.

(NOTE - special thanks to Canucklehead Cowgirl. The character K is her creation. Check out her excellent stories on this site.)

Book IV

Chapter 29

The Great Plunge

The word went out: Operation Vanguard was on. Around the world, hundreds of sleeper agents were activated, people going about their normal routines; bankers, doctors, heads of industry, government officials, military officers…men and women who, moments before, thought they knew who they were. They were wrong. They were not men and women at all, they were but pawns in a great game. To question that game, or to challenge their orders was beyond them, for they were conditioned, mind, body and soul, to obey.

Under cover of plain sight, they set about their meticulously crafted tasks, which they were completely unaware of moments earlier. Some tasks were small; others were epic in scope and consequence. Each task served the single purpose of bringing down the world's defenses before the forces of Hydra. Quietly, the pawns went about their work.

The word also reached the soldiers of Hydra, who heard, and rejoiced. Malcontents and misfits, rejects and sociopaths—the lost and the damned; these were the warriors of Hydra, people to whom hatred was as mothers' milk. Failures in the civilized world who yet found purpose under Hydra's banner. By the hundreds of thousands, these people of hate gathered to serve the Red Skull, who gave direction to their rage. Most were brutish thugs, takers, despoilers. Others were cunning of mind, planers and schemers. All were broken in some way. The Skull delighted in such broken things, collecting them as a child hordes his toys. He rebuilt them, filling each broken thing with new purpose. His purpose. He hammered discipline into them, forging them into an instrument of war, and now their time had come. From hidden bases and fortresses around the world, the great Hydra war-machine began to move.

The word went out…but other ears besides Hydra's were listening…

. . .

SHIELD Helicarrier

Fury entered the Command Center at a brisk pace, and all conversation stopped. There was an edge of tension in the room, but the people remained cool, and in control. These were Fury's people, professionals. He did a quick scan, counting his top division commanders.

"Where's Quartermain?"

The door opened with a quiet pneumatic whoosh, and Clay Quartermain dashed in, quickly finding his seat.

"No hurry," Fury said. "Just the fate of the world, if you can find the time."

"I was getting a briefing from one of my people," Quartermain said, offering no apology.

"Your inside man?"

"Yes. It was important."

Fury nodded. "Stop by later. I want a full briefing." He motioned to the communications officer, who quickly brought up the video feed.

"All right, Hill, what's the situation?"

"Not good," Agent Maria Hill said over the video screen. Her words were grim, but little emotion showed on her face. "The Hydra offensive is imminent. All indicators point to it being global in scope. The President has placed the military on alert, but as usual when it comes to Hydra, SHIELD is the first line of defense. Our spy satellites have picked up troop movements in Angola, a large mechanized force, heading due north. Wakanda."

"Have they been notified?"

"Yes. I've mobilized our people on the continent. Seventy-five agents, four-hundred special force troopers. They're coordinating with Wakandan intelligence. That's the good news. Here's the bad news."

Hill brought up a scrolling list of data on the screen. "Hydra has managed to insert half-a-million troops into Angola, right under our noses. Three battalions of infantry, with artillery and air support."

"How did they pull this off?"

"A lot of people in Washington are asking that same question. There appears to be a big hole in your intelligence net, colonel."

Jasper Sitwell sat up straight. "The problem isn't our people. It's budget cuts, it's Washington micromanaging every move we make. It's you, Hill, to put it bluntly."

"Take it up with Congress," Hill shot back. "The days of SHIELD being handed a blank check are over. I'm here to put this house back in order, and if that bothers the 'old boys' network, so be it."

"All right, that's enough," Fury said, cutting through the argument. "We have people in harm's way. Focus on the problem at hand. What are we looking at in Wakanda?"

"Including the Angolan and Somali forces, along with the mercenaries of Ulysses Klaw…Hydra has amassed an invasion force of three million troops. Wakanda's military is excellent, but they're outnumbered five-to-one."

