*****

Logan went to a Hispanic bar and nursed a beer for a long while, listening to bad Mexican pop music and enduring the stares of men who resented the weird looking gringo taking up room in their space. Only when he started to get hateful glares of recognition did he feel he had accomplished what he set out to do, and loitered an extra fifteen minutes before leaving. No one followed him, which was deeply disappointing, so he stopped at one of those semi-legal taqueria trailers that popped up from time to time and bought a steak torta (basically a sandwich) and ate it sitting on one of the picnic like outdoor benches it had set up in the gravel lot it currently inhabited, under the shade of a brightly striped parasol. These places weren’t always known for their cleanliness, and even though this place seemed clean enough, he never had to think about it; he never had to worry about food poisoning. All the upset stomachs he’d ever had were psychological or emotional, not physica! l (unless he got a bullet or stab wound in the gut). He could probably eat raw botulism and be just fine, which was frankly a little nauseating to think about. But at least it really opened up his food choice options, so when he was desperate, he didn’t have to be that picky.

It wasn’t a bad sandwich, but while he got a few evil looks, no one seemed to come looking for him. How poorly manned was the Matador? So far, he wasn’t impressing him. If you were going to be a city controlling evil bastard, you needed to have more men on the beat. What the hell was he playing at? Was it his day at the spa or something?

With time on his hands, he began thinking about what had happened to Angel. He still didn’t get a lot of it, but that whole blood thing really bugged him. It wasn’t like Angel gave to the Red Cross - who the hell could get his blood? Angel didn’t give out free samples.

The funny thing was, it was a kid walking past in a loose Rams jersey that brought on the epiphany. It was so hot, the heat rising off the pavement, that a vee of sweat stuck it to him, and the kid had pulled it away from himself and waved it, letting in air circulation. Holy shit, he knew how they - whoever they were, although now he thought he knew - got the blood. They were probably the people behind all of this as well. Giles would probably come to the same conclusion, but he was playing catch up since he’d inadvertently donated some blood himself.

He gulped down the rest of his pineapple soda, and decided this was probably best dealt with solo.

*****

As luck would have it, he caught a glimpse of a hideously ugly cab, colored a type of blue-green that just screamed “toxic algae”, and he flagged it down, to find a familiar pile of slime behind the wheel. He told Thrak where he wanted to go, and even though they both knew he couldn’t speak his native tongue (did they have tongues?), Thrak gargled something at him that he guessed to be a statement questioning his wisdom. “I’m cool, don’t worry,” he assured him. He had no idea if he believed him or not - he had no expression to read - but he made a small gurgling noise (maybe he burped), and cranked up both the AC and the James Brown.

He drove like a complete fucking maniac, like he always did, but he got him to Wolfram and Hart’s new digs in record time, like he expected. The towering skyscraper of glass and steel looked exactly like the old Wolfram and Hart, right down to the huge stone sign out front, on an artificially green patch of grass. It was the only green grass in view.

Logan just walked in casually, leaving the humid, smog choked outside for the cool, sterile air of the inner lobby. It was made of huge slabs of Italian marble and polished mahogany, all luxury and wealth, reeking of power like a fresh lemon scent. He wondered idly if they still remembered him.

He had a single second to think this. Then the blond, beefy man behind the security desk stood up, his face stark with fear that he was trying to hide (poorly). “S-sir, you have to sign in,” he said, giving off a sharp scent of anxiety. Oh yeah, he knew who he was.

“No I don’t,” he replied, walking past his desk. He was within twenty feet of the bank of elevators at the back when the doors all opened - elevators and emergency fire doors alike - and over a dozen men clad in midnight black body armor, carrying full bore automatic rifles, suddenly formed a Human wall between him and the lifts. “Freeze Wolverine,” the leader of the squadron snapped, in clipped, militaristic tones, staring down at him through the barrel of his rifle. “These are high velocity rifles full of explosive shells - we will keep your healing factor occupied for a long time. Now turn around and walk away.”

He couldn’t help but smirk. These big, tough men were just as rife with anxiety as the rent-a-cop behind the desk. What did Wolfram and Hart have about him on their shit list? “No. Go on, shoot me - I ain’t alone, but my friend only comes out when I’m hurt. So come on, this’ll be a laugh.”

