2

The man’s name was Johannes, and he didn’t identify who he was working for, but Logan guessed just from his accent that he was working with the Swiss government.

Apparently they knew all about him working for a “covert military organization”, but before Logan could point out he didn’t work for them anymore, the man himself admitted that they knew he had “signed up” with the X-Men, and assumed his “allegiances” had switched. But they weren’t happy having a man of his “reputation” in their country.

Not once did Logan take his fist off his leg. He casually sipped his beer, and told him, “I’m here helping a friend. It’s a free country. I’ll leave when I’m ready to leave.”

Johannes squirmed on his stool, but Logan kept his fist firmly in place. He didn’t think he was getting out of it that easily, did he? “At any other time I’d agree with you, but your presence now … could be a … complication.”

Those pauses were fun. He loved how not saying something could actually, ironically, say a lot. “Who killed the German agent? Do you know?”

That startled him. He straightened suddenly, and glanced out of the corner of his eye as if to make sure no one could overhear him. “Why were you there tonight?”

“I was buying a watch. Why the fuck were you guys there?”

“We weren’t. And you have to understand having you in the area at the time makes you a suspect.”

He chuckled darkly. “You gonna bluff, do better than that. Everybody knows garroting isn’t my style. I didn’t get my reputation by strangling people or cutting their throats with piano wire. Try again.”

“You are known,” he insisted. “You make people nervous. You could screw something up.”

“What? Give me a head’s up and I’ll stay out of the way.”

He shook his head, finding the courage to take a drink of his scotch. “You know it doesn’t work that way.”

“What I don’t get is why German intelligence would be interested in an antiques dealer. So it can’t be him they want, but someone else … this is a sting, isn’t it? You’re trying to net someone else.”

He just stared straight ahead, as if captivated by the glasses hanging upside down over the bar. “I wouldn’t even speculate,”

“But I will. So who are you guys after exactly? Must be a pretty big deal.”

In an effort to make him shut up about this, Johannes said, apropos of nothing, “Do you know you’re still on Interpol’s hot list as an assassin?”

He glared at him, even as he felt a nervous twinge in his stomach. No, he didn’t know that. “Shouldn’t I be listed “inactive”?”

It was Johannes turn to chuckle. “Oh yes, because Interpol’s so forgiving like that. You do know what gets most assassins listed inactive, don’t you?”

Yes, he did. “Death.”

“You look remarkably alive to me.”

He shot him a harsh glance. “I’m not with the Organization anymore, and you all fucking know it. I’m not the same person.”

“Blood and history doesn’t wash away that easily; ask Lady Macbeth. Look, I’m sure you’re … reformed, or whatever you want to call it -”

“I was brainwashed,” he snarled. “I don’t remember my own fucking name. I don’t even remember being in this country before, although I’m pretty sure I have been. I’m not saying that excuses anything I’ve done, I’m just saying I’m a completely different person now.”

He took that all in with some obvious skepticism, but after a moment, he nodded. “Fine. If you are, you should have no problem stepping aside.”

“Not until I know what’s going on. Someone was killed tonight, and they tried to attack Naslund.”

“Why do you care?”

“’Cause they lobbed the tear gas in on me. I ain’t an assassin, but I don’t appreciate getting gassed.”

“You weren’t the target; you were just in the way.”

“I don’t care. I don’t like it.”

Johannes smirked sourly, almost laughing but unable to. “Just like Interpol won’t like it when they hear you’re here.”

He narrowed his eyes at him. “Is that a threat?”

“I don’t threaten,” he claimed. Logan wasn’t sure he believed him. “I just think it would be in your best interest to leave as soon as possible.”

He leaned closer to him, menacing him with his very proximity. “I’m not your problem. Do you understand? Leave me the fuck alone, and I’ll try not to get in your way. Okay?”

Johannes shook his head, smiling wanly. “That’s not good enough.”

“It’ll hafta be. I’m not here to cause trouble.”

“But wherever you go, there are bodies that follow. That’s not a tenable situation.”

“There a problem here?” Marc asked, approaching them, giving Johannes a discreet version of the stink eye.

Logan removed his fist from Johannes leg before Marc could see it. “No, just having a friendly chat. But he was just leaving.”