Murmuring and unease spread around the room. Sitwell spoke.

"Sir, we can turn back this offensive before it even starts. Our European forces can be in Wakanda within five hours, I've already drawn up contingency plans."

Fury stood in silence for a long time, pondering. "No," he finally said. "Have our forces on alert, but no movement."

Sitwell looked at him, stunned. "Sir, we can't allow that Vibranium to fall to Hydra. We have to act now."

"He's right," Hill said. "Hydra has halted their infantry just outside the border. We have a narrow window of opportunity to get our forces in place."

"Almost like they want us there," Fury said. "It could be a feint. Schmidt gets us to commit our forces, and we end up locked in the center of Africa, in a prolonged stalemate. That leaves him free to drive through the center of Europe."

Hill looked at him with uncertainty. "If you're wrong, if Wakanda falls..."

"T'challa's people are good. They'll hold. What's going on in the rest of the world?"

"Okay," Hill replied, bringing up new information on the screen. "There's unrest in Turkey, rumblings of a possible military coup. We know Hydra has forged alliances with various religious extremist groups throughout the region, they look to be behind much of the instability. Russia is threatening to invade Chechnya in retaliation to last month's terrorist attacks. Hydra's fingerprints are all over that, as well. The Taliban is mounting a new offensive in Afghanistan, but they seem to have fallen out with Schmidt's people. We're also getting reports of Mutant unrest, stateside. A possible alliance between the Hellfire Club and the Morlocks."

"Magneto?"

"No. There's been no sighting of Lehnsherr in the past eighteen-months. That's one blessing."

"What's the news from Latveria?"

"They've gone dark. We haven't heard from Doom since he contacted the Avengers yesterday."

"Any idea what that was about?"

"He was offering assistance to Cap. I think it was genuine," Hill said, seeing the looks of skepticism. "There's no love loss between Doom and Schmidt. I think he sees Cap as our best shot at stopping him."

"He's not wrong," Fury said.

"He rarely is. With the Skull on the move, it was only a matter of time before Doom got involved. In a perfect world they'd take each other out."

"We're not that lucky."

"No," Hill agreed. "That's all I have, Colonel. If you'll excuse me, I have to brief the President on Wakanda. He won't be thrilled to hear you're gambling with one of our closest allies—and a critical component to world security."

"This job requires hard choices, Hill. Maybe someday you'll get a chance to learn that first hand. I've made my decision. If the President wants my resignation, he has my number."

Fury ended the conference call. He turned, getting everyone's attention.

"This is as real as it gets. You know what we're up against here…who were up against," he said, scanning the room, taking care to make eye contact with everyone. "Schmidt wants this world. We're not going to let him have it. SHIELD was created to be the best. Time to prove it."

Fury left the room. The division heads quickly began filing out as well, Quartermain with them. As he headed to the door, Sitwell intercepted him.

"Clay, do you have a moment?"

"Does anyone? What's up?"

Sitwell looked around at the now empty room. He moved in closer, speaking low. "Not here. Meet me on the flight deck in ten minutes, hangar six."

"The flight deck? We're at ten-thousand feet, Jasper."

"It's the only place on the ship without prying eyes, or open ears. Ten minutes. Be there, it's important."

Clay watched Sitwell walk away. He'd never been particularly close to the man. Being honest, he didn't like him; Jasper Sitwell had all the personality and charm of a regulation manual. He was efficient, dedicated, and ambitious. Between Hill and Sitwell, Clay had a hard time deciding who wanted Fury's job more. Being even more honest, Clay wanted the job himself—but not at Fury's expense. Clay was content to build his career and climb the ladder the right way. Sitwell had no patients for ladders. Clay didn't like the man, but he wasn't going to let his personal feelings get in the way. Something had Sitwell worried, and that worried Clay. He touched the com-badge on his chest.

"Richards, this is Quartermain. Something's come up. Push our staff meeting back an hour. I'll be in touch."

