming serenity wrapped around their senses and cocooned them in deafening silence. Quickly, Abram walked towards the front desk, mindful of the barkeep, who was more interested in Logan's well being, who was forever grateful for the woman's concerns. What little time had passed, she quickly began to realize their intentions were true; Logan wondered to what extent the unlikely pair were involved with this situation. They somehow knew John was alive — why else would they help her? They wouldn't aid her escape, if not for Winston's involvement. Logan was afraid to broach the subject; to do so would divert attention to more personal matters, matters which Logan did not wish to discuss. Period.
Now on Continental grounds, the trio visibly relaxed; cushioned footfalls silenced by the unblemished carpeting, the battered, motley trio were comically out of place as they walked through the posh foyer. Abram, with the exception of a few errant strands of hair, was still well put together; Logan understood and appreciated how the solidly built man appealed to Addy. The women trailed behind the Russian, supporting each other as they slowly shuffled and limped into the hotel. Like a spotlight, their condition was highlighted by the white edges and gold trim of the the crystal chandelier overhead — Addy suffered small cuts from the broken glass that exploded into the cab with minor bruising along her leg where the car impacted them. No matter how much pressure she applied, Logan's split eyebrow still bleed. Alongside her throbbing head, she sported an impressive array of cuts and bruises herself. From behind the front desk counter, Charon silently watched their approach.
"Miss Addy, Mr. Tarasov. Welcome back."
The Concierge acknowledged Logan's companions with a minute tilt of his head. His dark eyes swept over Addy's disheveled appearance without comment, before coming to rest on Logan. The impassive expression on his face gave no indication of his thoughts or his alliance. Though Logan felt it certain it lied well within the King Pin's favor.
"It is good to see you, Miss Ryder. The Manager is expecting you; please, come with me." Charon said, before leading them to the cleverly disguised elevator.
The swift, silent ride to the top floor penthouse ended, when the cab chimed their arrival, and the doors silently parted.
Like the hotel and it's amenities, the immaculate penthouse was luxuriously and tastefully appointed, and would serve as Logan temporary, gilded refuge. Spacious and expensively furnished, the reinforced, floor to ceiling window comprised the length of an entire wall, and overlooked the city's skyline. Though a far cry from the cozy, rustic and familiar measures of Logan's home, Winston's penthouse would not be a difficult environment for her to adjust to.
At Winston's direction, the women split off to the nearest bathroom to tend their wounds, leaving the men in deep discussion within the foyer.
Perched on the marble counter top, wads of blood-stained gauze and cotton filled the rubbish container as Addy dabbed ointment onto Logan's cuts. By mutual agreement, they refused to break the pregnant silence. Addy squeezed Logan's cleaned eyebrow wound shut and applied a thin coat of medical grade skin adhesive to seal it. Ten more minutes passed.
Unable to contain herself, it was Addy who finally spoke.
"We know John's alive," she returned the tube of adhesive to the first aid kit and snapped it closed. "Winston told us."
The younger woman was not surprised, and it expressed clearly upon her face.
Winston. Of course; but— how …?
Logan kept her eyes downcast. If Addy saw, she'd know. She'd see how much John meant to Logan, how much she needed him to remain alive, even at the great, personal cost of their separation. She'd become just as desperate for his survival as her father's. Whatever it took, Logan would make sure John walked out alive.
"Hey," Addy said softly; the soothing compassion in her voice gained Logan's attention. "What's the matter?"
Too late, Logan grimaced. Hoping to prolong the inevitable, she focused on the floral tattoo etched on Addy's swan like neck. It was surrounded by tiny black stars, small and lovely. Logan didn't have any tattoos.
Meeting the ember haired woman's concerned gaze, Addy's blue eyes gently probed and somehow drew Logan's secrets out like a magnet, as a flower seeks the warmth of the sun.
Logan knew her flinty stare was hard and unforgiving; she was raised differently, harshly. Trust was a knife you plunged into your own flesh and twisted, yet curiously, Logan liked Addy, almost immediately. It was that unexplainable affinity for the red haired tapster, that the younger woman extended a small measure of trust, that enabled her to reach this point, and with so many unfamiliar and lethal people. This was what her father prepared her for — for when the world came for her. No amount of preparation could have spared Logan the pure, undiluted chaos constricting the world around her, but she managed thus far. Life was a path fraught with choices; perhaps death was a choice, as well. Logan reminded herself … she chose to come here and as a result, should she perish, that would also be her decision.
Addy read the trepidation in Logan's troubled eyes, as she quietly waited for her response.
"I'm frightened," Logan muttered softly.
Logan truly had no idea what was coming
"Abram and Winston are very capable people." Addy assured her. "You can trust them."
