Johannes barely glanced at him before looking away. "I can't tell you."

"Bullshit. If you want my help -"

"No," he insisted. "I mean I really can't tell you. We have conflicting intell."

Logan really wished he was surprised, but he wasn't. The thing about intelligence work was there was often a lot more uncertainty than the movies and spy novels would leave you to think. Sometimes all you had were really good guesses. "So you're after something and you don't know what it is? Come on! You have some idea. It's not just a fucking music box."

He thought about it for a while, and Logan let him, mainly because he had no choice in the matter. After about a minute, he said, "We know it's a weapon. We believe that a Russian arms dealer was using the box to smuggle weapons out of their country, but neglected to notice that the box itself was a prized object. At some point along the way it was recognized for what it was and was stolen, but for its music box properties alone. Only certain people knew what was actually in the box."

"Such as Black Star and a few other groups."

He nodded. "We believe that Black Star may have been the ones the weapon was intended for."

"So we're talking something small but extremely deadly." That really didn't leave a lot options. "Biological weapon?"

"Speculation is leaning that way," he admitted. "If we could find the arms dealer we could probably figure it out for ourselves, but our last intell on him has him getting lost in Kazakhstan."

"Deliberately lost, or was he disappeared?" Angry clients, one who were supposed to get the weapon but didn't, could easily send him on a permanent vacation.

Although it clearly pained him to do so, Johannes shrugged. "We're still investigating. What we don't know could fill a bigger file than what we do know."

"Shit," he sighed, rubbing his tired eyes. Being blown up never did much good for his eyes either. He really had to stop getting in the way of explosives. "Are the borders locked down?"

"Are you kidding? We're not totally incompetent."

"Good, so you're scanning everything for biological weapons."

"Everything we can. But if they're professionals, we don't expect them to make an end run for the border, not when the alert is so high."

He nodded in agreement. "They'll wait 'til the heat's off. So we still have a chance to find it."

"If we can find them."

Logan gulped down the rest of his beer, and let the mug clunk heavily to the table. "You have the resources I don't. You give me a possible location, and I'll do the rest."

Johannes scoffed. "You think it's just that easy?"

He fixed him with a hard look. "What happens if they unleash that weapon while cornered? Lots of your people die. You know what happens if they unleash that weapon on me?"

"You die."

"Maybe. Maybe not. Healing factor, remember? I just might convince them their product is defective before they all die a grisly, horrible death. I'm your best shot at containing it, and you know it." He stood up, and dropped a napkin with his cell phone number on it. "Call me when you get some solid intell. I'll get your weapon for you."

Johannes studied him suspiciously. "Just like that? What do you want in return?"

"Get me off Interpol's shit list."

He chuckled faintly. "Now wait a minute. We can't -"

"Yeah, I think you can," he interrupted. "And that's my price. I do something for you, you do something for me, we're even. Call me if you want to do business." And with that he left, not even bothering to give Johannes a second glance.

Maybe it was arrogant of him - no, it was definitely arrogant of him - but he knew if Swiss intelligence wasn't even completely sure what they were dealing with, they were desperate. And he was the go to guy for desperate times. It was perhaps his true mutant "gift".

***

Logan got the call in the morning, just as he was eating breakfast. (That figured.)"We've intercepted some chatter," Johannes said, with no foreplay. "It sounds like some mercenaries have grabbed the weapon, and are going to be doing an exchange at a bank downtown."

"A bank?" he exclaimed in disbelief, earning interested looks from both Marc and Sid. He'd told them of his deal with Johannes, and Marc hadn't liked it one bit, as he felt Logan would just get screwed over by the Swiss. Logan felt like making a joke about Marc and the bartender, who'd seemed awfully cuddly last night, but decided he really didn't want to get paralyzed and kept his mouth shut. "Why the hell would they do the exchange there?"

"Our best guess? Public exposure."

"Oh yeah, that would make sense." These mercs must have been fairly clever. An exchange in a public place would force a lot of people's hands. Neither the Swiss or Germans could be bold about moving in, for fear of civilians getting in the crossfire, especially if the group got desperate and decided to unleash the weapon. Terrorist groups like Black Star would also be reluctant to expose themselves so boldly, especially since they could guarantee the situation would be monitored by intelligence agents whether they moved in or not. It was the type of risky move that could really pay off if you knew what you were doing.