“As threats go, that’s very oblique,” a man said, his voice wry. He seemed to materialize out of nowhere, just beyond the ring of nervous soldiers, and Logan felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck. He was a Korean man in a grey tailored suit, just slightly translucent at the edges. Ghost? Definitely.

“Not really,” he explained to ghost lawyer. He might have been the only dead one in the lobby at the moment, but he was undeniable the guy in charge. Even if he got through the soldiers - and Logan had to admit to himself it was impossible to get them all before he took enough shells to take him down - what could he do to hurt a ghost? “You haven’t done all your homework. I’m Bob’s avatar, and he gave me a little present, just for situations like this.” He wasn’t admitting he was technically gone from this plane, as he didn’t want to give them hope.

Even though he was a ghost, his posture briefly stiffened, and the anxiety level of the soldiers jumped. They all got it - Bob, the sole member of Wolfram and Hart’s “do not engage” list according to Angel. He was not to be pissed off; he was to be personally avoided at all costs. Of course it never said why, but that was one of the things that led Angel to grudgingly accept Bob’s god status, simply because there could be no other reason why Wolfram and Hart would fear him. As a general rule, they didn’t fear anything. “A Human can’t be an avatar,” the ghost said.

Logan snorted disparagingly. Nope, they hadn’t done all their homework. “Normal Human. Healing factor, remember?” He reached out and grabbed the barrel of the nearest rifle, too fast for the soldier to react, and walked straight into it, putting the barrel flush against the hollow of his throat. “Shoot,” he growled. “Let me prove it to ya.” The soldier’s fear reek jumped up into the skunk scent stratosphere, but he kept his finger slack on the trigger. He was just waiting for the order to fire, like a good little boy. He figured they either thought he was completely insane, or telling the truth, and which one was worse?

After a long, tense moment, ghost lawyer asked, “What is it you hope to accomplish here, Wolverine?”

Capitulation - there it was. They probably didn’t know what to do with him at the moment. “I just wanna talk to someone, someone higher up. We can do this nice, or I can shred my way there. Or, better yet, I’ll just let Bob handle it. What d’ya think he’ll do?”

He didn’t respond to that, but he didn’t expect him to. After another moment, the ghost ordered, “Stand down.” Reluctantly, the soldiers lowered their weapons and pointed them down at the floor, but when the soldier whose barrel he grabbed started to lower his, he popped his claws and slashed through it, sending the barrel and the explosive ammo clattering to the floor. The soldier jumped back as if shocked, and Logan snarled at him. “Don’t ever aim a gun barrel in my face again, or I’ll make you eat it. Got me?”

Ghost lawyer sighed. “If you’re done scaring the help, follow me.”

The soldiers all moved off to one side, still tense and fearful, as the lawyer walked straight through a set of elevator doors before they opened. Logan waited for them to open before he followed him, but he had briefly considered cutting his way inside, just to show he could be a smart ass too.

They rode the elevator in silence, although Logan just had to ask, “They employ ghosts?”

The man sighed, as if tired of answering the question. “Not as a rule, but I was killed while still under contract.”

“Oh.” That really didn’t make sense, did it? “How’d you die?”

The ghost scowled at him. What, was that a rude thing to ask a ghost? The elevator stopped on the twentieth floor, and the ghost was moving before the doors even opened. “Zombies,” he said, disappearing through the mirror finished metal.

Well that was no answer at all. The bastard probably knew that too.

The twentieth floor looked like the genial office level, with secretaries behind oak desks and potted plants giving a suggestion of life on a floor air conditioned to within refrigerator status, the air reeking of toner and coffee. Several secretaries gave no attention to the ghost at all, but stared at him like he was a three headed freak. He felt like giving them all the finger, but settled for an evil glare.

Ghost lawyer stopped in front of a pair of wide oak doors, where the secretarial desk out front was currently unoccupied. He stood off to one side and gestured at the doors. “I’m sure you can take it from here.”

Logan raised an eyebrow at that, wondering what kind of surprise they had waiting for him behind the doors, and went on ahead. “So, do I tip you?” He asked sarcastically, ducking inside before he could answer.

He entered a huge office with a nice view, the carpet a dark, professional navy blue and all the wooden surfaces polished to a high gloss. Behind the imposing slab of a desk, a woman stood up and said, in a casual, lilting tone, “So, you’re the fearsome Wolverine I’ve heard so much about? Funny - you really don’t look that intimidating in person.” She came out from behind the desk, holding out her hand. “I’m Kaya Sagawa, Extra-Human Affairs Division.”