That awful word again: trust. Logan'd rather chew on and swallow broken glass, if it meant sparing herself such a maudlin notion.
Addy gently squeezed Logan's shoulders, "Talk to me." she coaxed her softly.
Logan balked; she gritted her teeth together, feeling her molars grind against each other, lest the secrets she kept slip past her lips of their own, inconsiderate volition. In truth, she should… Perhaps it could relieve some of the pain or maybe Addy could shed some light on matters foreign to Logan.
"John came to me during a storm…," Logan began softly; her story quietly unfolded. Addy remained silent, her brow terse and her expression deeply concerned. After she caught Addy up to speed, she added "My father has so many secrets … just as many as John. And I want to help, but how can I?" She implored Addy with her slate colored eyes, seeking more answers than Addy could provide. "How can I find a way if I'm fumbling around in the dark?"
Logan desperately sought control and understanding of a parallel, shadow world and subculture that operated above and beyond conventional rules, her skills set to navigate - and her ability to survive. With every second that passed, events became even more unpredictable. Logan's capacity to grasp the magnitude of - much less manage - wildly spiraling, fluid, dire and deadly situations, slipped further away; it was a constant, mocking reminder of just how ineffective she is, and how unwise she is. Logan has no hope or means to win the Assassins' game. It was a losing battle. Neither her father, John, or their adversaries were willing to share any information.
"I don't think he's been entirely honest with me; because of that, I … have made matters worse." Her weary eyes stared unseeingly at the wads of cotton, "I've made a mess of it all. What if someone dies because of what I did?"
Addy cleared her throat; whether she was unsettled by her story or something else, Logan wasn't certain. "Winston understands why you did it. He's been … negotiating with the Camorra ever since Johnfked. He thought his efforts were for naught, until you arrived."
"Did he tell you to drug me?" Logan asked but Addy kept her eyes trained downward.
"He did," Addy admitted with a hint of shame, now staring at the small cuts along her hands. "But I drugged Abram, too."
Logan nodded. So Abram was spared, too. That made Logan feel somewhat better. Her entire body ached and the heavy stench of blood and gunpowder lingered in her nostrils, making her empty stomach churn. When was the last time she ate? She couldn't remember.
"So what now?" Logan asked. "Are Abram and I part of a strategy?"
Addy sighed, as if the story was too long and convoluted to share. "Abram is my concern," she paused, finding the right words. "All I know is that Winston needs you alive."
Addy's choice of words disturbed Logan more than they assured her... As if Logan was merely bait and nothing else. But who was she baiting?nAs the thought took root and grew, her brow furrowed, and her heart stuttered apprehensively. "I don't understand. Am I somehow supposed to be here? Were ya'll expecting me to come?"
Addy shook her head uncertainly. "I-I don't know the details-"
The quick knock on the door interrupted them. Addy opened it to reveal Abram. Beyond the older man, Logan saw Winston speaking to his concierge; Charon was seated upon a vintage couch, with a white handkerchief pressed to his face.
"We have to go," Abram muttered. "The Camorra's here. They're on the ground floor."
"Already?" Addy asked, fear and dismay clearly written upon her patrician features.
He nodded and looked at Logan. "This is a safe house for criminals; ever since John shot Santino, lines have been…" he thought of a correct word. "Blurring. The Camorra intend to tie up loose ends."
Addy glanced at Logan.
"Me?" Logan blinked. What did she do? If they were mad John killed someone and she theoretically killed John, how did this fall back onto her? "And who's the Camorra? Why are they after me?"
"It's about the bounty," Abram's Russian accent infused his words with an exotic and unique quality that did not diminish the gravity of the situation. "They're making a statement. Everyone dies, they keep the money. Retribution exacted."
"Well that doesn't seem fair," Addy grumbled.
Winston appeared at the doorway with a cell phone pressed to his ear. "It's time for us to go. The helicopter will arrive soon." He turned and walked away.
Abram glanced at Logan. Injuries forgotten, she hopped off the counter and followed with the redhead close behind her.
Logan reached the foyer where Charon was seated; the bloodstained handkerchief pressed to his mouth emphasized how his usual impeccably groomed and polished appearance was tousled. He did not return Logan's slight nod, nor did he utter a word as he fixed his enigmatic gaze on her. Had the aforementioned mob on the ground floor gotten to him? It was a question reserved for another time.
On the rooftop, Logan peered intently through the shadows; the unmistakable large, white, encircled "H" painted across the cement glowed blue in the darkness. Her ears strained as she listened for the familiar whirring.
The helicopter arrived; Logan knew their flight aboard the black McDonnell Douglas MD series would be luxurious, unlike the war birds she flew.
