Disclaimer: Logan, X-Men belong to Marvel.
CHAPTER TWO
I am not, repeat, NOT a happy camper. I don't want to spend New Years Eve at Xavier's and then to make it more special than it already is, I have to put up with Marla Jennings. Topping it off, whatever Logan deemed so vital that I sequester myself away seems to be a non-event. Oh well; Murphy rules.
I'm making my way towards Logan's old room as that woman and Wendy are descending the stairs.
"Oh hey. It's Doctor Sue," Wendy exclaims buoyantly.
I do like the girl, "Hey yourself, sweetheart."
"Doctor Harris, what are you doing back so soon?" Doctor Jennings asks in an irksome tone.
None of your business is what I want to say but I just smile sweetly. "So glad you and Wendy are safe."
Her eyes widen. "Um. Thank you. Wendy, go find your friends. I'll be along in a minute."
The girl bites her lip and looks like she's about to argue. Marla puts a stop to it with a maternal hairy eyeball; the same thing I give the boys.
"Where's Jim; er, Logan?" she asks in a harsh whisper.
Charles hasn't included her in the communications loop. Good. "With everybody else," I answer wondering if she's so dense she didn't notice the Blackbird launch.
"When will he be back?"
Oh for kitten's sake, how do I know? "Um, hang on. I'll call the psychic network." Oooh! What a hateful look. "Marla, I'm not sure what your game is but….."
"I can assure you it's no game."
"Really? From my perspective it sure seems like it and now that somebody else has the winning hand you're looking to use Logan as your ace."
"What would you know about it?"
Duh! I'm married to the guy. "I know things don't quite add up."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means if you really want Logan's help you'd better be up front with him."
"Of course."
She's a lying bitch and if I don't get away from her I'm going to do something I'll regret. "Of course," I parrot before unlocking the door. It's difficult but I don't slam it in her face.
I'm shaking and want to scream how much I hate her. Just stop it Susan. She's not going to steal him away. You're letting your own past rule your emotions. Take a deep breath. Do the right thing. Put yourself in her shoes. What would you do if your child were in danger? Anything and everything.
Sinking down on the edge of the bed, this pep talk to myself isn't helping. I need to look at the situation professionally. Neutrality's key but for heaven's sake how can I be neutral when it comes to my husband? Forget it. I can't. Just like I'm having a tough time beating back a nagging sense of fear. The other night, talking to Charles, the look in his eye, the tone of his voice, scared me and that damned cavalier, I'm in total control attitude he cops for my benefit just aggravates the tar out of me.
How much longer will that part of his past keeping ripping up his life? God forgive me, but I wish he'd tell Marla Jennings and her daughter to take a hike. Be rid of Weapon X, Replications or whatever they're called once and for all.
Beeep. Beeep. It's the telephone beside the bed. "Doctor Harris here."
"Doctor Sue, it's Kitty. There's a phone call for you."
"Did they say who it is?"
"She's kinda hard to understand but I think she said Elizabeth Howlett."
Oh no! Now what? "Thanks, Kitty. Put it through, please." I knew I should've called her when we first got home. "This is Sue," I say with false cheer.
"Oh Susan, dear! Is James there?" No formal pleasantries? She sounds really strange.
"He's still out. What's wrong?"
Her voice breaks as she rattles on in French, "Il est terrible! C'est Robert. Classer vos papiers. Il était dans l'accident de voiture…."
"Elizabeth….Elizabeth," I break in. "Slow down. I don't understand. What's happened?"
"Robert a été tué!"
"What? What does that mean?"
"Robert est mort!" she cries.
Oh my God! I understand that. "How? What happened?" My flood gates are dangerously close to bursting.
She can't get herself together well enough to speak English but I don't think it matters. I get the gist. I end the call with a tissue wadded in my face and promise that Logan will call the minute he returns.
This is so unfair! A tragedy. Robert's a fine—was a fine gentleman. And no offense to Logan, but he was the only one in that household who seemed to have his head screwed on straight.
Honk! I blow a hole in the tissue.
Enough already! It's been weeks of all sorts of crap. What else could possibly happen? "Oh shut up, stupid," I say out loud and wrap my knuckles on the wooden bed platform to ward off the jinx.
