Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except Irbis and several innocent short-lived bystanders; everything else is Marvel's only.

12. Lose Ends

"It's been over two hours, Colonel, and there's no communication on the police radio that could indicate Creed's presence anywhere."

Colonel massaged his forehead. They'd been following the road down the Creek but they couldn't find any signs of the target anywhere even though they were using both night-vision and infrared goggles. For as long as Creed was breathing, they were all as good as dead, which meant that to forego of this hunt was as suicidal as continuing. But no survivor of the last meeting thought of giving up, anyway. There was revenge to be served, as hot as possible.

"We're wasting our time," he finally decided. "He's hiding somewhere... Froggie, drive us back to his flat."

He was aware he was a bit distracted. Doc was bound to spend the rest of the night at the hospital; Murdock... Murdock might not survive at all. And he was down to two men. If he survived this, he would never again toy with any future target whatsoever. The moment they were targeted they were dead. Never again would he let a job get out of hand.

"The police are still at the location, Colonel," Froggie said, parking unconspicously away.

Stallone, who'd been silent ever since Froggie's return from the hospital run, left the back of the van and joined Froggie in the front. Colonel had the distinct impression that his whole life was slipping through his fingers. The worst thing was that his men's lives were slipping through too. He shook his head. 'Get yourself together,' he scolded himself. 'Think.'

They had just gone from hunters to hunted, and it was absolutely imperative that they recovered their hunter positions. He got up and approached his two men. Ahead, two police cars were clearly visible, but the firebrigade car had gone. Probably a long time ago, too: the bomb they'd set off hadn't been designed to start a fire, so the firebrigade wouldn't have had much to do at the scene except make a routine appearance.

If it hadn't been for the police, Creed would never have spotted the van. But the assholes didn't leave the area before three a.m., so he had had to spend over two hours waiting. He felt weak and angry, his whole body burning in a low fire of hate, half-numbed by the drugs racing through his veins. Drugs he knew wold stay in his system for far too long.

He had crouched down on a rooftop, growling under his breath. There was nothing to watch to the exception of the motionless police cars and bats flying impassively around lampposts. Once an owl screeched and flew across the sky. And then, quite by sheer accident, he noticed movement inside a van. It had been something utterly slight, but it was all he had needed. Well, almost everything: he had to wait for the cops to move out.

But as long a wait as that had been it was worth it. Feeling feverish, he approached the van. For a moment he might have been trapped inside one of his nightmares, especially the ones that were confused half-memories of other times. He hardly even recognised any scents. Except the scent of blood: that scent was strong and refreshening the moment he punched through the window pane and plunged his claws into a soft neck.

He ignored the yells, but he couldn't do the same to the guns shooting him. Fortunately, someone had to slide the side door open to shoot him, and Creed dived in. The impacts of the shots were nothing compared to the feel of acid running through his veins, his gut, his lungs, his heart. Vision red and blurred, he followed the trail of the bullets all the way home and wrang off all the fingers doing the firing, then he mangled off arms and an assortment of other body parts. When the silence finally set in, Creed felt a wave of nausea wash over him and he threw up everything his stomach had - which was next to nothing.

Finally, he staggered away from the van. Away from that street. Away from the open. His body was failing him, weakening with every step, but he could not lay down to recover before finding a safe place where he could relax and indulge in a self-repairing sleep.

Leaning on walls, he became aware of a walled garden with overgrown bushes. The wall was low – a ten year old wouldn't have had any trouble jumping over it – and, despite his blurred eyesight, he was able to ascertain the garden was a wild patch, perfect for someone to lurk within, unseen. Creed literally fell over the wall, rather than overcoming it. Lying on the ground, his body finally failed him. He was barely aware of sirens – couldn't even tell if they were near or far – but he felt as safe as possible under the circumstances.

Creed walked along the corridor, following Irbis's scent. He was slightly light-headed, even if he had slept until after one in the afternoon, and his vision despite not being blurred wasn't particularly clear. His ears alternately picked up low sounds and ignored them, and even his nose could only focus on a scent at a time. He almost wished for an adrenaline rush to overcome the drugs side effect, but what he really needed was a good, rare steak and plenty of sleep.