The aircraft hovered over the landing pad, and then smoothly touched down. The spinning blades, and the main rotors' downwash blew enough thrust across the rooftop, that its passengers leaned forward as they made their way to the whirlybird. Quickly, they boarded; their pilot smoothly picked up and headed north.
Without her night vision goggles and heads-up displays, all Logan saw was a pitch black sea sprinkled with colorful lights. Golden orbs floated over major highways, and slow pulses of red indicated the highest obstacle points before them. The city was filled with them. Below, Logan watched the sprawling congestion where people lived shoulder to shoulder, with hardly any space or privacy in between. Ever since she'd arrived, Logan experienced non stop uncertainty, chaos and disorder. Living alone on her property, breathing fresh, clean air … quiet nights without the din of traffic, people shouting or wailing sirens was a blessing. She was out of her element; more importantly, Logan had no control over her current elements.
Inside the cockpit, the familiar instruments glowed dull shades of red, green, and orange against the cyclic moving slowly between her knees. She wondered about the conditions of her employment. Her three days of leave were long over. People would be looking for her; they would call her phone, which, Logan concluded - was still at the Continental. Her recently acquired friends would surely request law enforcement officials to conduct welfare checks to her home; it couldn't be helped … for now. Below, the city lights thinned, and more geometrical pattern of lights lined the streets and parking lots.
The red lights fell behind them when buildings' peaks didn't reach as high. Blinded by the darkness, Logan couldn't discern the topography beneath. She glanced at the pilot and asked over the radio.
"What's below?"
"Warehouses," he told her. "We're heading towards the industrial parks."
Her stomach clenched. Nothing good was associated with warehouses, especially those related to sordid empires. Had Logan meekly led herself to her own demise? Where they going to kill her, dismember her like they'd don to her mother - were they the ones who killed Jennifer? Logan's imagination ran wild, downward spirals of what if's. She was painfully aware she was unarmed. Logan didn't even have a pocket knife to swipe at someone with, and her martial arts skills were futile against bullets.
The pilot began their downwind approach. Logan was looking out below, when the aircraft violently lurched towards the left.
Reflexively, Logan's hands flew out; she caught the controls on her side, acutely aware of their position. Legs extended, her feet found and adjusted the pedals at her feet. Logan shot the pilot a glare.
Was he toying with them?
His head lolled back against his shoulders; the blood, small chunks of skull and brain matter adhered against the window indicated he'd been shot in the head. The dull roar of flight, and the oscillation of the aircraft combined, provided the perfect cover for someone to fire at the helicopter undetected. It could have been her. It should have been her.
How?! Her mind drew blank for the smallest moment, unable to comprehend the speed at which their current status somehow turned for the worse. In less than a blink of an eye.
Logan searched the forward windshield for the bullet's entry point. It came from the right, so she dropped the collective.
The helicopter did a nose dive, throwing its unsuspecting passengers upward. The dead pilot lurched forward as well; thankfully, the restraining harness prevented his corpse from interfering with the flight controls. Panicked, Logan was unsure of the shooter's position in relation to their own. They'd crossed hundreds of feet before Logan realized they were under attack. They could have flown past the shooter - or they could very well be right on top of the Assassin and the roof where he … or she most likely perched. Logan needed to fly lower, and in between the buildings.
Without her typical night flight equipment, she couldn't determine where the ground was. Pilotage was out of the question. Logan turned her attention to the cockpit, and watched as the instruments guided her through the darkness. The artificial horizon indicated the nose was down, the vertical speed indicator showed their hundred feet per minute descent. What was the elevation in the area? Where were the winds coming from? Glancing outside, the orange row of street lights hemming the sides of the surface streets guided her away from unseen obstacles. Keeping above them prevented any midair collisions.
The bench-like seat separating the front and rear seats left enough space to peer over; the sudden input caused Abram to peek over it. He saw the slumped pilot and looked at Logan - at the same time the second bullet whizzed past and grazed the glass nearest the main rotor mount.
The glass cracked and splintered. Reflexively, they both flinched.
Logan's adrenaline spiked as she anticipated the warning tones and alarms, her body braced and rigid, in case she needed to perform an emergency landing - but no caution or warning alarms blared. She needed to know where to land. He ducked back down to warn the others. She needed to know where to land!
"Abram, wait!" Logan cried over the helmet's microphone; her cry was drowned out by the engines.
"What in God's name is going on?" Winston's voice came over the radio.
Unable to answer right away, Logan focused on the instruments while trying not to get shot at again. The Manager presumed all their jostling was caused by mere turbulence.
"Hello?" Winston said, splitting her nerves even further. "Hello?!" he repeated.
Another shot slammed into the right door beside Logan, narrowly missing her arm working the cyclic. The round embedded itself into the dead pilot's armpit. She flinched, and her pulse pounded in her ears. Meanwhile, Winston still made a fervent effort to communicate.