I feel the twins jump and kick. Rubbing my belly I coo to them, "Some crazy world out here little ones. Sure wish…" The flood gates burst and tears drizzle down my cheeks. "…your daddy was here right now."
It's not the reassuring feel I get with my arms around my husband but it's the next best thing. Clutching the pillow smelling faintly of him to my breast, I curl up on my side and succumb to a private little pity party.
XXXXX
"Come," orders a cold, impatient voice from beyond the hotel room door. "You were supposed to be here days ago," Stanislaw Ruchinsky criticized a waif of a young man easing himself into a red velvet, luxuriously upholstered chair.
"Nice to see you too, Stan and thanks for the drink."
Sneering, Ruchinsky tosses a brochure and several photos and commands, "Look this over."
"Aye." The younger man thumbs through the material weighing it with a critical squint. Gesticulating, he protests, "This is a brochure for a boarding school!"
"Yes, a very special school."
"You're joking mate. It's a bloody school. A bit beneath my skill set, I'd say."
"Don't be overconfident. It's a school for mutants and its headmaster is an Omega level telepath."
He scoffs, "Right," and flashing the photos asks, "Who's the bints?"
"The girl is the primary focus. The dark haired woman is her mother." Ruchinsky casts a disapproving scowl at the scrawny, epicene mutant, "By the way, touch the girl and it'll be your last."
"Pick your jock strap out of your crack, I don't shag girls," he responded bluntly. "And the blond?"
"Someone who may be a hindrance to our plans. It was she who foiled the first attempt obtaining the girl."
"Worth a mint to somebody, I take it."
"Enough to justify your exorbitant fee," Ruchinsky spat in frustration.
He flashed a cheeky smile before his face grew somber, "What you want me to do?"
"Get inside. Get close to whomever you must. I want to know who's who; their powers, schedules, weakness in security; everything."
"This is all the preliminary data you've got?"
Thrusting a thin envelope, "This is all you need to know for the moment," Ruchinsky declares.
Suddenly uneasy, the pixie-like man's face creases, "Meaning you're not the paymaster and don't know piss more'n you're telling me."
Ruchinsky smiles benignly as one might to a meddlesome child.
Eyes flashing imperiously, "It'll take a bit of time," the man cautions.
"Take all the time you need….within reason." Ruchinsky's expression sharpens, "Fail and you'll wish I was your paymaster."
XXXXX
Compared to what we're hearing from the other teams, New York City seems left out of the plot. Fucking figures. I could be home relaxing by a crackling fire, savoring a couple brews and making love to a beautiful woman. But nooo! I'm freezing my balls off for what?
Word from LA is Avengers West got pelted with garbage and shot at. Minor surprise; yahoos from Cali are fuckin' nuts anyway. Chicago turned out a bum weather bust. Lake effect snowstorm all but shut down the city. Must have been a bitch cuz it takes a lot to bring Chicago to a halt.
Most exciting thing for us has been talking the junior Justice Leaguers through disarming a couple potent incendiaries at UN headquarters. Gotta love the UN. So busy with their noses in everybody else's shit they choke on their own.
Blue, Elf, Colossus, Rogue and Frosty Fingers joined up once we got earthbound. Forming threesomes we had ample time to cover decent territory and handle half dozen mixed high and low ED's in Central Park. Expected, security's tight in Times Square for any kind of funny business. Same with the subway. Local cops took care of something that turned out to be nothing at the Waldorf Astoria.
There seems t'be a pattern; local authorities got a handle on the cushy, easy—warm targets while we're chilling in the true sense of the word and sucking down tepid coffee and greasy hot dogs outside in the city's armpits.
"X-Team, this is Castle," we pick up through our Bluetooth
Cyke replies, "Whatcha got, Frank?"
"Word on the street's that GW, Brooklyn and Verrazano bridges're rigged."
Another voice joins, "This is Cage. I'm at the Holland Tunnel. It's rigged with enough explosives to make Oklahoma City look like fireworks."
Cyke looks nauseated and mutters, "Damn!"
"Luke, what kind of shit we lookin' at?" is my question.