Clay made his way onto the promenade, the bustling corridor that ran down the center of the Helicarrier. The operational tempo, always high, was in overdrive today, everyone moving with speed and purpose. SHIELD was on a war footing, and the energy in the air was palpable. Clay was addicted to this energy, it had ruined him to any other possible occupation, he knew that. Politics? Law enforcement? Nothing compared with SHIELD. That's why he saw himself in the Big Chair someday, because what else was there?

Clay threaded his way through the sea of bodies, and headed down an adjoining corridor until the crowds thinned, and eventually, disappeared entirely. He was at the rear maintenance area. The crews were busy performing last minute checks on the fighter jets, and landing craft. SHIELD was on a war footing...and so was Clay Quartermain. He slipped into a freight elevator, and pushed the button for the flight deck.

A moment later, a figure stepped out of the shadows, quickly bypassing the elevators. There were maintenance shafts at regular intervals that led to the flight deck above. The silent figure grabbed hold of the rungs and began climbing.

Queens

Steve parked his motorcycle at the bottom of the hill and looked about. He hadn't expected this place to look familiar after all this time, yet it was. The sound of the city seemed impossibly distant, as if it couldn't penetrate this landscape of gently rolling hills and shady trees. Reaching into the sidesaddle affixed to his bike, he took out the small bundle of flowers he purchased earlier, and walked up the gravel lane. The morning air was cool, almost cold, and he pulled the collar of his jacket tight. Autumn was finally asserting itself, driving back the remnants of summer. A scattering of leaves fell from the poplar and elm trees lining the path, gathering in eddies and swirls about his feet in a melancholy dance.

Cresting the hill, Steve spotted the two rough-hewn slabs of granite, standing amidst the other monuments and markers. He walked over and knelt, dusting the stones with his hands. The engraved names were still legible, but the dates, carved smaller, were beginning to fade. Brushing the grit from his hands, he laid the flowers between the modest blocks, and then stood. The sun broke through the clouds, warming his face.

"Mother…father. I'm sorry it's been so long."

He stood in a long silence. He had been here only once before, ninety years ago. A boy of twelve, heartbroken and crushed by grief. The grief had long since healed, leaving only a bittersweet trace of memory. As he looked down on the final resting place of his parents, Steve knew this was the last time he would ever be here, so he spoke the words which that boy of twelve could not, ninety years ago.

"Mom, you sacrificed for me, and did your best to protect me. I want you to know I'm grateful, and that I love you."

He turned to the other gravestone. "Dad…I forgive you. You took care of me the best you knew how. I just want you to know that I forgive you, and I love you."

He took his wallet from his jacket and removed a black-and-white photograph, faded with age. Uncle Mike and Aunt Penny. His other parents. He placed the picture at the foot of the graves, and stayed a while longer, thinking thoughts that were his for his own secret heart, belonging to no one else. After a time, he headed back down the hill. Mounting his bike, he fired the engine and drove away, with memory filling his thoughts like autumn leaves blowing in the wind. The memories brought no grief, only the trace of it. Life was bittersweet, and achingly precious.

. . .

Minutes later, Steve was on the interstate, heading to his next destination, a very exclusive school about an hour north of the city. The drive was smooth, traffic being light this October day. Soon he was piloting his Harley onto the grounds of a stately manor located in a secluded spot just outside of Westchester. The address was 1407 Graymalkin Lane. Steve headed up the steps, which led to the portico of the impressive building. Like Falsworth Manor and Avenger's Mansion, the graceful architecture of this place appealed to the artist in him. He went to knock…but the door swung open. A young girl stood there, arms folded across her chest, leaning against the door jamb. She looked about sixteen, perhaps older, with purple tinted hair, and an attitude that was on full blast.

"Yeah?"

"Hello. Is this the Xavier school?"

The girl (Asian, Steve thought—it was hard to tell through the makeup and the oversized sunglasses) pointed to the engraved sign mounted above the door.