Eventually, he reached the door he'd been looking for and knocked. There wasn't an immediate response and he hammered it harder. The silence surprised him. He hadn't thought the girl had such a heavy sleep. A light sense of alarm upgraded the current capacity of his senses. The silence was general, which wasn't unnatural in a hotel in the early afternoon, deserted as it should be. He listened carefully at the door. He could distinguish nothing. Then he sniffed the air, carefully. Irbis's scent was unmistakenably there but it was faint, as if she had left the room hours before.

Creed's vision turned red and he quickly kicked the door in. He was welcomed by a sudden draft that waved the light curtains at him, catching his eye, and blew some papers off the desk to the right of the door. Looking to the left, he surveyed the rest of the room: the bed which hadn't been slept in and the door to the bathroom. His vision was still reddish and he didn't register the growling snarl at the realisation that the girl had left without his permission. The light white curtains were still waving to and fro in the arms of the draft, which was strong enough to wobble even the heavier curtains drawn to the side, and the movement kept drawing Creed's eyes. She had left through there, he decided. He hesitated under his anger; should he go immediately after her or should he eat and get some shut eye before? No; the frail wasn't worth running himself thinner than he already was. He entered the room and the draft banged the door shut with such strength even Creed started at the sound. Then, his heartbeat increasing, the card caught his eye.

It had been on the floor just below the opened window and the waving curtains had disguised it. But now they had fallen into growing stillness, the bright orange letters on the white calling card became suddenly obvious. XSE. He blinked, the natural conclusion having trouble entering his mind but slowly doing so nonetheless. XSE. The card must have fallen as the girl had climbed the groundfloor window. XSE. On her way to the X-Men.

A wave of sickness rolled inside him, scolding the incredulity at the discovery. Why should there be any incredulity? What was so unbelievable in the girl's treacherous attitude? Wasn't betrayal to be expected of her? As of anyone else. As for her promises... she had decided she wouldn't learn to swim, and still she had let him have the last word on the matter. She hadn't further angered him, because she would stand by her decision by taking off to the X-men's protection.

Creed closed his eyes and took a sharp breath. Exhaustion still hung heavily on his body, but his mind was clear, his senses back to full ability. Picking up the card and slipping it into a pocket, he sniffed the window sill carefully. Yes, she'd left that way. Her scent still had the dubious perfume of the creek and he knew he'd have no trouble following it. It only took tracking the perfume of the creek's waters, really, with its unmistakable mix of pesticides, algae and urban mud.

Leaping over the window, Creed followed the trail. At nearly half past two in the afternoon, the traffic wasn't particularly thick but it still tried to get in his way; still, he preservered. The folks going up and down, annoyed him less; they needed only look at him to quickly get out of his way, and their scent – heavy with purportedly pleasant perfumes and aftershaves, musky with their sweat and perspiration – didn't pose any threat of baffling his path. Time, on the other hand, posed a threat. Often, he moved on tens of feet without any hint of the creek's scent, to catch it fleetingly at a corner. Fortunately, though, he soon realised which way the girl had been heading: towards the Greyhound bus station.

He considered that choice as he went on, still carefully testing his theory at every turn. The Greyhound bus station. That meant she couldn't have phoned the X-morons to come and pick her up... or perhaps they had told her to get out of the city as soon as possible to get away from him. Avoid her death at his claws while they were flying to get her. No. If she had mentioned him, the runt would have wanted to come and face him, especially if she had told them he was in the middle of a fight with a bunch of mercs that had already caught him once. No. The station appeared in front of him, full of people coming to and fro. The guitar. She was going to get her guitar before going to the X-men. Creed grinned.

Entering the station, he wasn't the least surprised he couldn't pick the creek's or the girl's scent anywhere but at the counter. She had bought a ticket out, that much was certain. He studied the timetables. The earliest coach she could have got to Newark had left at 7.40am and would reach her goal the next day, late at night. Still the starting hour had been very late... would she have risked it? On the other hand, a coach heading for New York had left at 3am, and would reach the big city the next day early in the evening. It would be faster to get from there to Newark than if she caught the other bus. But would she think of it?

Creed shook his head, trying to think. The crowds were starting to get on his nerves and he wanted nothing but to rip some heads to loose some steam. He compared the two routes. The last stop in common was Nashville, and there was no way he could get there on time to meet any of the buses; so the only way out was to go after the bus for Newark, which had left later. If she wasn't onboard, then he'd go straight to New York City and wait for the double-crossing frail.

Now he just needed some wheels.

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