"Semtex. Packed into traffic control boxes the length of the tunnel."
Castle confirms, "Same at the Verrazano Bridge. The stuff's packed into electrical transformers. Ain't right up on one yet so I can't tell ya the triggering mechanism yet."
"Ok. We're on it. Go to command frequency," Cyke replies then switches radio frequency. "Port Authority Command, this is X Team leader one."
"Roger Team Lead One. We've been monitoring. The order's gone out to shut down bridges and tunnels and clear marine traffic. Back up teams are en route. We need a primary at the Brooklyn Bridge and Lincoln Tunnel"
"Affirmative, "Cyke answers before confirming, "Cage? You have back up?"
"Roger that. ETA six minutes."
"Castle, status?"
"Cavalry's here. We're good."
"Ok people," Cyke declares. "Let's split up. Logan, Storm, Vic, Colossus, take the Brooklyn Bridge. Beast, Nightcrawler, Iceman, Rogue, you're with me. We're taking the Lincoln Tunnel."
XXXXX
To save time we cut through a couple blocks of dilapidated, no mans land locally known as District X. Local cops won't get near it; city government ignores it; real fun place to be. Even Charles is hesitant to send us in there to rescue kids caught up in it because most of 'em are beyond help. That's a helluva admission for him to make.
"Yo! Suckah. Dis ain't Holloween," says a gold chain festooned Mutant punk. A fugly bunch of tattooed and pierced gang bangers forms up as his back up band.
Can't say I didn't expect something like this. "It's whatever fuckin' holiday I want it t'be, bub."
Storm's flown on ahead but Vic and Pete, smart enough to meet force with force, form up on my left and right. "I knew things were going way too smooth," Vic hisses.
"Mmm, hmmm," I answer out the side of my mouth. "Boring, if ya ask me."
Pete adds, "Boring is good, da?"
Nyet. Ya a wuss're somethin'? Didn't say it but I shot him a sideways glance that said it and then some.
Goldielocks and company form up the same set to block our way. Thrusting his hands into my chest, "Where do ya th'o't you goin', Wolfman?"
He's just made his second mistake of the night; Number one was stopping us in the first place. "If ya wanna keep those hands attached to yer body, back off now asshole."
He's an idiot! "What….ya…..gon…na…do..?" he pounds each syllable into my chest with his fist.
Whoa! Do not touch the goods. Much as I'd love to teach a sorely needed lesson, we ain't got time to fuck around with these pussies. Seizing his offending hand, I play nice one last time and don't quite crush it to useless bone chips and pulp,
Goldielocks yelps in pain and jerks back a pace.
Growling, "Ain't gonna do nothin'," I lay down the law. "Ya don't realize it but I just did ya a favor. Now, you an' yer girlie bitches're gonna jet away an' play with somebody else."
"Fuck yo white ass," Goldie yowls and makes to get back in my face.
"Better men have tried ya little shit packer."
The rest of the welcome committee postures for a rumble. Raw aggression and blatant stupidity stink worse than rotting garbage in a nearby dumpster. I hear the distinct click of switchblades at the ready.
Pete morphs to metal and Vic, with no real defensive or offensive mutation, pulls his sidearm. But with about a dozen of them to us three, they ain't too impressed.
Ok, so it's time to make an impression. SNICKT! Faster than he can blink, I poke a set of convincers at Goldie's belly and form a triangle at his adams apple. "Like I said, I think ya wanna find somebody else t'play with, eh?"
The complexion of the punk I'm about to shish kebab's gone from ebony to milk chocolate.
A green skinned dude with purple dreadlocks spouts warning, "You messing wiff da Wolverine, otay buh-weet!"
Now they're impressed and prove it by backing up like a pack just swatted down by the alpha dog. Sometimes a nasty rep's worth the effort.
They part ranks and we pass down the center. Ain't smelling as much aggression and couple of 'em seem t'be clenching their butts real tight.
In every pack there's always upstarts and this ain't an exception. An Asian looking dude steps forward flanked by two others. "Don't give a fuck who you are," he snarls and turns into a human porcupine.