Johannes took the hint, but his glare at Logan suggested that this wasn’t really over. “Yes, I guess so.” He finished his scotch, and got up from his bar stool, trying to hide his relief that his femoral artery was no longer threatened. He would probably not make the mistake of getting within reaching distance of him again. “Guten abend.”

“And a mighty fine ride ‘em cowboy to you too,” Marc replied, stepping back and keeping an eye on him until he left the bar. As soon as he was gone, Marc took his barstool. “Oink oink, I smell bacon. What did he want?”

Logan wondered what to tell him. Would the truth really do here? What did he have to lose? “He was Swiss Intelligence, I believe. He was giving me a “friendly” - “ the air quotes were implied “- warning to back the fuck off. They think I’m going to screw the pooch for them.”

“How? What’s going on?” The bartender came back down, and Marc did a quick visual appraisal before flashing him his most charming smile and ordering a beer. The bartender got it for him, and smiled in an abashed manner under Marc’s intense and clearly very friendly gaze. As he sauntered down to the other end of the bar, Marc said, “Good lord, I love Swiss men. It’s like being in a candy store. The chicks ain’t bad either.”

“You know, you being such a horndog is an offensive stereotype. You should really knock that off,” Logan teased.

“As soon as you knock off the beer and stories of snow and hockey pucks, you hoser,” he replied, giving him shit eating grin number three. But he quickly dropped it and got back on topic. “So what the hell’s going on here, Logan? He give you anything?”

He shook his head, not bothering to hide his annoyance. “He played it close to the vest; he was good. But I think I figured some things out anyways. The Swiss and Germans are working together.”

“Damn it.”

“And they’re trying to rope someone else, one of Naslund’s contacts, but I can’t tell which one: the guy who he’s selling the object for, or the one who wants to buy it.”

“Does it really matter?”

That was a good point. “Guess not. Did you know I’m still on Interpol’s shit list? As an assassin.”

Even through the goggles, Logan got a sense that Marc’s eyes were bugging out. “Holy shit! No, I had no idea, man. I haven’t hit their site in a while. I just randomly search to make sure I’m not on it.”

“You surf their website? I didn’t even realize they had a website.”

He snorted derisively. “Oh, c’mon grandpa, everybody has a website, even the Luddites. Get with the program.”

He supposed he deserved that. He took a swallow of his beer, and admitted, “I could fuck things up for you. Maybe we should call it.”

Marc raised an eyebrow at him and shook his head, smirking slightly. “Since when do we give up that easily? Things are just gettin’ good, bud - why stop now?”

Marc was a thrill seeker, whether he would admit it or not; he lived for the adrenaline rush of danger and trouble. Extreme sports were for pussies, for cowardly people with no imagination; Marc needed the raw peril of a live shootout and lobbed grenades. The absolute worst part of it? Logan could kind of sympathize. He got a bit of a rush from it too. It hurt when his healing factor kicked in, and yet with it came the endorphins, the flood of adrenaline that tasted like cold, clean metal, and an almost giddy kind of high, the kind that could only come with saying “Fuck you” not only to the entire world but to death itself. Marc didn’t have a healing factor, though, so he had no idea where his rush came from, but it did, or else he wouldn’t do things like this. Maybe for him, a big “fuck you” to the world alone was enough. “Marc, I’m serious. If Interpol gets involved -”

“Fuck ‘em,” he answered dismissively. “We’ve taken on worse.”

“It could fuck with your job.”

“It could, but it won’t. and even if it did, I don’t give a fuck. You’re my best bud. They fuck with you, they fuck with me.”

He snorted, but he knew he was serious, and was touched by the gesture. “Very macho and Clint Eastwood of you.”

“Thank you.”

After a moment, he turned it into a joke. “Is this a gay thing?”

Marc laughed so hard he almost shot beer out his nose. But while Logan was trying to play it casual, the truth was something was still bothering him. Swiss intelligence was worried he’d be recognized by someone and scare them away - who would recognize him? And why would they be scared? (Okay, maybe that last question answered itself.) That was very curious and very troubling. He wondered if he’d get any sleep tonight.

Who were Swiss and German intelligence after? And why did they think he’d screw everything up?

3

Logan was right - he didn’t sleep well, although he wasn’t woken up by screaming nightmares, so he figured it actually wasn’t too bad, all things considered.

