CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Peachy. Just fuckin' peachy. I glance up at the numbers above the door for a second time. The place is shuttered up tight. Sign says Closed For Business. Swiping the grime off the window with my jacket sleeve, I peer inside. No sign or scent of anything at the main entrance so I duck around back, sticking close to the early dusk shadows. Again, nada.

Yanking the phone from my pocket, scrolling for Charles' number, from behind a voice comes out of nowhere, "Long time, brother."

Stock still, nostril flaring, I parse the scent. Friend or foe?

Easing the phone backing into my jacket, I growl, "Ain't got a brother. Wanna try again." Cheap aftershave renders his scent elusive though I've heard his voice before.

"Yeah, well . . . I don't mean bro' in the blood sense."

"Who the hell are ya?" Twisting a controlled one-eighty, I deploy the personal hardware.

He jumps back. Arms high overhead in surrender, he shouts, "Whoa!" the same second I recognize him.

"Shit!" The claws snap back. "Wraith? John Wraith!" Now I understand how he managed to get under my radar. "You idiot. I could've skewered ya, ya know?"

"Never been that fast, Logan." He sticks out his right hand and I reciprocate.

"I'm just glad ya actually remember me. Word eventually got around what happened to ya."

"You're damn lucky I did. Not everything's come back. So, uh, this little meet up ain't coincidence , is it? You're working for Fury."

"Yep. I handle special transport needs for da man."

The memory and my fierce objection comes a fraction too late. One second, I'm standing on an empty, cold, concrete parking lot; a second later, stumbling like a drunk, I'm trying my damnedest not to spew lunch all over polished industrial tile flooring. Eyes squeezed shut, I'm hunched over breathing slow and deep. "I'll . . . get ya . . . for that."

"Wanna bucket?" Wraith mocks.

I wave him off, "I'm good." Senses back on line, I straighten up and realize I've got an audience. No surprise, Fury's sucking on a stogy and smirking like a hyena.

Ah shit! If it ain't Rust bucket himself. Tony Stark, standing at Fury's right, is an unwelcome surprise.

"What're you lookin' at, asshole?" I'm talking to both of them.

Fury's fast to reply, "A shit pile o'trouble," and offer a handshake.

Arms crossed, Stark smoothes the fuzz on his chin. He answers, "Not much," with a cocksure smirk that I'd just as soon carve off his face.

I keep my hands at my sides, "Where the hell'm I?"

"Couple hundred feet underneath the UN, compadre."

SHIELD HQ? I don't conceal my surprise, "This better be good."

I sort of remember the drill and fall in a pace behind. At fifty paces I pick up a familiar gamey scent and stop dead in my tracks. "What's Creed doin' here?" I grumble.

"Same as you," Fury replies without breaking stride.

Cutting around, I force them to halt. "Wraith, Rust bucket, Creed? Who else and what the hell's goin' on?" I cross my arms over my chest. This party ain't going nowhere 'til I get answers.

It's Stark who smarts off, "First off, this op's been in the works for a couple of months. Second, if I had my way, you aren't even on the short list of go-to guys." Stark's on a roll, shooting Fury a frigid glare, "But we all know how it goes when Xavier calls in his chips."

"Don't give a shit about callin' in chips or plans. I work alone. And Stark, you can take that short list o'yours . . ."

"Can it," Fury snaps.

Wraith this time, "You're not the only one with a score to settle, Logan. We've all had our lives screwed up by Diebel and Ruchinsky."

Fury attempts to appease with, "Logan, gimme thirty minutes and I think you'll have all your questions answered."

I'm not paranoid thinking I'm being drafted but the sonofabitch has me over a barrel. I need his intel. "Make it fifteen," I grumble.

Another hundred paces or so, sterile, non-descript corridors give way to a conference room that is anything but. Wood paneling, floor to ceiling bookshelves, huge, heavy, polished wooden table with high backed, leather chairs seems like a leap back in time.

And the chairs aren't vacant. One look at the motley crew assembled like ducks in rows, I don't think I'm about to be drafted. I know I am. Muttering, "fuckin' ay," I shake my head.

"Take a seat," Fury commands.

Obviously lusting for top dog status, Stark settles at the head of the table on Fury's right. Suck it up, rich boy. SHIELD command isn't something your bucks can buy.

Wraith settles beside a shockingly feeble David North. What ever's ailing him, I can't place it by scent. I nod my head in greeting and respect for my former team mate and friend.

SHIELD ops, a few I definitely remember, most I don't, make up the rest of this bunch. Common denominator is Weapons Plus. We've all been on the payroll in one capacity or another.

Almost like a kick in the teeth is the painful reality of who's not here. Talented and skilled, some good people, some not, they're either incapacitated like Maverick, dead, disappeared or gone rogue.

Goddamn!