Ok, we got tactical error number three. Posturing your best powers straight off the bat gives your opponent the edge. Not that we need it for this bunch o' kindergartener's.
Porcupine might be a force to reckon with though 'cuz I smell a potent neurotoxin in those quills. If it's one I ain't been exposed to that could put me in a serious world of misery.
The bitch on his right's a gargantuan double-bagger. Christ! Looking at her for too long is weapon enough but of course, there's more and she transforms into a walking, talking ball of fire.
Dumbshit on Porky's left is more lizard than human. He's flicking a wicked serpentine tail with clusters of jagged spikes and flexing a respectable set of claws from of his hands and feet, if ya can call 'em that. No poison in 'em, far as I can tell, but with breath that'll stall a Mack truck, there's probably is in those rows of pointy teeth he's showing off.
Guess the fat lady's about to sing. Larry, Moe and Curly Sue rush forward.
Smack! Crack! Pete, in full metal jacket, rearranges Porky face with a fist. Nose pancaked, he goes down yowling, spitting blood and teeth.
Fireball meets cold water, as Vic does his thing, turning into a human fire hose. Sssssss! The queen of fugly makes like the Wicked Witch of the West, doused to a greasy looking, steaming puddle.
Aw fer cryin' out loud! Lizard breath's beyond predictable. Spinning, he whips his tail to take off my head. Ducking easily I jeer, "Gotta do better'n 'at, bub."
He sticks out a pointy black tongue and hisses before barreling toward me again.
I dodge the Lizard. In my peripheral I see the steaming puddle transform back into her solid bulkiness. I'd be laughing at her trying to stuff the lard back into her overstretched leathers except Lizard breath snags me by the throat.
With a tongue the dearly departed Toad would've envied, Lizard's wrapS me around the neck and yanks me kissin' close. Gag me with a spoon! Reeking of rotten eggs, potent, silent but deadly farts and sour beer vomit, the fuckin' turd pond over on the Jersey side of the river's got nothin' on this guy's halitosis.
Can't suck in a breath. My larynx ain't adamantium and spasms from the pressure. Spots skitter across my retinas and my eyes feel like they're gonna pop. If the heat I'm feeling is any indicator, my face is probably the color of pickled beets.
A little help from my mates would be handy but they're a bit tied up with a second round from Porky and the Hot Pants
Lizard's eyeing my neck like he looking for a good place to land a hickey. What is he? Some kind of Vamp-reptile cross breed?
Enough of this shit already! Putrid air in my face'r not, I do like breathing.
Dragon breath's got his claws sunk into my biceps. Must have hit a nerve or something 'cuz I ain't feeling a thing. This is a temporary bad. My brain's telling my arms, C'mon. Move. Tie his fuckin' tongue in a knot. Rearrange his orthodontics. My arms ain't getting the message. More bad; probably severed tendons.
Healing factor starts its mojo and I bend my elbow and with a flick sever the s.o.b.'s tongue.
Blood spurts.
He screams and lets go.
Stumbling back, eyes dilated wide in shock, he clamps his hands to his mouth. Howling and bleeding like a stuck pig, he starts puking.
Life's a bitch and then ya die, bub.
Speaking of dyin'; the pressure on my throat ain't easing up. Hello! I need some air here. Edges of my vision are going gray and I'm feelin' spacey. Contrary to popular legend, I can suffocate. Not permanently so far, but tonight's not the night to put it to the test.
What's he secrete from his tongue? Crazy Glue? Gotta get it off. Muscles in the arms are healing but fine motor skills are takin' their sweet time.
Spacey's begets dizzy and I'm seeing the world through a black tunnel.
Shit! Don't lose the bubble now, Wolverine. Ya got an audience set to pounce the second they sense weakness.
Slipping a claw between me and the flesh noose, I lance it.
Can't control the gasp and it takes a lot to keep from stumbling.
For a second the gangers act like they'll seize the moment. A death scowl, two sets of bloody claws and Vic and Pete forming up with me puts the kibosh on it.
"Anybody else wants uh new face?" I growl in their jive. "Slap mah fro!"
Fear and panic's the eau de toilet of the moment; theirs. "No way. We don' wants no mo' static," declares the dude who earlier couldn't keep his hands off me.
