Logan has just had the crap beaten out of him in a cage fight. Can it go from bad to worse or will his luck change?
CHAPTER NINE
"Graaarrh!" By supreme will or miracle, the claws stay put as I spring to a sitting position.
Hammer Fist, strutting his stuff, jogging a victory lap around the ring means I ain't been out long.
Crouched beside me, the ref pleads, "Easy does it," and offers a wet, cold towel.
Towel? How 'bout a bucket? Healing factor or not, concussions happen. My head feels like the Hulk used it for a soccer ball and the urge to hurl can't be denied so, I kack into the towel. Lucky everybody, my stomach's mostly empty.
I spot purple dreadlocks hovering nearby, no doubt itching to add insult to injury dragging my ass out of the cage. I'll crawl first.
Threading my fingers through the wire . . . I'll be damned! Flesh once again, Hammer Fist reaches to give me a hand up, "Eres bueno, el hombre."
Clambering to my feet, it takes another minute for the room to quit revolving. "You're better," I credit once I sure I ain't about to puke again.
Headache receding to a dull nag but slower healing innards force me to cautiously pick my way through the crowd looking for the dirtball guarding my jacket and boots.
The announcer starts up, riling the crowd for the next victim. Angel, Hammer Fist, Guzman can have at 'im.
Me? I'm a stubborn s.o.b. but I ain't stupid. Gonna stoke the healing factor with a load of protein and soothe a bruised ego with liquid anesthetic . . . much good as it'll do me.
"Looks like yer crown done slipped 'round yer ass, eh Canada boy," taunts the jackass supposedly guarding my stuff.
"Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" he gasps as I offer an adamantium single claw salute. Funny, nobody messes with me on my way to the men's room.
Catching a glimpse of myself in the grimy bathroom mirror, it's no wonder the room emptied so quick. To say I resemble chopped liver's an understatement. Some fun, eh bub? A pair of swollen purple-black welts on my right and left sides hurt like a bitch, so maybe not so much fun.
Grabbing a couple wads of wet paper towels, I scrub off the blood – mine mostly. Another wad of cold ones feels mighty good pressed against the goose egg sized lump on the side of my head.
Dumb Canuck! Wanted a challenge, eh? Pacing, I keep up the self-flagellation 'til my healing factor and the cold compress shrink the knot on my head to pea size.
"Ooh-ooff!" My knees turn to jelly forcing me brace myself with one arm against the exposed plumbing. Feels like somebody's twisting barbed spikes into my back as I splash rusty red into the urinal. Effin' hate bruised kidneys.
Okay, back to the main bar I go. By the time I've climbed two flights of stairs to get there, I'm feeling back to normal – mostly. Holed up at a corner table with full view of the joint, I'm content to sit, drink and watch. The same crew of sharks still hogs the pool tables, so that's out of the question. Leaving an I O U is bad form and likely to earn me a knife in the back.
Nickel and dime darts fits the budget. Sweetening the pot is bodacious babe - in every sense of the word. Tall and exotically beautiful, her facial structure hints Asian. Pale blue skin and blue black waist length hair add irresistible intrigue. There's spunk behind cobalt, almond shaped eyes. Lithe as a panther, she's got the moves. And yeah, she throws a true dart.
I manage to score enough for a couple more brews to share and a hook up.
xXx
Admirable. That's what they are: Lissi's perfectly round ass cheeks swathed in what might as well be spray on leather pants. A cascade of silky, long hair accentuates the sway of full hips. Drawn like a magnet, my hand can't help not copping a lingering feel.
She turns, her eyes blazing with lust and grabs me by the collar, laying a hard kiss on my mouth. Murmuring, "Nice," she grinds herself against me.
I can't help but growl my pleasure as her movements kick up my need a couple more notches. "I'll show ya nice, darlin'."
All over each other like white on rice, we practically fall through the door to her apartment that she seems to magically unlock. Tongues scraping tonsils, I have her pinned against the wall as our shirts drop to the floor. I'm just about to slip her breasts from black lace when she breaks the kiss and pulls back.
What the hell? Riled, the animal in me won't be denied.
"Problem?" The man in me prevails.
She shakes her head and purrs, "Come to my playroom." Snatching hold of my hand, she leads me through her living room into a vestibule. Three doors represent north, east and west. She pushes me east.