"Duh."

Steve forced a smile. Teenagers. Not his strong suit. "Well. Guess I came to the right place. I'd like to speak with Charles Xavier, if he's in."

The girl blew an enormous pink circle of bubblegum, popped it, and reeled it back into her mouth. "Got an appointment?"

"Ah, no. Is there maybe an adult here I can talk to?"

Huffing, the girl cupped her hands to her mouth and turned, shouting: "Hey! There's some guy here, wants to see the professor!"

She turned back to Steve. "You're not some weirdo, are you?"

"No, I'm not a weirdo."

"Says he's not a weirdo!" She looked back up at Steve, smiling. "That's too bad, we like weirdos here. What's your name?"

"Steve. Yours?"

"Jubes," the girl said. "You know, you're kinda cute for an old guy, got that whole 'Don Draper' thing going. You sending a kid here, a son maybe?"

"No."

"Too bad," the girl answered, blowing another bubble. "We could always use more guys around the place."

The sound of footsteps came from behind the girl, echoing on the tiled floor. Steve caught the faint scent of cigar—not smoke, just the scent of tobacco, a unique blend of Cuban and Guatemalan. There was only one person he knew that smoked that blend.

The girl peeked over her shoulder. "Here's the adult you wanted, mister. See ya!"

She bounded off as the door opened wider. A man came into view, and Steve had to smile at the look of surprise on his face.

"Well I'll be dipped in shit," the man said, a broad grin erupting across his rugged features. He extended his hand. "Been a while, Rogers."

"That it has," Steve said, shaking the man's hand. "How are you, Logan?"

"Fair—every day above ground is a good one." Logan cocked an eye. "Speaking of which, sorry to hear about your problems."

"Thanks. I'm still in the fight."

"Damned straight. Old dogfaces like you are too tuff to die. Come on in," Logan said, motioning Steve inside.

As they headed across the expanse of the foyer, a bell sounded, and the doors of the adjoining rooms opened. Children began pouring out, books in hand, chattering away, in ages ranging from twelve to eighteen. For the most part, they looked like run-of-the mill school kids, though some looked anything but. All of the children stared at Steve, many eyeing him suspiciously. Logan took no notice.

"What brings you to this neck of the woods? I'm guessing it's not just a social call."

"I was hoping to see the professor. Looks like I picked a busy time."

Logan smiled, as the whirl of students passed them by. "I got a feeling he'll make time. Wait here," he said, opening the doors to a spacious and tastefully appointed study. "I'll track Charlie down for ya."

Steve stepped inside, closing the double doors behind him. There was a large mahogany desk by the far wall, with several chairs drawn up around it. As the halls outside became quiet again. Steve nosed around the room. He looked at the photographs lining the walls, recognizing several of the faces; Scott Summers; Jean Grey; Bobby Drake. Like Logan, they were members of the X-Men. Many of the photographs were of people Steve did not recognize, which wasn't surprising. The vast majority of children who attended this school would never don a costume, nor fight a pitched battle against any supervillain. Most were just frightened children, looking for acceptance in a world that feared and distrusted them. Very few mutants possessed the power, let alone the temperament, required to become a superhero. Charles Xavier provided a lifeline to people sorely in need of help, for which Steve greatly admired the man.

He continued browsing the room, when another picture caught his eye, this one troubling him. He picked up the framed photograph. A young Charles Xavier, and, standing next to him, one of the most dangerous and feared men on the planet—the mutant called Magneto. The two were standing side-by-side, arms around each other's shoulders, smiling in what appeared to be easy friendship. The study doors opened, and Steve set the photograph back on the desk. In the doorway was the head of the school, and the founder of the X-Men, Charles Xavier. Logan was standing behind him.

"Charlie, I'd like you to meet an old army buddy of mine, Steve Rogers. Steve, this is Charles Xavier."