"Everything'stigh," pleads purple dreadlocks.
"You da man," expounds more than one.
"We be so gone."
And they are; disappearing into the shadows leaving their wounded to fend for themselves. Whadaya expect from fuckin' low life scumbags!
XXXXX
"Oh no, you've got to put jalapeno's in black eye peas." Electra defends her version of the southern New Years Day tradition.
"We're in agreement, girlfriend," I say while matching a double twelve to the domino train "but I'm not even sure I can get that Cannuckle head of mine to eat the plain version."
"Carrumba!" Electra exclaims. "I was just about to dump points."
Sticking my tongue out, "It's probably a moot point, though."
"¿Por qué?
We interrupt our regular programming for breaking news coverage, cuts into Dick Clark's Rocking New Years Eve on television.
"No way! This sucks! How dare they cut off Justin Timberlake!" rings from indignant adolescents.
"Not a moment too soon," Charles mutters. Anyone over thirty five, which is the four of us lounging around the card table, snickers and nods consensus.
Over the kids protest, I reply to Electra's question, "No doubt Logan'll be jetting back for Robert's funeral."
"I'm out," Charles tosses his last domino down. After our groans of defeat die away he winks at me and adds, "By the way, feel free to use my plane."
"This is Celina Cho, reporting from Park Row and the Centre Street merge at the Brooklyn Bridge. The New York City Port Authority has closed all suspension bridges and tunnels from the George Washington to the Verazzano Bridge due to an apparent bomb threat."
"Did she just say bomb threat?" For the adults, any interest in a rematch abruptly evaporates.
"Kevin," Charles says quietly, "increase the volume, please." The volume goes up several notches as the boy blinks his eyes.
"We're told the Port Authority bomb squads, assisted by New York's own X-Men are on site assessing the situation. The same can be said for other sights up and down the Hudson River….."
Marla gasps, "Good heavens!"
"Since when are we New York's own?" Electra huffs.
"Since our guys are putting their fannies on the line, I guess," is my opinion.
In my mind I hear, "Ix-nay on the Team references, ladies." It's Charles and from Electra's pinched expression, we both said a little too much around Marla Jennings.
The television switches locations where another self-important talking head jabbers nothing particularly useful. "This is Paul Stacey, on site at the Lincoln Tunnel where the Port Authority and the X-Men…."
The camera pans, capturing several large figures suited in protective gear entering the tunnel on foot. One of them has a blue forked tail twitching from beneath his gear.
"There's Mister Wagner," one of the kids points out.
"Bet the big one's Doctor McCoy," says another.
Glancing at Wendy, her eyes are chocolate saucers. Lines of intense concentration deepen on Marla's brow and under her eyes.
Hate to tell ya Charles but the barn door's wide open and the horse just left.
Oops! Charles heard me. "Indeed," he says aloud, his face pinched in a frown. "Doctor Jennings, Wendy; might I have a word; privately?"
"Ssshhh!" demands Electra. She's taken station close to the screen, trying to determine Vic's whereabouts, no doubt.
I must admit, I'm leaning in close myself. None of the images seem to be Logan yet. With those long legs and prideful strut, he's hard to miss. The hair? Not going there.
On television we hear, "….plastic explosive, known as Semtex, are planted in traffic control boxes. Monitoring Port Authority radio frequency we've learned these devices are timed to detonate at approximately one a.m."
Scores of eyes seek the time as the TV cuts to a commercial. An activity noticeably absent is kids dashing for refills on soda and munchies.
"This is Celina Cho aboard a Port Authority patrol boat," blasts from the speakers, muddled by a diesel marine engine. "We're moored just off the Brooklyn Bridge. To recap; all bridges and tunnels along the Hudson River from the George Washington span to Verazzano Narrows have been closed to traffic due to a bomb threat from an, as yet, unknown source."
On screen is a view of the bridge. Traffic seems to be crawling away from the Manhattan exit. Jumping to a scene on the other shore's entrance, scores of honking traffic's champing at barricades as it's diverted back to the New Jersey suburbs.