"Stop talking!" She shouted, and stomped the left pedal. The helicopter swung around accordingly, throwing the tail rotor towards her right.
Communications went silent while Logan searched below for an opening wide enough for an emergency landing, considering their speed and altitude - and the fact that she was tired of being shot at.
They were travelling at ninety knots and gaining after Logan dropped the collective. She needed to get as low and fast as she could, and place a few buildings between her and the shooter. Inwardly, she cursed her inability to know her airspace, the elevation and winds; reckless inputs could result in them ending as char mark against the pavement.
Another projectile punched through the left cockpit door. This time, the round slammed into the cyclic just below her hand, and ripped it from her grasp. It felt like someone hit her hand with a baseball bat. The helicopter jostled and gyrated hazardously.
The shooter was on her left now, and they were still visible. Her hand sang painfully from the jarring impact, but she was otherwise unharmed. Logan snatched the control stick back, and dumped the collective; the helicopter pitched downward, lifting everyone from their seats. Pinning their location was impossible. Not in the darkness, not against the city lights, and not without night aids.
The earth was black as pitch beneath her; small lights barely helped her discern what they illuminated. If she could find a street straight and long enough, she could land, but Logan must get close to the ground. She held the controls steady as the street rushed up to meet them.
Heart in throat, she strained to find a landing spot in time. There was the option to flip the bird around last minute, but there was much more to consider, than just a spot to put down. Her ears strained past the wailing of the turbines overhead for any telltale sounds of gunfire, though she knew she wouldn't hear it.
Finally, a narrow, but well-lit street presented itself. At their current altitude, she couldn't tell if street lights were too close together. Only until the last minute could she discern adequate clearance. If so, landing was possible, but it wouldn't be soft - and the blades would be destroyed.
"Tighten your harsness!" She shouted over the comms. "Place your head between your knees and make yourself as small as you can."
At a hundred feet above the ground, she flared; pulling back on the cyclic slowed their descent. They continued downward; at fifty feet, she flared again, stopping their descent entirely. Logan pulled up on the collective gently, levelled and straightened the ship with the pedals, and brought the helicopter into a stable hover. Beneath most of the warehouse rooftops, they were hopefully beyond shooting range.
Logan breathed a sigh of relief and tasted the coppery tang that filled the cockpit. Her nerves were still frayed.
A number of things could have gone terribly wrong. What if she flew straight into power lines? Catching a skid would have flipped the helicopter, and killed everyone inside. Their descension rate into confined spaces between the buildings, and the loss of clean air would make them lose lift, and slam the helicopter into the pavement like an anvil falling from the sky. Or … the sniper's aim could have finally proven true, and she, too, could have been shot and killed. Winston, Abram, Addy would die from crash, because of her.
It doesn't matter now, she thought. They were safe now, and hopefully no longer in the shooter's cross hairs.
She was alive.
The empty street proved wide enough for the MD, but the distance between the blade tips, and foreign objects was four feet, at the most.
Logan brought the helicopter down to a five foot hover, and steadily pushed the cyclic. The aircraft tipped nose forward, and they glided down the street. Carefully, she fumbled the cyclic until she found the appropriate switch and flipped it. The taxi light came on, shining on the cracked asphalt before her.
Now where?
"Winston, tell me where to go." Her voice was tight over the radio; Rigid body drenched in stress-sweat, mirrored her terse inflection.
Powerlines. She couldn't let that go. In daylight, they were difficult to see - until it was too late; at night, they were invisible.
The Manager intently studied the surrounding buildings and landmarks, trying to discern his location.
"Go all the way down," he instructed.
She did, but the streets were rapidly narrowing. Logan felt like she was squeezing the whirlybird through a small hole. At any moment, sparks would fly.
"Can you turn there - on the right?"
She brought the cyclic back towards her, slowing them down; Logan pressed right pedal, and the bird turned its nose right and drifted leftward. Her left hand was a fist tightly around the collective. Logan felt every single vibration through her aching fingers and wrist. Someone was going to have to pry her off the controls.
"There," Winston's voice filled her ears. "By those loading docks. Put us down there."
Happy New Years everyone!
Thank you for the reviews YYFlower, Itisher, LilyLittle, AwesomeFanGirlOtaku01.
I hope yall had a great several holidays. I took some time for myself and my family. Had a birthday! I'm 27 ooof, lemme get my cane. Then of course, an influx of holidays and time off and adventures. Well, anywho, FFA is still trucking. We've only have two more chapters (maybe) after this until I break them apart to make them shorter. I didn't anticipate this to be 3500 words but welp! More than likely, one or two chapters left, and an epilogue. Until then, thanks for reading!