"Actually, Captain Rogers and I have met," Xavier said, gliding noiselessly forward in his motorized wheelchair. "In Washington, last August. You were lobbying congress against the Mutant Registration Act. I didn't get a chance to thank you that day. Allow me to do so now."

Xavier offered his hand, and Steve shook. "I was happy to lend my voice."

"Some voices carry more weight than others. Captain America speaking on behalf of mutant rights sent a powerful message of peace and tolerance."

"Keep it down, Chuck," Logan said, closing the doors, "Steve's identity isn't public knowledge. It's not kosher snooping around in people's heads without their permission."

"Of course not," Xavier said, with mild irritation. "I did not intrude on your private thoughts, Captain, I assure you. Your inner presence is particularly strong, and I could not help but read it. Rest assured your identity is safe with me."

"Thank you, Professor."

Xavier gilded forward, his chair rolling to a stop behind his desk. "Ah, I see you found my favorite photo," he said, picking the picture up. "Vanity, I suppose, but I like to keep it at hand. It's the only way I can prove to the children I actually had hair once upon a time."

Steve smiled at the casual jest, but the effort was forced. Xavier set the picture down.

"Clearly this photograph troubles you. It doesn't take a telepath to see that."

"Yes," Steve admitted. "I've had dealings with Magneto."

A weary look crossed Xavier's features. "As have I. He is the X-Men's oldest foe…and my oldest friend. The truth is I keep this photo to remind me of better times. It's my hope Magneto will turn his back on violence. My friend Eric is still there. I won't give up on him."

"Your loyalty is admirable. I just wonder if it runs both ways."

Logan let out a bark of laughter. His words came out low, and gravely. "You aren't the only one. Sucker's tried to kill me more times than I can count. Next time I see him, I plan to return the favor."

With a sheering, metallic sound, three gleaming blades erupted from the back of his hand, curved and ending in razor sharp tips. Seeing the disapproving look on Xavier's face, he retracted the claws, but not the scowl on his face.

"He's your friend, Chuck, not mine. You want Lehnsherr to keep his head, convince him to change his ways, or he and I are going to settle accounts. For good."

Xavier breathed a sigh of disappointment. He turned to Steve. "An old argument, one which never seems to be settled. But this isn't why you've come, is it?"

"No," Steve said. "I came to pass on some information, and to ask a favor. I'll start with the information. Hydra is planning a major offensive. Most of the people in our line of work have gotten wind of it through official channels, but…"

Logan interrupted. "But the X-Men don't rate any 'official channels'. Mutants don't get updates from the White House."

"I'm afraid there's a lot of anti-mutant bias in most government circles."

"Bias! That's cute." Logan pulled a cigar from his shirt pocket. He saw Xavier about to speak, and cut him off. "I'm not going to light it, Charlie, keep your shirt on."

He rolled the cigar to the side of his mouth, staring up at Steve. Although a foot shorter, he was nearly as broad, with compact, sinewy muscles that strained against his clothes. his dark eyes bristled with the untamed ferocity of his namesake; a wolverine.

"The X-Men have saved this stinking planet a handful of times, same as you Avengers. You get a ticker tape parade. We get put on a terrorist watch list."

"I'm working to change that. So are a lot of people."

"Not your buddy Iron Man. He seems real cozy with Kelly, and those other mutant haters on Capitol Hill."

"I promise you, that's not the case. I spoke with him the other day. Stark is working behind the scenes to stop the Mutant Registration Act."

"How hard?" Logan said, bowing his neck in anger. "I hear a lot of talk lately, not the kind you hear at cocktail parties or the evening news. Kelly wants more than a watch list, he wants fences and locks. There's rumors he's developing some kind of mechanized 'peace-keepers' to track mutants down—just the kind of thing Stark specializes in. Is that your pal's angle? Land a nice fat contract when they finally get around to building camps?"