They had no idea where to start next, although following Naslund remained their only lead. So they headed out to his shop, but this time kept their distance.

A good thing, as the police were still hanging around, and Logan had read in the paper that a “German tourist” was murdered, but it was a small column with a singular lack of details. The attack on the shop was never mentioned, although anyone driving by could see the suspiciously large police presence and the busted front window.

They decided to move on to Naslund’s home, which was on the outskirts of Zurich, in a more undeveloped area that resembled classic Switzerland, with towering Alpine trees and sprawling meadows, with jagged chunks of grey granite sticking out of the ground like natural cairns. Naslund’s home was a small one, not the classic chalet type but more of a featureless, somewhat charmless little box that could have been an above ground bomb shelter if it hadn’t been painted robin’s egg blue. There was a small, battered Saab in the driveway, and even though there was no urban cover to conceal themselves in, there was a stand of trees across the road where they could hide and watch his home. Logan climbed one of the trees and sat in a concealed branch, aiming the directional mike at his house and wearing an earpiece so whatever was said inside he could hear. What he heard at first was simply a television tuned low to first an inane morning show (every country seemed to have one - it! was the great equalizer), and then to an even more inane game show (another great equalizer, along with the shitty sitcom and the annoying talk show).

After about an hour of this he was so bored he was afraid he was going to fall asleep and fall off the branch. Nothing was happening in Naslund’s home, he had a numb butt and was risking splinters, and it was cold enough that it was starting to get annoying, making his fingertips almost numb. Marc was lucky; he almost always wore gloves. (Of course that was to keep from accidentally poisoning or paralyzing people, so lucky was a relative term.)

Finally he heard the phone ring in Naslund’s house, and even though he only heard Naslund’s side of the conversation, it was clear he was talking to someone about buying the “item” (and that’s how he referred to it - “the item”. Very James Bond of him). After the call, he turned off the t.v., and it sounded like he was getting ready to go out.

Logan packed up the mike and climbed down, informing Marc and Sid of this promising development. Of course tailing him out here was going to be tricky, as there wasn’t city traffic to get lost in. But Marc was willing to give it a try.

His solution was to give Naslund a huge lead, keeping him just within view, with the intent of closing the gap when they hit more traffic. Luckily Naslund’s beaten up, old maroon colored Saab was easy to track visually, even when they did reach more traffic, and there was some verbal speculation as to where he was heading. He wasn’t heading to his shop, that was for damn sure; he was going in the wrong direction.

They had gone beyond Zurich, to another part of the outskirts where traffic thinned out again and the landscape became beautifully stark once more, as cold and clear as the air outside. And it was in this long stretch of nothing that Sid said, almost idly from the backseat of their rental car, “There’s another car following Naslund.”

He and Marc had been so focused on keeping an eye on the Saab as they let it get farther and farther ahead of them that they hadn’t been watching the road behind them, but Sid, initially trained to be a bodyguard, had been keeping an eye on the rearview and side view mirrors the whole time. A quick glance in the rearview, and Logan noticed a familiar car, one he’d seen about ten miles back. “Black BMW?”

He saw Sid nod tersely in the mirror, their eyes meeting briefly. “That’s the one.”

“Swiss intelligence?” Marc asked.

“I dunno. Kid, where’d we pick them up?”

“Back in the city proper, about fifteen minutes ago. They’ve been hanging back, but echoing every lane change that Naslund makes. It’s unclear if they’re aware of us.”

Echoing every lane change? Even Marc wasn’t doing that; that was a dead giveaway. Either that was someone’s overeager, rookie mistake, or they just weren’t accustomed to tailing people in a professional manner, and the latter seemed more likely. “I don’t think it’s Swiss intelligence,” Logan said, as the BMW sped up and overtook them in the opposite lane, heading for Naslund’s car like a heat seeking missile. For the moment, they were the only three cars on the road, save for a huge tanker truck ahead of Naslund, and a little green Fiat far behind all of them.

“Oh fuck,” Marc exclaimed, suddenly putting pedal to the metal. “He’s gonna ram him.”