"Bomb disposal units from the Port Authority, city police and the X-Men have been dispatched. From my vantage point just off Manhattan's shore …." The camera zooms in on a figure suspended in the air. " …I can see what appears to be a female suspended beneath the span."
"Hey, that's Ms. Munro."
"Duh!" replies Jubilation Lee.
"Suspended? Right. She flies ya dumb dork," says Kevin to the TV.
The picture jumps, blurred from the motion of the boat, then pans to the water. "There's a man in the water scouting the bridge supports along and beneath the waterline."
Electra gasps, exclaiming in Spanglish, "Mi dios¡Él está loco en la cabeza! Ay, yi, yi! Pero he's gotta do it."
The news anchorman breaks in, "Celina, from what I can see, the man in the water seems to be wearing only a wet suit…"
"Correct Paul. Apparently it's another X-Man. After the next break we hope to have more information on them and just what their capabilities are."
"Extraordinary! I know it's cold. Exactly what are the conditions at the moment?"
Oh, shut the frick up, will ya! I scream inside my head. It's New York. It's winter. Of course it's cold. Ball shriveling, butt numbing cold as my significant other is so fond of saying.
The on site reporter continues, "I can see another X-Man from the uniform, climbing a pylon."
The picture zooms in on the climber. Holy guacamole! That's my husband. And is he wearing any safety gear? Of course not. He's Mister Indestructible—or so he thinks.
Oh peachy perfect! Wendy returns just as Jubilee and Kitty screech, "That's Logan."
Marla's not with her, so it's not all bad, I suppose.
The TV alternates views of the bridge and close ups of the Team. Honestly if it weren't people I love and care about deeply, I'd switch off the channel. Not because it's not important but I hate how the media sensationalizes and speculates where they've got no call to do so.
Celina, the reporter fills audio time with, "….there's not much background available on the X-Men, but they are hailed for averting a disaster of international scope over a year ago foiling Magneto and his mutant converter machine…."
"Hell yeah," Jubilee shouts. "That mother fu— Ow!" Glancing shamefaced at Charles her tone moderates, "That creep almost killed my best friend. But Logan took him down."
Solidarity rings true with the kids and who they hero-worship. Jubes' prompting brings forth an emotional outpouring of hair raising yarns and how who saved who. I don't know whether Logan being on the top of the list is good or not.
Listening, observing and no doubt feeling the strong emotions, Wendy tries to look interested in what the kids say. At the same time she's got her arms crossed over her chest, very much like a certain relative of hers, and she's gouging herself with her fingernails.
Before anybody can change the subject or react, one of the kids rescued last Labor Day from New Orleans describes in full color detail his harrowing rescue and how more than one of his friends didn't make it. Now I know why Logan never told me the details and why it got to him so much at the time.
Suddenly Wendy cries out and covers her head with bloodied arms. "Please stop talking." A row of books fall of the shelf surrounding the TV, "I can't stand feeling your pain!"
The room goes dead silent and the kids stare like she's losing her marbles. "You guys better hush up," Kitty warns having witnessed one of Wendy's meltdowns.
Charles, Electra and I move in, surrounding her. In my head I hear Charles caution, 'considering the circumstances and your condition, it's seems prudent Electra and I handle this.'
For a second I didn't get his points, then duh! The kid is known to pack a powerful telekinetic punch. Not a good thing for me entering my final trimester. Circumstances? Is he asserting I might be less than professional where Wendy's concerned? Well, not unprofessional but it's too easy to let emotions cloud judgment; especially when behavioral, mental health issues are involved. Any professional with a lick of ethics knows the rule and just how far to bend it. Allen and I, when it came to the boys having issues or our messy divorce, referred them out to a trusted colleague and that's why when I got involved with Logan I backed off from being his personal physician.
Not sure exactly what he did but Electra shrugs, "Si. Call me if you need me," and Wendy calms obediently following him out of the media room.
¿Qué da? I whisper to my friend. She shakes her head and sits next to me on the couch. The reality of the situation's sinking in. Did the reporter not say the bombs were timed for one a.m.? What the hell does that mean? That's only ten minutes from now. Dear Lord! Our husbands are out there trying to….