Whoa! Strategically positioned mirrors, red satin sheets on a king sized matress on the floor; well, seen that sort of thing before. It's the ramp and swing that don't factor into the usual bedroom set up.
Pointing a thumb towards handcuffs, straps and paddles, I make it real clear, "Ain't into that shit, babe."
"I am," she says with a roguish wink.
She hops to the center of the mattress. On all fours, her breasts give new definition to cup runneth over. Glossy, indigo lips curve into an alluring smirk, "C'mere, big man."
What the hell. If the lady fancies a little kink, I know a few tricks that'll blow her mind. Up for the game, I'm a predator stalking my prey.
She reaches for remote control on the bedside table. Immediately, the lights turn moody and suggestive music crackles and hisses from crappy speakers.
I stop dead in my tracks, my senses don't hear as much as feel the whining of concealed audio-visual equipment. I scan the room searching for likely ports for the offensive buggers. Sure enough, I catch the tiny red dots of active camera's badly hidden.
Paranoia shoots into the red-zone as my libido plunges into the deep freeze. "What the fuck is this?"
She sasses, "What the fuck is what?"
I point.
She gives me a deer in the head lights look then throws her hands up. "Aw for cryin' out loud! How'd you know?"
"Don't matter. I just do." More pissed now than paranoid, I cross my arms and stare her down, "What's your game, woman?
Nervous, she licks her lips, "Fine. Whatever. Yeah, I make videos. Peddle 'em on the 'net. Girl's gotta make a living somehow. It's damn good money, ya know."
"Yeah, well lemme tell ya sweetheart, I ain't about to feature in any skin flick peep show."
She looks contrite but her scents says different. "Not even for a cut? I mean, a stud like you. Man, you'd go viral."
She's goddamn lucky I don't go viral all over her, trash the fucking joint. "Go ta fuckin' hell, bitch," I growl and make for my shirt and jacket in the other room. Shucking them on and out the door before she gets out another word, I take the stairs three at a time.
Turning the corner, I hear her yell, "Shit head," as an icy wind slaps me hard in the face. I raise what little collar I've got to my jacket higher on my neck, zip up and shove my hands into the pockets. Damn! The fingers on my left hand poke out the bottom. Forgot the lining's torn.
Muttering to myself, this just ain't my night. Got fleeced at pool, hammered in the cage and punked by a nut job porn queen. What's next? I smack myself on the forehead. Shuddup ya dumbshit.
Cutting through a zigzag of back alley's earns me angry scowls from the local rat population. Fat bastards ain't scared of much. The haggard ol' drunk rummaging through a dumpster is. Though he'll probably use it on more booze 'r drugs, I palm off a pair of twenties hoping he might get himself a square meal and hole up in a shelter for the night.
A woman's screaming curses cuts through the late night urban din. I look up. Two stories up, silhouettes on cockeyed and broken window blinds, I pause to spy a man and woman struggle and spew colorful accusations of who's screwing who. She slaps him. He punches back. Domestic tranquility at its finest. Not.
Just about to clear the alley and make for my ride, I hear gunshots. From the sound of 'em, we ain't talking no cheap-ass cap pistol, either. The woman ain't cursing now. It sounds like she's pleading.
I do a good job convincing myself it ain't my problem, to keep moving until I hear another gunshot and shattering glass. The woman scream is silenced by two more shots and this time there's the unmistakable wailing of a kid, make that a couple kids.
Guns, out of control adults and kids; now, I'll make it my problem.
Dammit! Had to ask. What's next? Here we go again.
Backtracking, I notice the fastest route up is a fire escape. Its ladder stops short, about three meters over my head. I pop the claws and scale the brick wall then scramble up the ladder. Blood, pain, fear and the earthy, sickly stench of death waft through the broken window.
The scene inside's the stuff of nightmares. Blown away, what's left of the woman's face is splattered on the wall. Blood pools on floor where she lay. Beside her, two whimpering boys, maybe six and eight, huddle together. Blood streams from the shoulder of the older one. His arm hangs limp.
Spewing hate, the gunman aims his weapon back and forth between the kids and the body. It takes a special kind human to murder kids in cold blood. I don't think this bastard is one of those but I won't bet on it.
Positioned off to the side and out of sight, my boot takes out the remaining glass. Expected, a bullet whizzes through the opening, ricocheting off the cinderblock building across the alley.