She was a slim, petite Japanese woman with fine features, deep set black eyes, and shoulder length black hair as sleek and shiny as oil, wearing a dark blue designer suit with a skirt a bit shorter than you might see on a regular lawyer (except perhaps on television). She looked maybe twenty five, tops, but he knew you couldn’t take appearances on faith, especially in a place like this. “Extra-Human Affairs? Is that code for mutants or demons?”

“Divisions are so arbitrary,” she replied cryptically, giving him a professional smile showing off gleaming white teeth that must have been the pride of her dentist.

He pointedly looked down at her extended hand, then looked back up at her, not even trying to take it. She took the deliberate snub well, using the hand to smooth down her skirt before pivoting smoothly on her high heels and walking back to her desk. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Cut the shit,” he snapped. “This isn’t a social call. I wanna know what the fuck you think you’re doing to Angel.”

She paused briefly before she sat down, her brow furrowing in confusion. “Um, I beg your pardon?”

He crossed his arms over his chest and glowered down at her, refusing to take a seat and see her on even terms. “Don’t fuck with me, sister. I don’t care what psychological ploy you people are using - it ain’t gonna work on me.”

“Psychological ploy?” She repeated, looking up at him with a smile that verged on predatory. Something sly sparkled in her eyes, and he knew she was not nearly as cordial as she seemed. “Do you mean sending you to meet with a woman, since you’re rather old fashioned and reluctant to hurt women?”

He increased the power of his glare. “I don’t like to hurt ‘em, but I can if I hafta. I’m sure you’ve seen that for yourself.”

Her smile stayed firmly affixed to her face, and it seemed to be a concealed laugh. “Oh yes, the Liberty Island tapes. But we all have weakness, Logan, and we do know yours. Can I call you Logan?”

“No.”

She let out a short, sharp laugh. “Oh, I do like you. I like a challenge.”

He approached her desk, and slammed a hand down on it, hard enough to make her laptop shudder. He hadn’t popped his claws, but he left his palm down on the surface, knuckles facing her, a tacit message that when they came out, he was going to shove them right in her face. “You have five seconds to tell me what you’re doing to Angel, or I start trashing your office. This desk is worth what, a couple thousand?”

“More, actually; it’s hand carved. And I assure you you’re mistaken, Lo - Wolverine. We’re not doing anything to Angel. He’s not on our agenda right now.”

He slammed his hand down once more, and this time her confidence slid a bit, as she subtly shoved back from the desk. “Bullshit! You have his blood, don’t you? You have a sample.”

Her smile slipped, and what looked like genuine confusion clouded her eyes. “Of course we do. When he was the CEO of Wolfram and Hart, a blood sample was taken to key certain security scanners to his DNA.”

“And he believed that shit?”

She shrugged. “Probably not, but he did allow us to take the sample.”

“And you’re using it how?”

She looked directly at him and shook her head. “We’re not using it at all. It’s in cold storage.”

If she was lying he couldn’t smell it, but this was Wolfram and Hart - it was possible they just had lawyers so pathological that they didn’t know the difference between a lie and the truth themselves. “That’s bullshit and you know it,” he growled.

Her confusion continued, and it seemed genuine. “I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.” She reached for her telephone receiver, and pressed a button for an internal department. After a moment, she said, “Kovacs, bring Angel’s blood sample up to my office.” She didn’t seem to wait for a response, just put the receiver down.

“You know I’ll know if it’s his or not,” he pointed out.

“I’m counting on it,” she replied, her smile returning. Was she supposed to look like Mariko, was that it? He hated to tell her, but she didn’t; she looked more like an adult version of Go-Go Yubari from Kill Bill than she looked like his Mariko. But maybe that was deliberate too.

Her phone buzzed, and that seemed to throw her off her game momentarily, as she scowled at the receiver before picking it up. “Sagawa.” Her pause was brief, and her frown a deep and terrible one. “What the hell do you mean it’s missing? It can’t be missing.“ Her annoyance seemed genuine. “When was it last logged in?”