Which was the problem. Did these clowns really know what they were doing, or were they simply too clever by half?

"We don't have an exact time, except we assume it will take place this afternoon," Johannes continued. "If you get within proximity, can you tell who has had contact with the box?"

"I told ya I could. I don't care if they duck into the kitchen of a Hungarian restaurant, once I smell 'em, they're mine."

Johannes exhaled slowly, as if he'd been holding his breath for some time. "We don't want civilian casualties. We can't aff -"

"I'm not some fucking maniac," he snapped irritably. "I know what I'm doin'. Have you talked with Interpol yet?"

There was a long pause. "Yes. We talked with Canadian Intelligence as well. Your declassified records are promising, although ... I had no idea you were that old."

He wondered suddenly how far back those declassified records went. Did they declassify any for the past fifty years? Maybe not; maybe they were still considered too sensitive. "Oil of Olay and plastic surgery. Can't go wrong with either." Marc must have known what that was in reference to, because he flashed him a big smart ass grin. Sid just looked mildly puzzled, which was almost his default setting.

There was a long pause on Johannes' part, probably because he had no idea what to say. What did he think he was, a hundred years old? (Well, come to think of it, that was probably a good guess.) So Logan prompted, "Give me the address of the bank."

He sincerely hoped he didn't regret this. But if he did, it was just a small thing to add to an already voluminous pile.

5

Although he never really lost consciousness, Logan took the brief respite that being shot multiple times gave him to consider whether or not this was part of the group’s plan, or a third party interception.

Marc had stayed on the outside of the bank doing surveillance - he said he could identify a fellow merc on sight - while he and Sid went in to scope out the inside of the bank. An old one in the heart of the commercial district, it was actually laid out like a minor palace, with high ceilings and lots of marble, everything tasteful and aching with wealth. Swiss bank accounts were famed for a reason, and it was reflected in the architecture. The heat was kept low, so it seemed a little chilly, reflecting the iciness of the white and pale beige color scheme. There were maybe a dozen patrons as he and Sid entered, and they did their best to look inconspicuous among the half dozen or so patrons, all so expensively and elegantly dressed in business attire Logan realized he’d made a horrible mistake. Sid was young enough to pass himself off as shabby chic, but he was too fucking old and genuinely shabby to fit in with this group.

But before he could worry about it much, he caught a whiff of that scent again. The smell from the safe.

It wasn’t a biological weapon, but it was something just as bad, just as deadly, although he still had no name to put to it. It was a man in a dark coat who just walked passed him towards the clerks; he was trailing that scent. Logan followed him with his eyes, trying to see if he could spot the telltale bulge of a holstered weapon, when a high pitched noise almost above his range of hearing started, making him pause and look around. Before he could figure out a source, men in dark jackets with a distinctive bulge beneath their black shirts burst in with their XM8 Lightweight automatic rifles and ordered everyone down on the floor. Two of them were issuing orders while another chained and padlocked the doors of the bank, so even if someone thought they could make a break for it, they’d never get very far. This was accomplished in under a minute. Either they were well drilled, or they were true professionals.

Logan was about to charge them, figuring with surprise on his side he could get them before they could hurt anyone, but he stopped short as he smelled the Semtex. The bulges beneath their shirts weren’t body armor - they were explosive suicide belts. Was this the more competent part of Black Star, or someone else entirely? He wasn’t sure.

Which led to him and Sid being stuck inside the bank as the deal either went horrifically bad, or went according to plan - Logan didn’t rule that out. The bank robbery was a distraction, one crime to cover a even bigger one - the smuggling of a dangerous weapon out of the bank. If they knew that the authorities were onto them, this was a huge complication; police would get involve, claim jurisdiction here, take over tactical and negotiation from any intelligence officials foolhardy enough to try and insist that a bank robbery and a hostage situation was nothing but window dressing that should be ignored. Yes, these people were professionals, be they terrorists or mercenaries.

The American was wearing a laptop satchel over his back and shoulder, and he reeked quite strongly of that weapon smell. He had it, didn’t he? In the bag. It made Logan wonder if the weapon had been hidden in the bank vault or a safe deposit box shortly after its extraction from the docks. That way the object would be safe, no matter how many people were captured or killed.

After he was shot Logan dutifully slumped to the floor, and listened to the horrified screaming of some of the female hostages that was quickly shouted down by the gunmen, who told them in no uncertain terms that they either shut up or joined him in death.