Demanding, "Who's out there? Show y'self," I see the gunman's shadow move toward the opening. He's smart enough not to expose himself.
"Yer mama," I jibe. I wanna distract him, lure him, get him riled on me so I can get between him and the kids.
The shooters strained voice echoes in the alley, "Okay mama, I said show y'self."
"Not hardly, bub. Yer the one wavin' around the piece. How 'bout ya let the kids go?"
"What are you? Cop? Some goddamn social worker?"
"I'm no cop and how many social workers you know hang outside windows at two in the morning?"
"Just a fuckin' busy-body then."
Firing twice in the direction of my voice, it's close but not close enough. Chunks of brick pelt my jacket, stings the side of my face. It's all good, though. Can't confirm for certain he hasn't reloaded but his magazine only holds ten rounds. He's down to two or three.
Shit! Not so good, I hear him thrash the kids, "Did I tell you to move? Shut yer fuckin' faces?"
Whimpers become muted wails. The sickening thwack of flesh on flesh followed by thumps and more agonized cries tears me up, infuriates the animal.
His distraction is my chance. Hoisting myself though the window get's me just what I need; myself between him and the kids. It also gets me a gun aimed at my chest.
Done dickin' around, I challenge, "Ya wanna mess with them kids again, you're gonna hafta go through me first."
He sneers, "Your funeral."
My round house kick is fast but not faster than the bullet he squeezes off before his gun goes flying across the room. My chest explodes in white hot agony. The bullet's pierced between ribs, shredding a lung as it buries deep.
Reflexively I clutch at my wound. The metallic scent of my own blood, the feel of its sticky heat gushing down my chest, soaking into my shirt and spilling over my hand unleashes a surge of adrenalin and feral rage.
The urge to pop the claws and gut this s.o.b. is powerful but I don't wanna traumatize these kids any more than necessary. So, I focus on damaging him. Ignoring the pain that's burning through my chest, I charge and crush his gun hand with an adamantium vice, my fist, that is. There's a gratifying crunch as bones fracture.
A scream dies in his throat as I grab him round the neck, exerting pressure on his windpipe, "Whose funeral, bub?"
Scared to death, he whines as his bladder lets go, staining his tan trousers brown.
Grabbing a handful of stringy blonde hair, I slam his face into the kitchen counter top. The impact breaks his nose and teeth. Blood smears on cracked and yellowed Formica. Groaning, he goes limp and I toss him aside like the sack of shit that he is.
A pair of wide brown eyes stare at me from beneath the kitchen table. The one kids' face is hidden against the others chest. I crouch down slow but they flinch and whimper. The bigger boy, despite one useless arm, crabs himself and smaller one away.
I keep my voice soft, "I'm not gonna hurt ya."
They don't believe me and I guess I don't blame 'em.
Adrenalin ebbs and it's hard to ignore the pain in my chest or the effort it's takes me to breathe. Partly to calm the kids and partly because I got to, I sit cross legged on the floor.
It's a standoff. Nobody moves. Nobody utters a sound. Casually, I take in the ambiance. Cracked linoleum, water stained ceilings, peeling paint and scuttling roaches make a depressing impression. Despite it, the place seems clean, if the stinging scent of bleach is a hint. Tidy too, with what few possessions they have arranged just so.
I'm close enough to tell at least one of the boys is mutant. I'm also close enough to sense and see the older boy is still bleeding bad. Don't know is normal complexion but I don't think it's sickly pale as he is right now. He needs help and he needs it fast.
"I'm Logan. What're your names?"
After a long moment, the older boys voice trembles, "De-Shaun." He hugs the smaller boy, "My brother, he De-Marcus."
De-Marcus sneaks a peek but just as quickly hides his face again.
De-Shaun breaks another long silence, "You kill Michael?"
I glance over to the still breathing heap on the floor and shake my head. "Is he your dad?"
"Hell no!" De-Shaun scoffs.
Dunno why but it's a jolt hearing a kid cuss.
The little one surprises me. First by pushing back from his brother and second by signing, 'He my daddy.' Next, the little guy scans the room. His gaze falls upon the body of the dead woman. Tears fall as his hands furiously form, 'Is mama dead?'
I sign back, 'Yes.'
Now where the hell'd that come from?
