14 Years Ago - Cooper City, Yukon

It apparently was true that once your luck turned shitty, it never let up.

Logan’s truck had barely made it here, the transmission making noises suggesting that it was a few hours away from death, and he knew he didn’t have the money to fix it. He didn’t have the money to buy another truck either, which was his only other alternative, because you weren’t going anywhere without a transmission. He figured he could get some under the table pipeline work - dirty, hard, but it paid reasonably well for an off the books venture - only to find that all that work had been shut down. It seemed some asshole had fucked up and caused an accident (there was some property damage, but no one was hurt too badly), which made the company and the government do an audit of business practices along the pipeline. Meaning no more off the book work, at least for now. So he was well and truly fucked.

What were you supposed to do for money when you had no official identity whatsoever? He could make up names as much as he liked, but he had no way to prove it to anyone. You could get good fake i.d.’s, but they were extremely expensive, and he hated dealing with those black market assholes. And he usually didn’t have the money to waste anyway.

Like now. He had thirty five dollars to his name, he was in the Yukon with a dying truck, and autumn was about to give way to winter. He didn’t want to get stuck in the Yukon for winter, not this far up North, as he’d never get out, probably not until spring, and he didn’t like getting caught anywhere for an extended length of time. He hadn’t quite figured out what he was running from yet, but it kept itching at the back of his mind, and it only got worse the longer he stayed in one place. He got this feeling not unlike panic when he thought about lingering in a place for a while. During that blizzard that shut down the pass, he spent a week at a motel (the truck was just too fucking cold even for him), and by the end he was crazed with paranoia. He kept expecting faceless men in dark suits to burst through the door and shoot him down somehow, paralyze him and carry him off, perhaps entomb him in that water that tasted of blood and chemicals, cut him open like a frog in a science class.

Who were they? What had they done to him? Why was he so fucking scared all the time? Hell, what the fuck was his full name? Who was he, and why did they think they had to do that to him? What had he done?

Some part of him figured he’d been a criminal, but what could he have done that was so bad that they thought they could treat him like that? (Whoever “they” were.) Maybe he was better off not knowing. But ignorance wasn’t stopping the nightmares.

That’s why he was in this sad bar, nursing a beer that tasted vaguely of piss, as bad country music played faintly in the background from a jukebox in the back, near a couple of truckers playing a bad game of eight ball on the only pool table. There was a small t.v. on over the bar, but the reception was poor, and the football game on it was a jumbled collection of disembodied heads and legs. Logan found himself eating all the beer nuts in the bowl on the bar, which was funny since he didn’t like beer nuts. But he was tired and hungry - when did he last eat? Must have been yesterday sometime, but he couldn’t remember. He’d been without sleep for a while, and things were starting to blur together into an unrecognizable smear. He was probably going to have to give in and sleep; there was always a time when he had to give up.

What the fuck was he going to do? He couldn’t be stuck here over the winter. But where was he supposed to find the cash to do anything?

He found himself crushing peanuts with the bottom of his beer mug, when the door slapped open, pushed by the gusting wind (it had been gusting and then dying for absolutely no reason all day), and an arguing couple came in. People arguing was nothing new, it seemed to be a hobby in this part of Canada, but the fact that one of them was a woman was new. He hadn’t seen a woman all day; there probably weren’t many in this place, which was just a glorified pit stop along the Alaskan Highway.

The woman was nothing special, kind of mousy with a windburned face and stringy hair, and her partner was no looker either, a pudgy guy who carried his arms like a gorilla, elbows bowed out. The guy had probably boxed at some time in his life; he rolled his shoulders when he walked, just like a fighter.

Even the bartender didn’t look up as they came in shouting, so he figured they were locals known for their arguments. He went back to crushing peanuts and feeling sorry for himself, wondering what he was going to do.

He was snapped out of his reverie by the harsh sound of flesh on flesh. He snapped his head around in time to see the woman sagging against the wall, grabbing her face, as the guy continued to shout at her. Again there was no surprise on anyone’s behalf, suggesting this was just part of the regular show.