“If this is a ploy -”

“Oh please,” she interrupted, all her false amiability gone. “Those incompetent pieces of shit in the -” she moved the receiver back towards her mouth. “Friday? You mean it’s been missing for four days, and this is the first we’ve heard of it?” Her dark eyes blazed with rage, and he knew that she must have been a royal terror when she wasn’t pretending to be an accommodating hostess. How else would she have gotten so far in this company? “Institute a lockdown - yes, right now! No one leaves until we have the lab inspected. If somebody breached our security, we need to know who and how yesterday. Alert security, I’ll be right down.” She slammed the receiver down with more gusto than before, and cursed under her breath, “Fucking assholes. They’d lose their souls if they had them.”

“Do all the same people work in the lab all the time?” The look she gave him was one of pure short-tempered annoyance, so he attempted to phrase the question better. “Are the guys working today the same ones who work there on Saturday and Sunday?”

Her brow smoothed as she finally understood what he was getting at. “Yes. Why?”

“If one of ‘em took it, I’ll know.”

She stood up, looking him in the eye the whole time. “Really? Dare I ask how you can do that?”

He shrugged. “Ask if you want; I ain’t tellin‘.”

Again that smile, slightly hard, slightly sharp, given an odd sensual aspect by her brick red painted lips. “Of course, I should have known.”

He had what seemed like a bright idea. “But if this is real, and I do this, I want something in return.”

She gazed up at him from dark lashes strategically lowered, and he knew she put a deliberately sexual intent into her reply. “Whatever could you want, Wolverine?”

He felt like backhanding her across the face. Did she think he was this dumb, or this easily manipulated? He forced himself to grit his teeth on the anger, at least for now - she might mistake it for lust. “I want all the intel you have on the Matador.”

That request seemed to stun her, and threw her out of character for a moment. “The Matador? Do you mean the coyote?”

He knew that in theory he should be shocked that they knew who he was, but he wasn’t, because they were evil fucking bastards. Actually, not just evil fucking bastards, but the kings of that particular hill; of course they’d know who their potential rivals and territorial mates would be. They were a mob just like any other mob. “He a client of yours?”

She snorted disdainfully, and he felt like he was seeing the real Kaya Sagawa for the first time. “A Human trafficker? Please; he’s small potatoes. He couldn’t afford us.” She paused briefly, perhaps to give the disgust in her voice time to level out. “You find the traitorous asshole who stole Angel’s blood, and I’ll give you the fucking deed to his house.”

The funny thing was, he bet she meant it. He wasn’t a client, and he was probably, at best, an annoying Human; the Senior Partners couldn’t give a shit about him.

In the elevator up to the lab (and it was weird that they were going up, but this was a weird place), Sagawa went back to her desperately flirty persona. After staring at the side of his face for a rather long period of time (he could see her out of the corner of his eye, but he aggressively ignored her), she said, “You know, all the hair is very off putting, but when you look at your face, it really is very striking. Your eyes are very expressive.”

He glared at her. “What are they expressing now?”

She chuckled, and it seemed genuine. In fact, he could tell that the scent of her attraction to him was genuine, but that meant nothing, not now. In espionage terms, this was called a “honey trap”, and some women were quite adept at faking it. “I know you think it’s bullshit, but if you stopped trying to hide your face behind fur, you could break so many hearts.”

“I’ve broken enough.”

“I’m sure you have. But maybe you wouldn’t get your heart broken so much.”

It was a good thing the elevator stopped and she went out the doors then, because he was on the verge of decking her. All these Wolfram and Hart people, so fucking presumptuous, pretending like a dossier of information meant you actually knew a person. Would they ever learn that that wasn’t quite enough?

The plan was simple. Inside the sterile lab, she would ask the lab techs, one by one, if they knew what happened to Angel’s blood sample. Logan would remain at the back of the room, and would simply gesture to her, yes or no. The lab looked high tech but cool and sterile, lots of acrylic and Plexiglas surfaces and bleeping machines, and all ten people (seven men, three women) wore white lab coats over their clothes. Four security guards (one of whom was a type of demon he didn’t recognize) stood at the exits, as if waiting for someone to try and break the lockdown. The lab techs were so nervous the sharp scent of their fear nearly overwhelmed the smell of chemicals and ichor. Several of them looked at him in confusion, but Kaya quickly gained their attention, speaking at them in clipped, sharp tones. Oh yeah, this women was a hard, cold nightmare.

She’d been through six of the staff, and he was getting impatient. This was just another plot by Wolfram and Hart to weasel out of something, wasn’t it? How could he fall for it?