"He hear ya," De-Shaun tells me. "Jus' ain't got no voice."
"Is that his mutation?"
The kid stares at me like I'm speaking gibberish then shakes his head. "Mama say he born dat way." From the way his voice is falling, I'd say I'm out of trust-bonding time. I gotta get him to a hospital 're something now.
"You boys have other family around? Big brother, sister? Grandparents?"
"Nope."
De-Marcus signs a name but De-Shaun shushes him, "He in jail."
So much for passing off responsibility. I bow my head, contemplating the inevitable."Well De-Shaun and De-Marcus, what say I get you guys checked out. Get that arm fixed up, eh?"
Again, they back away when I inch closer.
"We cain't go to no doctor. Free clinic done close an' da ones on the outside send us to juvie."
"I know somebody, a nice lady doctor. She helps people like . . . us."
"Where she at?"
"Ever hear of . . ." Hell, of course they haven't."She's a doctor at a school . . ."
Shitty timing, Michael groans and stirs. Reacting, the the boys clutch each other as the stink of abject panic fills the space. De-Shaun cries out as his brother apparently jostles his wounded arm.
Consequences be damned, I hold my arms out, "C'mon. I'll take care of ya." Why break an apparent lifetime pattern now?
They hesitate, probably weighing options. The older one's eyes dart between me and Michael, who's definitely returning to the here and now. It'd be nothing to bash him in the head but the boys have seen enough for one night.
Michael doesn't leave me a choice, though. Pushing up from the floor, his face is a mish mash of blood and mucous. Unsteady, he struggles to stand. Bellowing, "Kill you," he flings bloody spittle, then lunges for a knife on the nearby counter top.
He doesn't get within a foot of the blade. I pull a punch to his forehead dropping him flat on his back. It'll be hours before he wakes up with the mother of all headaches.
The action costs me. Gotta steady myself on something solid while the room quits rotating. Feels like a trip hammer where my heart's supposed to be. Every breath's like a knife through my chest. Coughing makes it worse.
"Hey mister, you okay?"
"Sure," I fib. "You guys ready to get outta here."
'Where we goin'?' the little one signs.
"Westchester," I tell 'em and realize a glitch in the plan. One motorcycle, two little kids and over an hour away from Xavier's says I got serious a transportation problem.
"Hey guys," he doesn't . . . ," I point to sleeping stupid, "have a car, eh?"
A shrug puts an end to that idea.
"Your mom, maybe?"
Same answer.
Damn.
Could jack something parked on the street. Don't want to because that means leaving my bike overnight. I yank out my cell phone.
"Logan?" Scott's voice registers shock.
"Yep, and before ya shit yer britches, the apocalypse hasn't started. But, I got two kids with me, one's been shot."
"Holy god! How bad?"
"Not life threatening, at the moment. The kid's young so, I'm thinkin' shock's going to be a problem real soon."
"Aren't you better off dialing nine, one, one?"
If there was a way to reach through the goddamn phone and strangle somebody! I snarl, "What the hell do you think?" and immediately hit the mute button so he can't hear me gasp for air.
"Okay, okay. Where are you?"
"In the city."
With a feeble sigh, De-Shaun's tenuous hold on his little brother and consciousness falters.
"That's a lot of territory. Want to narrow . . ."
"Cyke," I cut in, "This kid's outta time. Power up the jet."
"The jet? That's a helluva expense . . ."
I think, dock my fuckin' paycheck and cut him off, "Land at that big open area in Central Park. Know where I'm talkin' about?"
"The Great Lawn? Yeah. You sure the jet's really necessary."
"Got a better idea?"
I picture a clenched jaw, the pursed lips as Summers considers alternatives. Exhaling a low whistle, he yields, "ETA thirty minutes."
"Good enough," I hope. "It's possible you'll beat me there. It's about a five mile hike from my position."
"Just where the hell are you, Logan."
"I ain't sayin' and your best off not askin'."
He mutters, "Sonofabitch, then snarks, "I can't wait to hear this epic tale."
"Yeah, well later. Time's wastin', so move it."
"Roger that. I'll hover, cloaked. Ping when you're ready for pick up."
xXx
Takes me two hours to make my way back. Keying the remote raises the garage door. I glide into my spot, cut the engine and slump over the handlebars. After hiking while carrying one kid in my arms and piggy backing the other to the rendezvous I'm hurting bad from the bullet that's still stuck in my chest.