But the guy’s shouting was really grating on his nerves, and he hated to see anyone get beat on for no reason, especially a woman.  He gulped down most of his beer and slid off his stool, nearing the happy couple as he grabbed her by the hair and threatened to slap some sense into her.  He smacked the guy in the back of the head, just a slap, just enough to get his attention.

He turned slowly, muscles bunching in his forearms as his hands curled into fists. “Didn’t anyone ever teach ya to pick on people your own size?” Logan asked, taking a step back to give them room.

“Stay the fuck outta this,” the guy snarled, upper lip curling.

But Logan had decided he really didn’t like this guy’s ugly mug, his little piggy eyes, and his smell, which was just this side of rendered hog fat left behind a radiator. Also, he was having a really shitty week, and he felt like taking it out on something. “No.” Looks like it was this guy’s shitty week now.

He threw a punch, but Logan saw it coming the instant he decided to move; it was almost funny. He decided to dodge the punch, which he did easily, and decided he didn’t want this fight to end so quickly. He kicked the guy's leg out from under him as he stumbled in the wake of the missed punch, and then gave his back a shove, sending him belly flopping onto the nearest table.  A table leg snapped under his sudden weight, and they both went tumbling down.

Logan chuckled to himself, feeling better already. “I’m not sure they make dance partners small enough for you.”

“Take it outside!” the bartender snapped.

“Leave Frank the fuck alone,” one of the peanut gallery said, trying to nail him from behind. But he felt his heavy footsteps, and Logan turned as he charged, catching his punch as he threw it, twisting his arm around and under until something cracked. The guy’s eyes went so wide he thought they might fall out.

Someone grabbed him from behind, so he let the guy go and shot his head back hard, his skull connecting violently with some man’s teeth. He felt pieces of them hit him, blood splatter the back of his neck as the guy cursed like he had a mouthful of mashed potatoes. “Sumabeeh!”

As the guy with broken teeth reeled away, Frank - as that must have been the guy with the startlingly good manners - sucker punched Logan right in the kidneys, not even facing him for the hit. Fucking coward! That, and it sent a sharp pain knifing through his body, enough that he knew he’d pass blood the next time he took a leak, and that really pissed him off. His reaction was all reflex, a sharp elbow that caught Frank in the breadbasket, and as he doubled over, Logan spun and punched him right in the face, landing a solid shot to the eye. He pulled it out of reflex, not because he wanted to, so he didn't shatter the guy's eye socket, but that sucker would probably swell shut in no time flat. Frank reeled back and fell into one of the truckers, who was either trying to stop the fight or get in on it (too early to tell, really).

The other trucker had no reservations. He smashed the pool cue over his head, which Logan realized when it snapped in half and tumbled to the ground in front of him. He'd barely felt the hit, but then again, metal skull - it would take something with a lot more heft to really make a dent.

He turned, giving him the evil eye, and the trucker backed up a step, realizing belatedly he'd made a big mistake. He made to hit him with the rest of the cue, but Logan ripped it out of his hand, and held up the jagged end. "Wanna see where this will fit?"

"I said take it the fuck outside!" the bartender bellowed, punctuating this by throwing an empty glass on the floor. The shatter made them all look at him, and the double barreled shotgun he'd now pulled out from beneath the counter. He swiveled the aim between all of them, and added, "I mean it! Now!"

Logan smirked and shook his head, figuring he'd gotten his entertainment. He tossed the broken pool cue away, and started shoving his way through guys to the door. Some looked at him stunned, while others took a step back, eyes wide in shock. He didn't need to be a mind reader to know what they were thinking: "Why isn't he hurt?" It was a pretty debilitating shot to the kidneys, even if you didn't count the thing with the pool cue. But the pain from the kidney shot had faded away in a flush of heat. Oh, he'd still piss blood once, but it was over. Things like that just didn't stick.