He was contemplating stabbing himself in the chest just to make the Bob energy come forth - the Senior Partners would talk to him then - when he realized he just caught the sour, grim scent of a lie.

Kaya was talking to a middle aged senior lab tech with male pattern baldness, the hair he had left a pale ginger that contrasted badly with his slightly sunburned pate, of average height and wardrobe, with a sunken chest and a slight paunch. He was probably the most harmless looking person in the room, but wasn’t that always the way?

When Kaya glanced over his shoulder at him, Logan nodded faintly, and moved quietly while Kaya kept his attention on her. She was really cold blooded - her expression didn’t change an iota. “Thank you, Doctor Meara. I realize this must come as a shock to you - ”

Logan grabbed the good doctor from behind, and held his fist in front of his face. The millisecond he struggled was quickly put to a halt when he sprung his claws, just millimeters from his face. “Listen good,” he growled in his ear. “I know you’re lying. Now you’re gonna tell me what you did with Angel’s blood, or there won’t be enough of your body left to pour into a test tube.”

The doctor wheezed, and Logan could smell the acrid scent of urine as he pissed himself in abject fear. Kaya smiled warmly and evilly, and that just seemed to increase Meara’s fear. He didn’t blame him, actually; it would probably be more merciful to kill him than leave him to Kaya’s tender mercies.

But far be it from him to interfere in the employer - employee relationship.

10

At the end of the day, it came down to the simplest thing possible: money. Doctor Meara was offered fifty thousand dollars in unmarked bills for the sample of Angel’s blood. Shortly after it was logged in on Friday, he palmed it, and took it to the man he knew as “Michael Ellis” (what - had Meara never seen that Monty Python sketch?) and they made the swap at a Starbucks on Sunset Boulevard. The guy claimed to be a sorcerer who wanted vengeance on Angelus for something he did a long time ago in Prague, and Meara knew of the general antipathy aimed at Angel in the halls of Wolfram and Hart. He thought, after Angel was dead, they’d reward him.

Kaya had to bring in some weird looking demon to get into Meara’s mind, but it turned out he was telling the truth when he was unable to describe “Michael Ellis”. The demon, who looked like a five foot skink with a severe acne problem, reported that the sorcerer had totally fucked over his mind; it was unlikely he even received the money, although he clearly thought he did. Whoever this “Michael Ellis” was, he had really played this guy, and covered all his tracks.

Which pissed Kaya off no end. “Oh, we’ll get this fucker,” she sneered. “Magic of this intensity leaves a very specific trace, like a fingerprint. If he uses his powers again, our warlock should be able to track him. And he won’t believe the shitstorm he’s just brought on himself. No one fucks with us.” They couldn’t give a shit what he was doing to Angel; this was pride. Someone got into the head of one of their men, and stole something that was completely theirs, breaching their security and making them look like total fools. They wanted their “property” back, and they wanted a pound of his living, bleeding flesh as well, preferably as limbless, quivering mass. It was weird to think that, however briefly, Wolfram and Hart were now allies. The world was such a fucking strange place it was mind boggling.

But just because they both wanted to crush the guy didn’t mean they stopped their bullshit. Kaya reverted back to the honey trap mode before he left, pointing out what a “valuable employee” he could be, and what an impressive team they made. For some reason, she didn’t take the obnoxious suggestion he made very well, although that didn’t stop her from slipping him her card. “That’s my private number,” she purred, readopting her flirty persona. “Seriously, give me a call after work sometime. We can go to the Sky Bar and I can point out who sold their soul for fame.”

He took the file she gave him on the Matador, and left.

He sat on the first bus bench he came across and read the file. It was remarkably slender, but it honestly contained all he needed to know. He'd even asked if they could find any connections between the Matador and anyone named Soto, and they had done that as well - and his hunch about Esmerelda had been right.

Esmerelda Soto was one of the "employees" of one of his sweatshops near Oakland. W & H, in their coolly dismissive way, noted they made garments for discount stores, and most of the employees were illegals paying off debts to the Matador or his people through indentured servitude. It was also noted that no one ever worked enough to get out of debt. You’d think W & H might have mentioned these sweatshops (the Matador had three, and ownership of a brothel in Baja) to someone, but clearly when it came to civilians who weren’t their clients and had no connection to any, ‘We don’t care; we don’t have to’.