I feel light headed and nauseated. I think Electra senses it because she grasps my hand. There are tears in her eyes. She murmurs, "Vic y yo va a tener un bebe'.
For a moment my brain doesn't process in Spanish. Then it hits me. "Does he know?"
"No. I just found out today."
Wrapping my arms around her as a sister would, our shared joy is quashed by fears that neither of us can bear to openly express.
XXXXX
Taking flight from her last position, Storm shouts, "Last one," before hovering next to me. "You're sweating," she comments.
"No shit," I grunt. It's about twenty degrees and the wind chill's worse. What's got me all hot and bothered is this firecracker I'm trying t'diffuse. I thought I'd seen it all when it comes t'these things. Guess I've been outta the loop cuz this fucker's like nothing I've come across. Combine that with talking Pete through; yeah, I'm sweatin'.
"Need help?" Storm offers.
"Nah. I'm good. Tell ya one thing, Ro; wanna get my hands on the mother that built these buggers."
"I know. Every one I took apart had something different going on."
Pete's voice filters thru my comm., "I have a problem."
Take a number, bub. "What?"
"The wires are not the right color."
"Say again."
"Da. Instead of red and green, I have got yellow and blue."
Jesus Christ! It's either a dummy, booby trapped or both. The kid might be able to morph into metal but he ain't trained in anything but the basics and I ain't havin' that kind of fuck up on my conscience. "Pete, stop what yer doin'. Repeat. Stop."
"Da," crackles in my ear piece.
"That your last one, kid?"
"Nyet. One more I think."
"Ok. Git on it and I'll take the last one."
Glancing across frigid, starlit darkness, I can just pick Pete out scrambling over the crown of the center pylon. He's gotta lean into the stiff breeze for balance.
And lemme state right here the breeze is cold; bone numbing cold. More 'n once I've had t'stop and warm my hands up. I'm thinking domestic life's making me soft 'r something. Aw, quit bitchin' and get 'er done, Wolverine.
"Storm, almost got this one. Ya think I could get a li'l air shuttle across to Pete?"
"Will you be flying first class today, sir?" she teases, her cocoa eyes glittering.
"Yeah and looking to renew my membership in the Mile Hi—" The little scene at the Christmas party under the mistletoe comes to mind. "Never mind."
Well, screw this! Pete wasn't kidding'. This fucker's damn near impossible to unscramble. On purpose for sure. Daisy chained with three others, if it blows the whole bridge is going down. Even if the other two 'r disabled, no way t'be sure there ain't a backup detonator. Odds are, count on it. And the squirrelly wiring's deliberate, too. Are we havin' fun yet?
"Eeny meeny miney mo," I say to Storm with a weary shrug of my shoulders.
"That's comforting."
"Glad ya think so. Lemme tell ya, darlin', between you, me and the fish below, I got no fuckin' clue how this thing's put together."
Leaning into the harness tethering me to the bridge, I scrub my face and crack my neck. I'm cold. I'm hungry. I'm frustrated. The bottom line is I don't think I can safely take this thing apart. Just wait 'til I run across Dugan or Fury….
There's a shit load of Semtex packed into this power box and I ain't gambling if it's enough t'trash the bridge 'r not. Guess it's improvisation time.
"Storm, go back to the patrol boat and get me one o'those containment units." Checking my watch, I'm compelled to ad, "And make it quick, darlin'."
She is, thank my lucky stars. "What's the plan, Logan?"
"Gonna cut the whole damn box away, put it in here and deep six it in the channel."
"Shouldn't we take it to the disposal truck on shore?"
"Fuck that! Too risky. If the powers that be want it I'll make sure I note the spot it sinks."
"Let me hold the container while you cut it loose."
"Negative. I want you and Petey clear. Don't know what's going to happen."
"Are you out of your mind? How are you going to manage such a feat? That thing's heavy."
"Don't sweat it." Pointing to the road deck below, "Set it there and fly your sweet buns outta here. Oh, and tell Vic to give this pylon a wide berth."
"Logan!"
"That's an order." Barking into my comm, "You copy that Colossus?"
"Da but nyet Wolverine. I'm turning to metal and staying here. Separate it and drop it to me."