(Is that what those people had done to him? They put metal in his body, and gave him the ability to heal from anything? Was he some kind of medical experiment?)

At the door, he turned and looked back at the great unwashed crowd. "C'mon, you pansies, what're you waitin' for? I'm just gettin' warmed up."

Frank was conscious yet dazed, but seemed to have no desire to get up off the floor. And if he wasn't going to press it, this fight was over.

Too bad. He hadn't even shown them his knives yet.

There was no place else to drink in this town, so he went to the general store and blew some cash on a six pack and a pre-made sandwich, figuring he could use the fuel. He went back to his truck, parked in the lot behind the town's only garage, and sat in the back, eating his food and reading a book he'd actually found in the garbage behind a bar in Edmonton. Who the hell threw away a book? Yeah, it was just a mass market paperback, but seriously, that was just ... well, he didn't know what, exactly, but it was just as bad if not worse than beating up rednecks for sport.

Although he'd have sworn he'd never seen this book before - it was a crime thriller type novel - it seemed familiar once he started reading it, almost like deja vu. Had he read it before, or was it just so true to its genre it seemed familiar? Not that Elmore Leonard was bad or all that stereotypical, it was just that the inexplicable sense of deja vu bugged the shit out of him. He could remember next to nothing about himself ... but he remembered a book? Seemed unfair somehow. He finished off the sandwich in four bites, confirming that he was indeed starving. He should try and keep better track of things like that.

It was a frigid day, it had never gotten out of the high single digits, which was unusual for this time of year in the Yukon no matter what people generally thought. It did warm up here from time to time, and when it did, those typically snowy wastelands became postcard pretty verdant fields and wildflower covered meadows. It almost seemed like a different country.

But now the meadows were dormant, died down for the inevitable frost, and even in the back of his truck he could see his breath in billowy white clouds. His lantern gave off some heat as well as light, but he'd already taken to shrugging a blanket on his shoulders, his heavy army surplus one that was a bit scratchy but very warm. He didn't look forward to sleeping out here when the temperatures hit the lower single digits, or dipped into the negatives. Oh, he'd done it before, he'd had worse (he could still remember waking up in the snow, so cold that metal had actually frozen to his skin ... but he didn't get frostbite. He was so cold he felt like he wanted to die, but his body still wouldn't allow him to stay dead), but he didn't like it. It always seemed to bring up bad memories, discomfort factor aside.

He was on his second beer when he heard noise out in the parking lot.

The garage was closed for the weekend, so there was no way it could be them. The guys from the bar track him down for round two? Fine. Some action would warm him up anyways.

He peeked through the curtain dividing the front from the back, and saw a man he'd never seen before near the front of the cab, attempting to peer in through the window. Or, wait, had he seen him before?

He realized there was a man at the bar who'd shown no interest in the fight. He'd been sitting at a back table, swathed in shadows, watching the fray but never getting involved. This was him.

Logan popped the back door open and got out, figuring surprised was ruined, but now they were on equal ground. (Well, for a millisecond.) He slammed the door and went towards the front, saying, "You wanna throw down? Fine, but let's do it away from my -"

There was a second man. He'd been standing near the garage, but now he took a step forward, hands buried deep in the pockets of his tweed Burberry overcoat, trying hard to look like he wasn't freezing his nuts off. His mind instantly started analyzing the pockets, trying to figure out if he was hiding a gun, but another part of his mind emphasized the coat - a Burberry coat! Who the fuck even owned one of those in an armpit like Cooper City?!

He was also older then most of the rednecks, in his late forties with neatly comb grey-white hair, like a fall of snow on his scalp. It made him look more dignified than old. "We're not here to fight," the man said, and he had a clipped, dignified accent. Not British, but not Canadian either; still, somewhere in the colonial group.

The quiet man from the bar stood by the cab of his truck, but hadn't made a hostile move. Something about him just screamed "lackey". He looked between them warily, and asked, "What're you here for then?"

The man smiled, but there was something very clinical about it, designed to be reassuring by focus groups. "We're here to offer you a job."