So what was the story here? The Matador smuggled "Mimi" over the border, but with no money, she agreed to work off her debt, unaware that she had just agreed to be a slave for the rest of an undoubtedly short, hard life. Berto somehow got wind of this, and tried to cut a deal with the Matador - buy his sister back? That would explain the envelope and the money - but once he realized that that might not be possible, did he contemplate leaking the location of the sweatshop to authorities? It would get his sister deported, but it would get her out of the sweatshop, and out from under the Matador. And it made more sense that he wouldn't want Xander involved in that than in buying his sister's freedom.

From a man as amoral as the Matador, that would be a matter worth killing over. Hinder his profit, and die. Motherfucker.

He lived in Topanga Canyon. Logan had never been out there, and wondered if it was pretty. Now that he had locations, he had a plan that didn't depend on the blind luck of getting kidnapped. This would be a lot more satisfying than shredding his way up the ranks anyways. If a man was in love with his wallet, you ripped that wallet to shreds first, just to watch him suffer.

But first things first. He had to let Giles know what he found out, so he took out his cell and called the office. Brendan answered, and when he realized it was him, he asked in surprise, "You're done already?"

Logan scowled at the phone, but it didn't help. "No. I just thought I should give Giles a head's up. He busy?"

"Uh ... yeah. He's on the phone with some Russian woman."

Svetlana again probably. Maybe she'd translated more of the text. "Okay. I got a message for him." The wonderful thing about Bren's eidetic memory was he was the perfect biological equivalent of an answering machine. He couldn't misunderstand anything, or forget an important detail; once you said it, he had it for life. Which, in a way, was also kind of sad. As much as Logan wanted to remember things, he did sympathize with the kid when he admitted that there were so many things he would have rather forgotten - he was in that boat too.

Bren was stunned that he went to Wolfram and Hart alone, and then stunned that they had been ripped off. "Are you sure?"

"I didn't smell any lies," he said, not adding that he wasn't sure that meant anything in a place where most people sold their soul for health insurance. "And the woman that kept tryin' to seduce me was genuinely furious about it."

There was a very curious pause. "A woman was trying to seduce you? Was she hot?"

He sometimes forgot Bren was bisexual. "Yeah, I suppose, but come on - it's an obvious honey trap. I mean, how stupid do they think I am? Sleepin' with the enemy is one of the dumbest things you could do."

For some reason, the kid let out a curious half-hearted laugh, which petered out at the end. What the hell was that? "I ... uh, oh. But if you were trying to get info about them ..."

"Google it. No bait is ever gonna tell you somethin' of real value." After a curious silence, he asked, "Is there somethin' you wanna tell me?"

"No, no," he exclaimed nervously. Since they were talking on the phone, Logan couldn't smell him lying, but he knew he was all the same. What had Bren done? Oh Christ, did he want to know? It didn't matter for the moment, because he just had too much to do right now.

"Okay, look, I suggest you get someone down here to stake out Wolfram and Hart. They could get this guy from a distance, but he counted coup on them, and they're gonna want to watch him dissolve in person. They'll be sending people out, and when they do, we need to know about it. It'll be our best way to find the guy, and it's imperative to find him first, 'cause we need to know what he's doin' to Angel and how we can reverse it. Wolfram and Hart don't care; they'll just kill the guy, and leave Angel to whatever."

"Yeah, I guess ... but who can we spare? I mean, Angel's nuts, so Giles is on him, and we're getting ready for that Qutrub demon, so -"

"You have someone there that can only get in the way."

He didn't even need to explain; the kid got it. "Xander."

Logan heard Xander faintly say, "What?" in the background. "He's a civilian anyways, they probably have no idea who he is, and don't care. He could stand on their front lawn with binoculars and he'd be beneath their notice. Get him out here, tell him to call as soon as he sees what looks like a commando team move out. And if he balks, tell him it's a personal favor to me. I helped him with Berto, he helps me with this, we're even."

"Got it." He sounded relieved, glad that Logan had just given him a conversational out that Xander couldn't argue with.

"And frankly, if you can think of some way to postpone this Qutrub demon nonsense, do it. Angel's more important, especially if our evil lawyer friends are gonna whack the sorcerer behind it tonight."