"Don't think so." If something can go wrong, it will; that's my philosophy and I'm stickin' to it. Dropping a Semtex stuffed box is askin' for it and I'd like to be around to explain it when this is all over.
The kid's not completely out to lunch, though. My harness has clips strong enough to support another adult and there's a secondary harness. It's gonna be awkward 'cuz the bugger's about the size of two p.c.'s and just as heavy, but bracing myself against the iron foot holds and then lowering it seems like the way to go.
Goddammit! A small water craft snags my focus. "Port Authority vessel, this is X-Team Lead Two, you copy?"
"Roger team leader two."
"Clear that patrol boat."
Idiot Port Authority's got a news crew on board. Cameras and shit! A hundred bucks says Susie's got a front row seat watching along with ever'body else on campus.
Using a single claw on my dominant hand I slice through the top set of bolts holding the power box to the pylon. Separated enough, I can see between the box and bridge and there are no surprises.
Ok, time to unplug. I know the power's been shut off but there's something about sticking metal into an electrical socket that cinches my pucker string.
Done! The cable dangles like a dead black snake and I gotta remind myself it's okay to breathe.
Bzzzzzt!
Kee-rist!
I think my underwear needs changin'. It's just my watch; pre-set for a two minute countdown.
Paranoia and complacency are playing tug o'war with my senses. A feeling that this is too easy needles my spine. An understanding of all the ways a bomb goes ka-blooey twists my gut in knots.
Don't think, bub. Ninety seconds. Stay with the plan.
Chunk! Chunk! The last two bolts are ice cream to my claws.
"Status Logan?" bleeds through my comm.
"Almost there," I grunt trying to balance myself while fastening the auxiliary harness around the power box.
"On my way back to your location," Storm warns.
"Negative."
"No can do. Port Authority's denying permission to toss it in the drink."
Fuck it to hell! Ain't got time to debate this now and I flick my comm. off.
Storm gets within shouting distance and hovers. "Quit with the Lone Ranger gig, Logan"
"The day one of you manifests a healin' factor'll be the day I quit being a lone ranger."
"I'll stay here 'til you get it secured then deliver it to the P.A."
I just shake my head. We'll see about that. I'm here and they ain't and once this thing's contained Petey can fast ball it before those idiots get a clue.
Lowering it gentle as one of Sue's Swarovski crystal knick knacks, a breeze catches it. Reflexively, I blink as it bumps and bounces off the pylon. "How 'bout a little wind control, darlin'." Storm's already white-eyed.
A bubble of calm settles and I start feeding rope again. My watch buzzes telling me I got one minute before I turn into a pumpkin.
Nut job press corps on the patrol boat are still too damn close. Probably got a hard on thinkin' about broadcasting a mutant blowin' himself to kingdom come. Bastards! If this thing does go south I really don't want Susie seein' it.
Bridge stats say it's a little less than a hundred sixty feet between me and the roadway. I estimate I'm halfway there. Better up the pace cuz if there's a secondary timer on battery the bridge is gonna have a big hole where the road oughtta be and Petey's going for a Polar Bear swim.
The sound of a double click sets off alarm bells inside my cranium. They came from below but lapping water and the creaks and groans the bridge makes it so I can't get a true fix on the source.
Just keep feeding the rope.
Something—a sensation, makes my back molars ache. A sound--at the edge of auditory range, spikes my ear drums.
Realization looses a cascade of adrenalin forcing thought, reaction and instinct into over drive.
Ah shit! "Get back!" I roar.
Space constricts and time seems motionless while my brain processes dire sensory input.
Think fast.
Options?
Too few.
Consequences?
Ugly.
Act—
It's an effort of futility but it's the only option. Severing the rope from my waist I compress myself against the pylon.
"Susie, I'm sorry."
Around me, the world erupts into a searing plasma hurricane.
Fried.
Falling.
Fu---!
XXX
…to be continued.
Reader's, this chapter took far longer that I anticipated and I'm here to promise the next is going to take longer! I'm sorry about it but I've been promoted at my job and have taken on an in- depth medical coding certification class. I do promise to update but in the meantime have fun speculating. ---MLC