"That is one hell of a thing for you to say to me," Steve said, his voice clipped and low with anger. He stepped closer to Logan, jutting a finger at him. "You were there when we liberated Treblinka—and Belzec. Do you really think I'd associate with anyone that would contemplate a thing like that? I'm telling you, you have Stark wrong."

The two men stood for several long seconds, their eyes locked. Slowly, Logan's expression softened. "Okay," he said, unclenching his jaw muscles. "Let's not get all bent out of shape over it. You and me, we chewed a lot of the same dirt, saw a lot of the same horrors. If you vouch for Stark…that's good enough for me."

"Good. I can't defend every decision he's ever made, but Tony Stark isn't your enemy," Steve said. "But we both know a man who is. Johann Schmidt."

Logan scowled. "Man? Schmidt was barely human when he was flesh and blood. I don't know what the hell he is now."

Xavier looked at Logan with surprise. "You've encountered the Red Skull?"

"He captured members of my squad doing reconnaissance for the Normandy landings. Good men. The son of a bitch slaughtered them. I swore I'd kill him, but the war ended, and Schmidt disappeared. Eventually, the top brass declared him dead. Wishful thinking."

"Hydra is pulling out all the stops," Steve said, turning to Xavier. "Intelligence reports indicate they've built an alliance within the mutant community, some group called 'The Hellfire Club'. Are you familiar with them?"

"The X-Men have had many dealings with the Hellfire Club," Xavier answered, grimly. "They're a group of wealthy, politically connected mutants. Cynical, unprincipled, and power hungry. Their leader, Sebastian Shaw, is the worst of a bad lot."

"That's putting it light," Logan said. "I'm not the only mutant with a long life-span. Shaw was around in the forties as well. He worked with the Nazi's, scouring their concentration camps for mutants to experiment on. Anything to increase his own power, the bastard."

"It looks like this Shaw may be working with Hydra," Steve said. "I suspect the Hellfire Club and the Morlocks will make their own play for power."

"The Morlocks are not bad people," Xavier said. "Outcasts, and lost souls, mainly. Angry, but not evil."

"I'm not passing judgment, just urging caution. With the wrong people exploiting their anger, the Morlock's could wreak chaos. It would be a terrible setback for the mutant community."

"I agree. I have contacts within Morlock leadership, perhaps I can help defuse the situation. As for the Hellfire Club, the X-Men will be ready to move against them at the first sign of trouble. You may count on us."

"That's good," Steve said. "Which brings me to my second reason for coming today. I'm deeply concerned about the state of affairs between humanity and mutantkind. I've been working to foster better relations between our peoples, to see if we can't find common ground."

"You've done commendable work."

"I haven't done enough. I have an idea that might help stem the tide of mutant prejudice in society. If for any reason I'm not around to implement it, I'd like you to take the lead. I propose an exchange program between our organizations. Once a year, a member of the Avengers will work with your people, and a member of the X-Men will serve with the Avengers. It will be good for our teams, of course, building trust and cooperation…but the real benefit will be the public seeing us work together, hand-in-hand, equal partners. The real enemy is ignorance. People fear what they don't know. It's time to change that."

Xavier looked at Steve, his smile broad, and slightly stunned. "That's the best idea I've heard in years. I'm ashamed I didn't think of it myself. It takes a man of your stature and vision to make something like this happen. I wholeheartedly endorse your plan."

"Not so fast, Charlie," Logan said. "Not everyone is going to be thrilled with you volunteering them." He turned to Steve. "Look, we operate in the shadows—you operate in broad daylight. Whichever X-men takes this on is going to be the public face of mutantkind, becoming a target for all the haters, just waiting for them to fail. That's a lot to ask of anyone."

"I know. That's why I'm asking you to be the first to volunteer."

Logan's mouth dropped open. "Are you crazy? I'd be a disaster, Rogers, you know that. I'm hard headed, I'm cantankerous, I'm…"

"A pain in the ass?"

"Yes! I'm a moody, stubborn, son-of-a-bitch! Pick someone else."