****

“ - and so that’s when I decided to go ahead and fuck the whole soccer team,” Helga said.

Logan started, and almost looked at the cell phone. “What?”

“See, I knew that’d get you back. Where’d you go?”

“I didn’t go anywhere. When’d you fuck a soccer team?” Xander had come back from calling hospitals at that moment, but upon hearing that he turned smoothly and walked away before he could come in the door. Cute.

Helga sighed impatiently. “I didn’t. I was trying to get you back from lala land, or wherever you floated off to.”

This was starting to get really irritating. “I’ve been here, Hel. I haven’t gone anywhere.”

“Uh huh. So what did I say before I mentioned fucking the team?”

He did his best to remember, and found himself at a loss. Damn it. “Fine, okay, I was thinking about something.”

“I’ll say you were. And judging from how testy you sound, it wasn’t a happy thought either. You do have happy thoughts, right?”

“Very funny. So where does this Matador or his men hang out?”

“I dunno.” He heard her cover the phone, and say, “Thrak - where do Matador or his goons hang out?”

“Why are you asking him?”

“He’s a cab driver, remember?” she hissed.

Yeah, he was, but he was a demon cab driver. He didn’t do Humans, did he? Some of them might notice that their diver was a pile of slime, unless they were very drunk. But then again, it was L.A. - it was quite possible that people were so jaded they might never notice or care.

After a moment of slightly obscene gargling, Hel got back on the line. “Okay, he says your best bet is Gaucho’s on the East Side. Anybody on the Human gangster circuit makes an appearance there eventually, although he says as far as he knows the Matador’s never been there.”

“But his men have?”

“Oh yeah. They have an illegal cockfighting ring in the basement.”

Cockfighting? Jesus, these guys were fucking princes. ”PETA hasn’t been informed?” he replied sarcastically.

“Unless Pamela Anderson can bludgeon all of them into submission with her tits, I think they’re going to get their asses stomped into compost if they are.”

That would almost be worth the price of admission. He rubbed his eyes and sighed, deciding on a rudimentary but surely effective plan. “Okay, thanks, I owe ya.”

“You owe me more than one. You owe me some midnight skinny dipping, breakfast - which you are cooking - and a late night involving dinner, drinks, and handcuffs.”

He shook his head and sighed, but he couldn’t but smile in spite of everything. “And what if Bob comes back?”

“You can cook him breakfast too.”

He should have guessed that. “Thanks for the info. I’ll get back to you.”

“Damn right you will. Don’t get your fool ass killed.”

“I’ll try not to,” he assured her, cutting the connection. He shoved the phone back in his pocket and collected the personal letters on the bed, dumping them back in the drawer en masse. There was no mention of the Matador or anything even remotely connected to him, nor was there much mention of Esmerelda. If Berto was involved with the Matador, he wouldn’t tell his mother anyways, so this was a waste of time.

Could Berto have been working for the Matador? He considered how well built he was, muscular, and he knew it was possible. Xander said he was a nice guy - “Padre” - but Logan knew almost better than anyone that you couldn’t take people at face value. Who didn’t have some awful, dark secret in their past? Xander probably had one; he probably had one that none of his “Scooby gang” friends knew about. No matter how close you were to someone, did you ever really know them?

Maybe if you were a telepath. But even then, that was doubtful. Xavier liked to think he knew him, but Logan honestly thought that he didn’t, that his mind was such a scary place that he wasn’t even close. Not that he blamed him. There were times when Logan didn’t want to know himself either.

He found Xander perched uncomfortably on the edge of the loveseat, working on his beer. When he emerged into the living room, he fixed him with a skeptical look. “You know someone who fucked a soccer team?”

“No, she just said that to get my attention.”

He scoffed. “What, ‘Hey you’ was too routine?”

He couldn’t help but smirk. “Prob’ly. She ain’t a routine kinda gal.”

“So … I guess asking for her number will just lead to hideous disappointment?”