Sitting at briefings is something I don't do. Goes double when the open seat is next to Creed. Leaning against a cabinet by the exit's the best they're going to get. I point to my wristwatch, "Time's wastin'."

xXx

I punch the wall. I pace. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" I mutter to no one. I'm drafted, conscripted, shanghaied.

Don't give a flying fuck if . . . Shit! Yeah, I do. The basic plan's good, as good as any I'd come up with. But the whole thing still could go tits up depending on whose running the show. Funny how nobody's mentioned that minor detail.

Creed and Stark are a problem. Don't know what kind of short leash Creed's tied to but I don't trust it. More times than not, he's turned a surgical strike into a butchering. His bloodlust makes my berserker seem like practice.

And Stark? What the fuck does he want in for? Ego boost, glory, control? Share of the spoils? All of the above, for sure. With no ties to Weapon Plus, I resent him and his tin can tuxedo butting the hell in.

I pace and cuss some more. Stretching my arms overhead, I lace my fingers and crack my knuckles.

Boot steps squeak against polished tile floors and they aren't mine. Lingering cigar smoke, expensive aftershave and a person's unique scent tells me just who's invading my space.

"Take a swing at me, if ya want." Reflected on the polished wall, I see Fury. With hands on hips and jaw thrust forward, he's just out of reach.

It'd be so fucking easy to smash his head like a ripe tomato. I spin and fake a punch just watch him flinch. Smart ass stands pat. We know each other too well.

"What part of I work alone don't ya get, Nick?"

"Yeah, you work alone. I hear. Not this time." He points toward a pair of tinted glass doors, "C'mon to my office. Let's hash this out."

Fuming, I lag behind a few paces imagining me putting him, face first, through those expensive glass doors. Nice thought, but I know they're bomb-proof.

Just like the conference room, Fury's office with its hardwood, leather and pricey carpet, harkens back to another era. Like me Fury hasn't aged. Unlike me, it's not due to mutation. He's the wunderkind of a World War Two super soldier project.

Stationed beneath a painting of . . . who is that? Geeze, General Patton! It's a wet bar and Fury wastes no time popping open a decanter. Pouring two shots into sturdy glasses, I can smell the good stuff from where I stand.

Yeah, man! Rank has a few perks. Still don't make up for the ass kissing it takes to get there.

He passes a glass to me, "Cheers."

I raise my glass, "This ain't gonna change my mind," then swallow. Strong and smooth, I let the amber fluid play on my tongue then swallow, savoring the mellow burn settling in my belly.

He settles into a behemoth of a leather chair behind his desk and motions me into a seat. That's not happening, so I lean against his fancy bar. "Talk," I demand.

He shrugs and gets down to business, "On the level, Logan, this isn't something you can do alone. It's huge."

Think I haven't considered that? "Watch me."

"You know full well Weapon Plus has made good use of the last twenty years. They got stuff that'll take you down before you know it's coming."

"I'll handle it." That's my ego talking.

"From what I hear, you got too much at stake for a suicide mission . . . and that's what this is if you go it alone."

Both my arms braced on the edge of his desk, teeth bared, I'm in his face, "You don't know shit about what's at stake."

He turns his computer screen around. Wendy's picture beams at me.

"She's not the only one," he adds quietly.

Points taken, backed into another corner but not about to admit it, I ease into the chair he offered and dry wash my face. "Nice speech, Nick. Now, considerin' I wasn't on the short list, what the fuck ya want from me?"

"Stark's full of it. You're always on my short list."

"Just like the last time, eh? You get a promotion and I get an execution."

"Like hell! I did everything I could to fix that mess, including stealing your 'dead' body and getting you the hell out of there. From what I heard, you did pretty well for yourself afterwards.

"Depends on yer definition of doin' well, eh?" Safer to agree to disagree, it's a silent stare down for a couple seconds. "Now, where do I fit into this circus?"

"Top of the heap, ol' man. Command."

No shit! He's got my interest but, I keep an even strain. "I pick my people."

He doesn't hesitate. "Agreed."

"We do what needs to be done. No recrimination."

"That's why I pick you."

"I wanna see all the intel."

"A given."

"I need twenty four, nah, twelve hours t'take care o'some business."

That throws him, if a squinty eyeball is the clue it used to be. After a beat, he agrees, "Adjustments can be made."

I push my luck with, "Take the damn shape shifter off o'Xavier's hands."

"Already done."

"'Zat so? Square that up with, quote, not SHIELD's problem, unquote."

"What can I say? Changed my mind."

Shaking my head, I don't quite buy it. But I don't give a shit as long as the creepy little bastard can't fuck us over again.

This is too easy, too much give on Fury's part. "Alright. Spring the trap. What's this gonna cost?"

No hesitation, he looks me dead in the eye, "I want you back."

No hesitation, I lean in close, "Fuck you."