Goddamn! Every once in a while a bullet has to come out the hard way. Trapped by a metal ribcage, the offending bugger is gouging a bloody, destructive path through my lungs. Had to stop a couple 'r three times from the pain, catch my breath 'r hack up bloody phlegm.
Sue's car is tucked into its usual place. There's a silver BMW near it that I don't recognize. Pulling myself together, I stroll close to the Beamer, parsing its owners scent.
I freeze dead in my tracks. Ah shit!
Shit! The owner of the Beamer and her scent stimulates a serious fight or flight reflex.
Shit! Doctor Snarky, herself: Cecelia Reyes.
Put a cork in it, I counsel myself. My beef with her is water under the bridge.
Per usual, there's at least one kid in the kitchen, snarfing a late night snack. Tonight it's Marie, Jubilee and Kitty nibbling on chunks of cake. Leftovers from the Valentine's dance, I guess. Just smelling that sticky icing is enough to rot year teeth.
And per usual, for them, the hormones fly as they try to out flirt each other for my attention.
"Oh mash gosh!," Marie gasps and points at my chest. "Your bleeding."
"Ewe," choruses the other two.
"Past tense, kiddo. I'm good."
"What happened?" Marie pushes.
I shake my head, unwilling to waste time on details. "Everybody down below?"
They know what I'm asking and trip over themselves informing me what's what and who's where.
I give 'em thumbs up and break for the closest elevator.
xXx
"You're injured," Charles greets as I exit the metal cylinder.
I shrug. "How's the kid?"
"In surgery as we speak."
"Reyes workin' on him?"
"Yes."
"His arm's pretty . . . ," My voice falters as I fight an urge to cough, " . . . messed up. He gonna to be alright?"
"Everything possible is being done. Are you alright?"
Forget about me. I sigh and dry wash my face, "So that's a don't know?" Can't hid the fact that I'm wheezing like a busted chimney bellows.
"An optimistic don't know. You are not alright."
Ya think? "How 'bout the little one? Who's taken' care of him?"
"Storm."
I nod approval.
"Scott mentioned blood on your clothing. Why didn't you return with the jet?"
Let's see. Leave my bike anywhere near the District. Time, distance and aggravation involved fetching it. I summarize with, "Logistics."
Dubious, he crosses his arms and strokes his sparsely stubbled chin. Guess he didn't bother to shave when I sent out the o-dark-thirty red alert.
Steely blue eyes crinkle at the corners as he locks onto mine, "Indeed," he sympathizes after skimming the surface of my thoughts. 'After all this time, your trust is still tenuous?' is the question I hear inside my head.
I'm in no mood for head games. "Goes both ways, bub."
Ignoring my death glare, he keeps hammering, "What is the extent of your injury?"
"Aw, for fuck sake! Got shot and you know it. Now, will ya leave it alone."
"As you wish. Care to join Scott, Sue and me for a debriefing?"
Not really. Pushing the envelope with my healing factor, I need to disappear, crash and let my healing factor do its thing. "Can it wait?"
Crafty buzzard hauls me over a barrel, "It may wait if you'll consent to a medical examination?"
"You don't give up, do ya. Let's get this over with."
Out maneuvered and pissed about it, I ride a spike of adrenalin. Outpacing Charles wheelchair, I stride down the corridor toward the Situation Room. Not a wise choice.
The vice grip tightens and with it comes the sensation of elephants having stomped on my chest. I'm real pleased to actually take a seat at the table. That way, maybe I can hide the fact that I'm inches from keeling over.
Hah! I'm not fooling' anybody. Sue is in my space before the automatic door hisses shut. This is not the kind of up close and personal I have in mind with her.
"They warned me you're stubborn as a mule," she scolds and seats herself next to me. She smells of antiseptic, perspiration and deep fatigue. "Charles tells me GSW to the chest. May I take a look?" There's an unusual but not unattractive huskiness in her weary voice.
Tell the whole world, why don't ya, is my aimed thought to a certain big headed telepath.
To Sue it's, "Nothin' to see."
Just itching to lecture, Summers rolls his eyes. But from painful past experience he knows to stay the fuck out of my business.