"You're all those things, no doubt. You're also one of the most honorable men I've ever known."

"I'm wrong for this. I could give you a thousand reasons why."

Steve looked at the doors. "Do it for them, Logan. Show those kids a world where mutants and humans can live together. Are you strong enough to do that?"

Logan looked helplessly to Xavier, who only smiled and shook his head. "You were right. I can't make this decision for you."

Logan sputtered, running a hand though his thick, black hair, looking for a way out. Finally, he laughed, and shook his head.

"Christ, I ought to have my head examined…but all right, you want me, you got me. On one condition. I get to pick the Avenger who takes my place."

"I'm fully prepared to come."

"You? What, are you kidding? Hell, you'd have the kids doing nature hikes and campouts the first week. I want Stark," Logan said, grinning wickedly.

Steve and Xavier laughed uproariously. "It's a deal," Steve said. "If I have to, I'll hogtie him and deliver him personally."

For the next ten minutes, the three men chatted, casually and easily. The topic ranged from the best steakhouse in Westchester (Harmon's, on Main), to baseball, and the Yankees' chances to win the pennant. Logan had only a passing interest in the game, but Xavier, to Steve's surprise, was a huge fan, possessing an encyclopedic knowledge of the teams' roster and history. When the bell again rang, signaling lunch break, Steve said his goodbyes and headed towards the door. He stopped and turned around.

"Do either of you have plans for tonight?"

Both men said 'no'.

"Good. The world may end tomorrow—Hydra, the second coming of Galactus…hell, the bird flu, who knows? But tonight, life goes on. I'm holding a poker game at the mansion. You're both welcome to come."

"Hmm," Xavier said. "I'm not sure how well that would go over, a telepath, playing poker. I should probably sit this one out."

"I'm game," Logan said. "What time?"

"Nine o'clock. Bring all the money you can afford to lose."

With a smile, Steve quietly slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him. Xavier looked up at Logan.

"That was remarkable. He's one of the most impressive men I've ever encountered. I feel a great swell of hope for the future. It's been a long while since I could say that."

"Yeah," Logan said. "He's good at that."

The doors to the study opened, and an attractive young woman walked in. She was petite, in height and build, but there was a feral power revealed in graceful movements. Her long hair, chestnut brown and glossy, framed a face that was sensual, open, and friendly. And more than a little dangerous. She walked up to Logan, draping her arms around him, and smacking his cheek.

"Who was that I saw leaving the room just now?," she asked.

"That was Steve. Friend of mine, from the old days."

"You should invite him more often. Hunky Dory."

Logan swatted her behind. "That's enough of that, K."

K laughed and pulled away. "I'm going to go for a ride. I want to break in my new saddle. See you tonight?"

"Gonna be a little late, playing some poker with Steve and the boys."

"After?" K asked, a wicked gleam in her eyes.

"After," Logan said, returning a mischievous smile of his own. The woman made a low, guttural growl of pleasure, and left the room. Xavier looked at Logan, an amused smile on his lips. Logan frowned.

"What're you grinning at, Baldy?"

"I was just picturing the conversation when you tell K about your arrangement with Cap."

"Shit—I hadn't thought about that. Ah, we'll work it out." Logan turned to Xavier, patting his pockets. "I'm a little light this week, Chuck. How much can you float me?"

Xavier sighed, and slowly took out his wallet. "I seem to recall you borrowing fifty dollars from me last week. That's on top of the five-hundred from the month before, when you took K to Atlantic City."

"She needed to get away for a while. I'm good for it, don't be stingy."

Xavier peeled out five twenty-dollar bills into Logan's hand. Logan looked out the window, as the sound of Steve's motorcycle dwindled in the distance. Logan stuffed the bills into his pocket, and then stuck his hand out again.

"Better make it two-hundred. Don't let his boy scout routine fool you…that son-of-a-bitch was the best damned poker player in the Allied Army."