He shrugged. “She doesn’t really go out with Humans.”

“She a demon?”

“Yep. She’s Maximum Bob’s girlfriend, Helga, a Stansin demon.”

He considered that, scratching his head as he thought. “Stansin … not ringing a bell. They’re not big bugs, are they?”

“Bugs? Hardly. They’re Humanoids, strong, but generally peaceful. Although the female of the species is far more lethal than the male.”

“Isn’t that always the case?” he replied, with a big stupid grin. As soon as his joke fell flat, he sighed and stood, his shoulders never straightening. “The hospitals were no help at all. But I bet you knew that already.”

“I guessed. But I have a lead I can follow.”

“Great, what are we doing?”

He fixed him with a hard stare. “I said I, as in me. You’re not in on this.”

Xander met his glare with one of his own. “He’s my friend, not yours.”

“Yeah, but what I gotta do I gotta do alone. “

He shook his head slowly. “No, I’m not being left out of this. I’m seeing this through.”

“You can’t do this. Well, you can, but only if you have a death wish.”

He got a stubborn look on his face that made him look ten years younger. “So what is this grand plan of yours?”

How much of this should he tell him? He hadn’t done anything yet to prove he couldn’t take it, so maybe he should just give him the benefit of the doubt. “Matador’s a coyote, a Human trafficker who’s worse than most of ‘em, but I have no bead on where I can find him. So I’m gonna go where his men are and introduce myself.”

The influx of information left him looking a little stunned as he chewed it all over. He could see questions in his eyes (eye), but he seemed to realize now was not the time to ask, or perhaps he decided he really didn’t want to know that badly. “Which means what exactly?”

Logan didn’t mean to smirk, but he couldn’t help it. It was just too funny. “Which means by tonight, I’m gonna be tops on the Matador’s personal most wanted list.”

It was just basic reasoning. If you couldn’t find the guy, make him find you. And if you had a little fun while doing it, it was just a bonus.

5

Something was wrong with Angel.

It was the weirdest thing. Bren was sure his guilt and anxiety showed on his face, so he was trying very hard to maintain a Saddiq expression (which was the best poker face in the universe - the guy gave you absolutely nothing to work with most of the time), all the time mentally rehearsing what he was going to say to Angel in his head. And he had to talk to Angel; he couldn’t talk to Giles about this. Oh sure, he was a really nice guy (and really not bad looking for an older dude; certainly his accent was kind of sexy), but he couldn’t imagine sitting him down and saying: “So, you remember that good looking vampire I met at Syn, the one who turned us towards Silver Sun? I think he’s somebody’s pawn, meant to keep tabs on me, so I’ve been fucking him, but lately his M.O. has changed. What do you think about playing along and meeting him?”

He could just imagine the look Giles would give him. Apoplectic probably didn’t begin to cover it.

Not that Angel would be thrilled - in fact, he expected to get an angry lecture - but Angel was generally more forgiving of transgressions. (Although calling this a transgression was probably a bit of a stretch.) The more he thought about this, though, the stupider it sounded. What the fuck did he think he was doing? This thing with Kier could only end badly and horribly, and he was basically becoming the cold blooded bastard that he thought other demons were. But maybe Angel could help him there too - he’d done questionable things in his life; if anyone could understand, it would be him. If he wanted to slap some sense into him, he wouldn’t have minded. After all, Angel had at least one free hit coming, since Bren had punched him after his mother died. (A discussion he kept putting off. And here was another reason to put it off even longer.)

He got to the office first, to find the phone ringing. It turned out that they actually had a potential client coming in this afternoon, a guy who felt he was being stalked by some kind of actual ghoul. Either he was completely nuts - a possibility they couldn’t discount until they met him and heard his story - or they had someone whose check would keep them in coffee and jelly doughnuts for another two weeks. Either way, it gave them something to do.