Armed with a stethoscope, Sue is undeterred, "Fine. A listen then. Off with the jacket, please."
Shucking out of it isn't fun and I grunt my discomfort.
She consoles, "Sorry," and presses the stethoscope to my chest. All neutrality drains from her face as she moves the device over my upper body. "Do you feel like you can make to an exam room?"
"What for?"
"Chest x-ray. I can't hear anything through your clothes."
"What's it with docs wantin' to get my shirt off?" A coughing jag rudely aborts a chuckle at my own lame joke.
Summers snorts and mutters, "Prick."
Sue fixes Summers with a acid stare then flashes me a wink, "Because we don't get to examine a six pack like yours every day." A wry smile ghosts her lips but her eyes reflect the same alarmed scent she exudes.
"Right. Listen up, doc. I don't need ya ta listen or take a look. What I need is for ya to leave me alone for a couple hours."
"To do what?"
Dunno. Pick lint out of my navel. I throw my hands up, "Jesus Christ, woman! What do ya think? Maybe hack up the friggin' bullet and heal."
Wincing, she reaches for my hands but I resist for a moment, then give in.
She's preaching' to the choir explaining, "Expulsion of a projectile, especially if it's the same caliber as the one Cecelia removed from that little boy, is going to be horrendous."
"Done it before".
Her eyes turn to broad saucers but she recovers quick. "And how did that go? Listen, I understand your reluctance . . ."
"Bullshit. Only thing you gotta understand is the only way yer gettin' me in that med lab is laid out-cold on a stretcher."
Global warming's got nothing on her blistering expression.
"Gentlemen," she eyeballs Charles and Scott. "A few minutes of privacy with my patient, please."
Soon as the doors seal shut, Sue's swinging the baseball bat. "You're not just stubborn, you're being downright reckless and selfish. What happens if that thing in your chest clips an artery?"
"Then ya get lucky. I'll prob'ly be out cold and ready for the stretcher."
"I'm not even going to dignify that with an answer."
"Good. Then, we're done." I break for the exit.
She flies out of her chair, "Logan, please. I can't provide the best care for you and little De-Shaun if you're three levels up in your quarters."
Snarling, "I don't want anybodys care," falls flat. It's the coughing fit that leaves me gasping and gagging on a mouthful of bloody mucous.
Fast and without recrimination, she shoves a trash can in my face for me to spit out the foul gunk.
It ain't over. Coughing becomes retching, forcing me to my knees. She hangs tough providing an unexpected and welcome anchor.
She states the obvious, "You shouldn't go through this alone," as the paroxysm fades.
"Sue, I know . . ." My words flow in the halting manner of an asthmatic having just run a marathon.
"You mean well . . . But . . . there ain't a god . . .damn thing any . . . body can do."
I clear the pipes and spit again."Just about . . . anything you do'll only . . . fuck things up . . . make it tougher on me."
She looks like she's gonna cry, "I know. I know what your chart says. Cecelia filled in the blanks, told me about last year . . ."
I raise a hand to quiet her, "Then let it go. Please . . . Spend your time . . . and expertise on . . . the kid."
Pleading, "At least let me get an x-ray," she holds a chair steady while I try to sit upright. "That way we'll have a location and an idea of the potential complications we're facing."
I'm hunched over the table, "Won't see much with metal ribs, ya know."
"Alright, an ultrasound. It's better than nothing."
"Okay fine. You win. But just pictures. You start in with anything else, I'm gone."
"You'd benefit from a little oxygen, don't ya think?"
"Don't push it."
"Okay, okay. You're in charge."
And if I believe that, then next I'll be buying the Brooklyn Bridge. Yeah, well she's got a point that I ain't about to concede. "Damn straight, doc. One more thing . . ."
"Yes?"
"Nobody else gets near me."
"Huh? Oh….what? Oohhh right."
Guess Reyes filled Sue in on all the dirty details of our last encounter.
"Even Electra?" she adds after a pause.
I shake my head to the negative, but forfeit, "Yeah . . . maybe."
XXX
A/N. This has been a difficult chapter to write. It just wouldn't flow. Rather than put it aside, wait for inspriation and keep my readers waiting, I plowed ahead. I'll be the first to criticize saying this isn't my sharpest piece of writing. But, it is what it is and I hope you derive some enjoyment. Please send me your comments/reviews.