Logan had fallen face down, his arm in front of his head, so he had the ability to look at a portion of the bank without anyone being aware that he could. He could see some of the hostages, the mercenaries pacing back and forth. “I don’t know if that’ll kill him,” the American admitted, then stepped over Logan and fired two shots into his back. One just ripped open flesh on his side before burying itself in the floor, while the other shattered on an adamantium vertebrae, but seemingly the American didn’t notice either. “He’s a pretty tough fucker.”

One of the Swiss mercenaries said, “No one takes that many shots from an XM8 and lives.”

Logan felt like saying “Oh yeah?” but kept it to himself, as he wasn’t ready to give up the surprise yet.

“Yeah, but he’s a mutie,” the American said. “They can be weird like that.” He paused briefly, and said in English - probably gambling that most of the hostages didn’t speak it - “We’re going with plan alpha. Two minutes.”

“On your mark.”

“Mark it, Henrik,” the American said breezily, his shoes scuffing on the marble floor as he walked back towards the vault. “We are so outta here.”

Two of the guards went with him, leaving only two guards with the hostages.

Perfect.

“Stand up, boy,” the one that Logan assumed was Henrik said, in Swiss German first, then in broken English. He was speaking to Sid, who wisely didn’t respond to either - if he responded to English, then they’d know he had understood what they were saying. Henrik tried slightly butchered French, and Sid responded to that, standing up.

“How old are you?” Henrik asked, his ineptness in the French language making it actually come out “How old you are”.

“Twenty one,” Sid responded, his French utterly flawless.

“Good, then you have lived some life.” (Straight translation: “Lived some good life have you“. It was like listening to Yoda speak French.)

There was the tearing of Velcro, a sound that seemed to echo in the room, and Sid informed him what was going on (as he couldn’t see that side of the room) by saying flatly, without indignance or any emotion at all, “No one will believe I’m a suicide bomber.”

Cute - they pick a hostage to be the bomb. That way they get a bloody distraction, yet they all still get out alive.

“Yes they will. You’re Arab, yes?” (“Yes so. You are Arab, yes?”)

Logan turned his head slightly, just enough to see the scene: Henrik was standing in front of Sid, rifle aimed at him, as the second guard stood behind him, starting to wrap his bomb belt around Sid. One of the female hostages sitting on the floor saw him move his head and audibly gasped, but the guards must have thought it was about this whole bomb enterprise, and ignored her.

Logan stood up carefully so as not to slip in his own blood, and met Sid’s eyes over Henrik’s shoulder as the guard behind Sid looked up and saw Logan as well, his eyes growing wide with horror.

Things happened very fast from then on in.

Sid threw back a hard elbow and caught the guard in the face so bluntly that the crack of his nose was like a gunshot. Henrik pulled the trigger on his rifle, only nothing happened. Possibly because Logan had slashed down a millisecond before and separated his right arm from the rest of his body. Only when it hit the floor with the rifle, a muffled, odd thump, did Henrik think to look to his shoulder. He still had some stump there; Logan had cut it off just below the elbow. He’d already grabbed Henrik’s left arm and twisted it behind him, while popping his two end claws, which he held up so they were bracketing Henrik’s chin, the third just underneath it, waiting to be sprung. “Tell me about the triggering mechanisms on the belts,” he growled in his ear. “Or I‘m cutting you open and shoving it inside you just to be safe.”

In spite of having his nose broken and taking a hard shot to the head, the guard on Sid was still moving, so Sid snapped off a kick that could have taken his head off his shoulders if his spine wasn’t so stubborn. That put the guard down; he slumped to the floor, his leg twitching slightly, and Sid scooped up his XM8 for himself. “Don’t worry,” he told the startled hostages in French. “I’m an X-Man.”

Oddly enough, none of them looked comforted by that statement.

Henrik told him that there was two triggering mechanisms on the belt - one manual, and one timer. There was nothing too fancy about it, so Logan felt confident shredding the belt. He asked Sid to bring over the one the guard dropped, and he did, so he could gut that one too. He left Henrik to bleed on the floor as he went over to the door and used his claws to cut the chain. “Get out of here,” he told the hostages. They didn’t need to be told twice. Finally that high pitched noise stopped, and he could hear gunfire in the distance, somewhere behind the bank.