As if just by saying it he made it so, the BMW did in fact smash into the rear of Naslund’s car, the sound of crunching metal and shattering glass explosively loud, followed by the scream of tires on the asphalt as the little Saab spun around several times before veering off to the side of the road. It looked like his airbag deployed, so he didn’t go shooting out the windshield, and while the airbag deployed for the BMW too, it was almost instantly punched down as the driver slewed to the side of the road, as if attempting to block Naslund in.

“Should I ram them?” Marc wondered.

“And give them warning? Fuck no,” Logan replied. “Pull over.”

Marc did, pulling over to the soft shoulder several yards down from both cars as three men got out of the BMW, pulling black ski masks down over their faces and pulling out a variety of Walthers and Glocks. “Are these the same guys from last night?” Logan asked Sid.

The kid shrugged, grimacing in embarrassment that he couldn’t really answer the question. “I don’t know. All white men in ski masks look alike to me.”

Ha! The kid was developing a sense of humor. That was an improvement.

He and Marc got out of the car at the same time, and Marc got their attention by shouting, “Hey, you guys need help? Should I call 999 or something?”

What struck Logan instantly was the fact that they understood English, as they all looked at him sharply, aiming their guns in his direction. “Get back in your car and drive away,” one man ordered. Surprisingly, his accent was Lithuanian.

Logan had slammed his car door and started walking towards them, and the man swung the aim of his gun off Marc, aiming it at him. “Stay back,” he demanded. With their gazes focused on him, they didn’t notice Marc, standing behind his own open car door, pulling his own gun, a sturdy, nasty Magnum.

Logan ignored the order and kept on coming. “This is your only warning. Put down the guns and tell us who you work for, and maybe we’ll let you walk away.“

The Lithuanian snorted in disbelief and shot him, the bullet slamming into his chest. It was a lucky shot, missing bone entirely and punching through his chest walls and slamming out his back, the hot, sharp pain making him drop to one knee. But even as the pain reverberated throughout his body, he felt the rush of heat from healing rushing in, dragging the high behind it. “Get back in your car and drive off. This does not concern you.”

Logan pushed himself back up to his feet and started walking towards the men again, which seemed to stun them into paralysis. “Gonna hafta do better than that, asshole.”

Sid had gotten out of the car and was now walking towards them on the opposite side. They shot at him too, but the bullet ripped through his shirt and then bounced off his skin, barely making him blink, certainly not making him stop. Using Sid as a cover, Marc took aim with his Magnum and shot the Lithuanian in the shoulder - it dissolved in a sudden spray of blood and bone, and he fell back against the car screaming in pain, the Glock dropping from his hand. “Ooh,” Marc taunted. “I bet that’s hot and hurts and stuff.”

The other two gunmen looked between Sid and Logan in wide eyed horror, aiming their guns between them, and looking at each other with unspoken questions. “Drop your weapons and we won’t hurt you,” Logan said, wondering if he was lying or not. (He wasn’t sure; he supposed he’d find out.) “Who do you work for?”

Then men fired, hitting both him and Sid, but the bullets continued to bounce off Sid like he was made of depleted uranium, and most of the bullets that hit Logan this time just ripped through his skin and hit bone underneath, either shattering against the adamantium or rebounding off of it. The pain, sharp and sudden, and the smell of his own blood was just making him angrier. He sprung his claws and the men jumped, momentarily ceasing fire in their shock. “Who do you work for?!” he roared, letting his anger communicate that this was the last time he would ask.

There was a small explosion as Marc shot out one of the BMW’s rear tires, and the men looked torn as to what to do. Now their escape route was being cut off, and they were being advanced upon by men who didn’t give a shit about bullets. This was a classic no win situation, and the stink of panic coming from the indicated they weren’t prepared for it.

“What the fuck are you waiting for?!” The Lithuanian shouted, grabbing his bloody, mangled shoulder. “Shoot them!”

But as Marc took out their second rear tire, they looked confused and angry about their situation. “We’re just wasting bullets!” One of them shouted at the man in broken Russian.

Suddenly Logan heard a familiar noise, faint but rapidly approaching: a helicopter, its rotors slicing the air. He glanced back at Marc, who shared a wary, quizzical look with him.

In general, an approaching helicopter wasn’t a good sign. In fact, Logan was willing to go out on a limb and say things had just taken a sudden turn for the worse.