Bren sighed heavily, like he was tired and unsure what to do. "Yeah, I guess." Logan knew he was probably going to leave the ultimate decision up to Giles, but he also knew that Giles would make the best decision possible. It was too bad about the guy, but if Angel remained the Master's bitch, or the Master incarnate, or whatever the fuck was happening to him, the world would be much worse off. Yeah, he took him down pretty easy in a fight, but Angel unleashed was a nightmare; he was born to kill, and after two hundred years (give or take a few), he was really good at it. Needs of the many against needs of the few, blah blah blah.

"I hope you're joining us," Bren added pointedly.

He wanted to say "Yes mother", but managed to squelch the urge. "Yeah. I just gotta thing to do, shouldn't take more than an hour, and then I'll hook up with you guys. I wanna know what he did to Angel too, and besides, you might need me."

"Might? Fuck you, cowboy, we'll definitely need you. Don't get killed."

"Yes mother," he finally said, unable to keep the smile from his voice.

"Be glad I'm not your mother," Bren replied tartly, although it sounded like he was trying hard not to laugh.

“Better believe I am, every goddamn day.“ He cut the connection, smiling to himself. Bren was a good kid, but there was something up with him. Maybe when this was all done, he’d take him out, ply him with drinks, and make him spill his guts. It usually didn’t take much.

The sun was beating down on him so hard he could feel the sweat crawling down his back, and he realized he picked a really horrible day to change into sweatpants. Oh well, couldn’t be helped at the moment. He’d probably have to get new clothes after his next stop anyways.

There was little guarantee that the Matador would be at his house, and besides, he wanted to really make him hurt before he came for him. He wanted this fucker on his knees, and since clearly money was more important to him than anything, it was time to make the Matador’s business take a sudden and irreversible nose dive. It’d also go a hell of a lot faster if he wasn’t doing it alone.

He hit a preprogrammed number on the cell, and was relieved when Helga answered. “You busy right now?”

She thought about it for a moment, while Bob’s magic jukebox was audible in the background. He was able to make out Mike Patton’s voice, at once threatening and semi-hypnotic, snarling repeatedly “The cat’s in the bag and the bag’s in the river …” a song he’d heard Bob singing before. Was Bob weighing in with a comment, or just playing songs he liked? “Not really. What you got in mind?”

“Destroying a bunch of shit in Oakland. You with me?”

“We destroying it for a reason?”

“Yeah.”

This is what he loved about Hel - she didn’t even ask for the reason; any reason was good enough. “Shit yeah, count me in. Give me a sec to grab my sledgehammer.”

“I’ll be at the bar in ten minutes. See you then.” He hung up, slipping his phone in his pants pocket, and tucking the folder about the Matador under his arm. So Helga had her own personal sledgehammer, along with her own flamethrower?

She must have had the most interesting closet in the whole wide world.

****

Truman was late returning from his business trip, but that was for the best, as Logan had more time to think about what he was going to do. Even though he wanted to storm into his office and start trashing the dump, a night of drinking and calming down (somewhat) convinced him that that wouldn’t get him the truth; all that would do would cause a fight between him and the rest of Truman’s goons. He needed to wake up and finally use his sluggish brain. Truman figured all the men who worked for him were idiot thugs who’d do anything for money. He may have seemed dumb, but he wasn’t, not really. Or at least not totally. But there was no need for Truman to know that. It was time to live down to expectations - it was time to give Truman just what he expected.

As soon as he could see him, he did. He claimed to feel that by giving him all this “babysitting” duty, he really didn’t trust him. And he added, almost as an embarrassed afterthought, that he needed more money. By burying it, treating it dismissively, he was inadvertently highlighting it, and the way Truman smiled so smugly, he knew it. As Logan continued his futile protests, he seemed just that more desperate for cash, and that was exactly what he wanted Truman to think. He took the bait and agreed to send him on a “special” job with Curly, one of Truman’s right hand men. There was a “shipment” that was supposed to be coming into port in Vancouver, but there was a “problem” (unspecified) so they were coming into port up in Alaska. He and Curly would be there to meet it, and make sure it wasn’t hijacked before it could get loaded up. Truman promised him that if he did a good job, he’d get a bonus. Logan pretended to be moderately grateful, all the time wanting to bury ! his claws in his gut, or tell him, “I fucked your wife, and she likes me better”, but he did neither. Truman was a born salesman, a born liar - he’d get no truth from him.

The truth was waiting for him in a port in Alaska. And nothing was going to stop him from finding it.