Giles was the next person to show up, with Naomi in tow. “ - very impressive,” Giles said as he came in the door. He was carrying a quiver of big arrows, and she was carrying a long bow that wouldn’t have been out of place at a Renfest. Apparently they’d been out at some kind of range - did a shooting range let you bring arrows? - where Naomi was showing him her ability with a long bow. Apparently she was very good, which would be great when they were up against the Sheriff of Nottingham’s men.

They chatted happily amongst themselves while getting tea (they both preferred tea to coffee), and Bren noticed Naomi had dyed her hair a new color. She’d been experimenting with temporary rinses for the last couple of weeks, and today she chose bright green highlights, the color of a Slime demon’s blood. Still, it looked good on her, even if she was technically a bit old for such a thing. (Not that he’d ever say that; he didn’t relish getting electrocuted.)

Finally they noticed he was at the desk, and as soon as they acknowledged his presence, he told them about the guy coming in this afternoon. They listened, and once he was done, Giles asked, “What type of ghoul? Did he specify?”

Bren just stared at him. “Yes, he said it was a Romanian Krisjuk. No, he didn’t specify; he’s just freaked out. He could be bugfuck for all we know. I figured it was best if we got him in here and sized up his sanity.”

Giles frowned at him, probably for the use of language, but nodded sagely. “Seems the best idea.”

Naomi put her longbow back behind the sofa, and said, “Even if he’s nuts, we can sprinkle some sage around, say something in pig Latin, and tell him its gone. It’ll give him peace of mind, and we’ll get cab fare home.”

“Naomi,” Giles said warningly.

“What? Come on, I’m not talking about fleecing the guy. What’s the price of peace of mind?”

It was a good defense, but he didn’t think Giles would buy it.

Before the conversation could get more interesting, Angel came in, but he barely acknowledged anybody before heading straight back into his private office and shutting the door. Naomi stared at the door. “Well, hello to you too, Mister Sunshine.”

He stomped by so fast it was impossible to get a good look at him, but Bren had that damn eidetic memory; he could slow down, rewind, and fast forward the memory as much as he wanted, examine it from all angles. And in replaying the memory, he could see Angel had a patina of sweat glistening on his forehead. Since when did vampires sweat? He didn’t know that they couldn’t, but he’d never seen it before, and he honestly thought he would have. Temperature didn’t mean anything to them, right? So wouldn’t sweat go the way of their circulatory system?

It was a minor detail, something that probably didn’t mean anything, but it bugged him. Something was up with Angel, and frankly, that wasn’t good. It wasn’t just that he was their boss, because that was kind of not true - they were a team, and he figured Angel would admit as much. The problem was, Angel was the most lethal of all of them. If something was going bad with him, they could all be in so much serious fucking trouble it wouldn’t be remotely funny.

Somebody was going to have to bite the bullet here. And he was the only demon in the room, the one with the unpalatable blood and the unbreakable neck. He supposed this meant it fell to him, whether he liked it or not. “I’ll bring him some coffee,” he said, getting up and heading for the coffeemaker.

So maybe his problem with Kier was put on hold now. Unless, of course, there was a connection.

Wait a minute - was there?

*****

It was too early in the day for Gaucho’s to be full, but there was actually a good sized crowd in the place. Not that it made any difference to Logan.

A bouncer tried to stop him from going downstairs, so he put his head through the wall and continued on. Another two guys setting up the cockfighting pit in the basement attacked him, and he took them down easily, punching one guy in the face so hard he instantly broke his nose and cheekbone, and the other he scared shitless by putting his claws through the fleshy part of his side, a wound that bled a lot but wasn’t even remotely serious. “Get the fuck out if you don’t wanna die,” he growled at him, showing him the claws still dripping with his own blood. The man tried to say something, but he seemed to forget how to speak. Then he ran for the stairs, tromping up them two at a time.

Logan had taken down a wall and broken through all the cages (there were no chickens here yet, but the place reeked of chicken shit and blood - must have been a bout last night) by the time a large posse of big men with even bigger guns showed up.

Finally. If this was the response time of all the Matador’s men, how did he ever get to be such a big noise?