He and Sid shared a look, as Logan muttered, “Damn it! Marc’s engaged them, and he doesn’t know about the Semtex.” They started going out the back, the way the American and the rest of the mercenaries had gone, when a loud explosion seemed to make the bank shudder for a moment. As the sound faded, Sid said, “I bet he knows now.”

Yeah, that was probably a safe bet.

Logan had to force open the emergency exit door the other mercenaries had used, and as soon as he did, it was easy to see why: part of a car had been wedged up against it. Not a big piece, though, and unlike the rest of the bits, it was just smoldering as opposed to actively on the fire. The door opened on a narrow lane that looked like it had been teleported in from Beirut with the flaming wreckage and bullet casings and body parts strewn about. The smoke from the flaming car parts cast a dark pall on the scene, but he could see enough to tell that everyone who could clear out had already.

“Marc!” he shouted, hoping he wasn’t among the body parts. But he didn’t think he was, as he’d have recognized the smell of his blood, and besides, Marc wasn’t stupid - he would know to keep his distance when he appeared to be outnumbered.

“Well, wasn’t that a smack in the ass,” Marc said, jogging around the corner, holding a procured XM8. “I had no idea there were some species of robber who blew up when you shot ‘em. That’s just nuts.”

“They weren’t all in that car, were they?”

“Nope. They split into two groups, and one of ‘em got away, but if we move it, we can catch ‘em.”

Logan frowned at him. “How?”

Marc grinned at him, all teeth and confidence. “Like I don’t a getaway car when I see one. That thing’ll get one block, then it’ll die and it won’t start again. They’ll be forced to continue on foot, and that’s when we pick ‘em off.”

Logan shook his head, but in an admiring way. He should have known Marc would be on top of that. “There’ll be civilians around; we can’t control the environment.”

“We can if we’re careful. Haven’t you ever herded sheep, Alberta boy?”

“No … I don’t think so.”

“Well then, follow my lead,” he said, turning and leading the way across the street. At the last second, he hid the rifle under his long coat.

“You’ve never herded a sheep in your goddamn life,” Logan pointed out.

Marc shrugged. “Maybe not, but I’ve herded people. It’s the same, except there’s slightly less chance you’ll step in their crap.”

Sid, following close behind him, whispered, “He’s joking, right?”

“We can only hope so,” Logan told him.

They stuck to alleys and side streets, and eventually took it up to the roofs, mainly so no one saw the weaponry they were packing, but partially because Logan completely forgot he was splattered with blood. It wasn’t a small amount either, especially in the front. Marc joked that he should carry a footlocker full of shirts with him at all times.

The mercenaries were easy to spot. They’d shed their ski masks and hidden their XM8s, but they hadn’t changed their clothes, and Logan pegged the American and his laptop bag on sight. “The bag has the box,” Logan told them. “I need to get it, but we can’t hit it with a bullet. I don’t know what will happen if we do.”

“Got it,” Marc replied, not too concerned. They watched the group - it was the American and two other men, meaning their numbers were now equal - as they tried to walk casually down the street, the American talking hastily but quietly into his cell phone. Marc asked Sid, “How good a shot are you?”

“If I didn’t get ten shots out of ten on the firing range, I was drilled for two extra hours on rifle care and maintenance,” Sid answered, as emotionally neutral as always.

“So I take it you’re good.”

“I hated drilling.”

Presumably that was a yes. So he and Marc picked mercenaries to take out in unison, while Logan dropped down to the street. Once the mercenary guards were taken out, the American would be alone, and he was Logan’s.

But as they were waiting to start, a long black car pulled up to the curb, and the rear door swung open. The American and his two pals started heading towards the car, a definite fuck up to the plan.

Just as the car door shut, Logan came running out, charging the car, popping his claws as he rammed his fist through the passenger window. He was met with gunshots as he threw open the door and lunged in at the driver as the man put the car in gear and sped off, trying to throw him out of the car using speed and reckless driving.

Gunfire from the backseat accidentally hit the driver, and his head exploded in a gory mess as Logan rammed his claws into the dashboard and sliced through a whole bunch of wiring, killing the engine. The gunfire was so loud in the enclosed space that Logan wasn’t completely sure what he was hearing outside, but he thought he heard a helicopter.

Oh fun. He wondered if they’d be able to tell if they were friend or foe before they opened fire on them.