"Hear me out, dammit. Not as a full time op, no point repeating that cluster fuck. But, from time to time, when a need arises, I want you on top of that short list. Besides, you're under-utilized working for Xavier and you know it."

"Right, but does Xavier know about this?"

"He's a goddamn omega teep. What do you think?"

"I think ya found a way to block a shit load o'details from 'im."

"Let's just say he didn't ask."

"And if I say no?"

He points, "The exit is that way, but lemme give you a friendly warning. You decline, you stay the hell out of our way."

I slam my palms on his desk, "Fuck you!"

Out of the chair, I pace again. An all or nothing proposition, he's got all the aces and me by the short hairs. And that's the real crux of it. I need him, need his information, more than he needs me.

I stalk to the bar, pop the topper and swill straight from the decanter. "Fuck," I growl as the booze only heightens frustrations' fire in my gut.

Leaning back in his chair, Fury's banal expression belies the keenness in his eye. For a second I debate throwing the decanter but that'd be a shameful waste of fine whiskey. I've made deals with devils before. As devils go, SHIELD's a lesser demon.

"Alright. But, Xavier's X-Men come first."

"Figured you'd say that and I'm on board with that stipulation."

"And if you think I'm putting on a uniform, think again."

He winks, "Knowing how you abuse gear, wouldn't waste the taxpayers money."

I drop my voice, "And you involve my wife and my kids, you even think about 'em, I'll kill. . . ."

His voice and expression is solemn, "You and everybody else back in that conference room, Logan, are preaching the same gospel, chapter and verse."

I'd keep up the diatribe, if only to vent my spleen, but Fury's scent says he's honest. To save time and energy, I throttle back but still have another nagging question.

"Nick, why now?"

"Why go after Weapon Plus or why bring you in?"

"Both."

"Short answer is Xavier."

No surprise there. Buy into SHIELD's plan, loan out his alpha dog and Xavier keeps his hands clean.

"And I guess you could thank your deceased . . . father in law, is it? Talk about ironic."

"Topic off limits, bub."

Fury shakes his head, "I don't give a damn about your personal life."

"Good. Now, besides Migraine Monday,* how did Stryker fit into the game?"

"Look at it this way; Stryker was to anti-mutant factions as Bin Laden is to Al Qaeda. Migraine Monday was one helluva wake up call. It forced us to completely re-evaulate and re-direct a lot of our efforts."

"Why? 'Cuz Magneto flipped Stryker's plan a one-eighty?"

"Ever the cynic, compadre but not totally off base. Socio-politico dynamics between Normals and Mutants is, um . . . complex."

"For chrissake! When did you starting towing the p.c. line? If Stryker had succeeded, he'd be given a medal and probably be elected President."

"Like I said, Stryker gave us a helluva wake up call. When this mission's over we can solve the world's problems over a couple of Cubans and a bottle of Irish."

"Better make it two bottles."

He grins and shakes his head, "Anyway, remember those files of Stryker's that the X-Men turned over to the President?"

"Yeah. Didn't get a chance to look 'em over."

"Trust me when I say they turned out to be a load of dynamite. Part manifesto, part genocide blueprint, it's in the briefings I promised you. When we got wind of renewed recruiting efforts, the planning shifted into high gear. Xavier's intel and assets are the fuse and detonator to blow Weapon Plus to hell."

"Sounds like the first salvo of an all out war."

"We're preventing an all out war."

"Don't bullshit me. We both been there, got the scars, I got body armor to prove it. I ain't interested in joining any side but my own. I'm in this to take out a specific target and that's it."

"Until the next permutation comes along."

"I'll burn that bridge if I come to it."

"Not if, Logan. When."

Glancing down at my boots, I murmur, "Yeah." Smacking the wall with my palm, my eye boring into his, "We're burning time. Let's nuke the Weapon Plus bridge to hell," I take charge.

XXX

A/N: *Migraine Monday is credited to RhiannonUK from FULL METAL ANARCHY, if I remember correctly. Might be A FORCE OF NATURE, though. Either story, she came up with a great pseudonym for what Stryker and Magneto caused with the manipulation of Cerebro in X2.

Believe it or don't, I had planned when I first outlined this story to include Team X. SHIELD's involvement came later, inspired by Joegood's story PICKING UP THE PIECES. I must admit that IRON MAN AND XMOW had a share of influence. However, Maverick is not the same character as in XMOW. My Maverick, David North is modeled after the original comic verse East German descended character. John Wraith, aka Kestrel is more in line with XMOW. I still haven't got my head around Creeds incarnation. Call him a cross between Liev Shrieber and Daniel Mane[is that his name?] Logan and Victor Creed are NOT brothers.

As always, reviews are well appreciated and while it embarrasses me to say that reviews stimulate the Muse, it is true. Reviews do stoke the ego or cause me to strive to do better, depending on the feedback.