18

It took some convincing to get the guys picking him up to let Ali on the plane, but when he started to get pissed off they conceded quickly, as apparently they didn’t want to get in a fight with him. What, had his reputation proceeded him? They still seemed annoyed about the unexpected passenger, but they weren’t going to take it up with him.

The plane looked like a rough, small cargo plane, but on the inside, once you got past the cargo area, it was actually a somewhat austere private jet. It had seats that a person could actually sit in without getting jostled within an inch of your life, which was a relief.

Once they were in the air, he got Ali to tell him her real name. She denied being actually a girl at first, but once she began to believe he knew she was all along, she reluctantly admitted her name was actually Jalila Hassani. He told her that was a pretty name and she looked away, nervous and embarrassed, but it was. He could also see how she got Ali out of it.

He was exhausted, so he figured he could take a time out, but he fell asleep hard and fast, and while he was afraid he’d have lots of nightmares - being back with an intelligence agency was bound to do that - his sleep was deep and dreamless. Perhaps that was a gift from Bob.

He roused briefly when they landed for refueling, and he noticed that Ali had switched seats. She had been sitting across from him, but now she was sitting in the seat beside him, sleeping herself, her head resting part way on his arm since she was small enough to curl up in her seat like a cat. She must have trusted him now, but then again, being desperate and having your life saved a couple of times had a tendency to break down those barriers.

He slept for most of the flight back to Toronto, and he figured that was for the best, since he wouldn’t be able to have a beer until they hit the ground. Once they landed, it was a gray and drizzly Canadian day, and as he disembarked he was met by Lafayette and some of his people, although they hung back. He saw the frowns and raised eyebrows when Ali got off the plane, and Lafayette asked, “Was there a reason for this?”

He met his gaze sternly. “She helped me find their base, and I wasn’t leaving her in that hellhole. You gotta problem with that?”

He gave him a tight little smile, one that was torn between being offended at his audacity, and amused by his chutzpah. “No, not at all. It’s just unusual for an operative to bring someone back from an assignment when it’s not a rescue mission or an arrest.”

“I’m not the usual operative.”

His smile grew broader. “You’re telling me.” He almost seemed to think that was funny, but he dared not laugh. Which was a good thing for him, because if he had, Logan was roughly sure he’d have decked him.

****

They managed to ride back to the headquarters in relative style, as they picked them up in a needlessly large sports utility vehicle with leather seats and more room than was really necessary. This hulk had to get five miles to the gallon.

It turned out they’d heard about the car bombing in Rasiva, the Freedom League (one of the many terrorist groups within Asrahar) took credit for it, but it seems the terrorist they had in custody complained of being “attacked” by a white guy. Lafayette gave him an accusing look, and all he could do was shrug. Still, Lafayette seemed to think that was more funny than aggravating, so he figured he wouldn’t get in trouble for it.

He got Jalila situated first, as that’s what he told him he wanted to do, and she ended up at a safe house with a rather surprised part-time operative who spoke her language. The operative, a woman named Sheila, seemed to understand his reasons for pulling her out of Asrahar though, and didn’t think it would be a problem getting the courts to grant Ali protected asylum status, especially with Intelligence pushing it through.

Before his debriefing, he slipped out to make a call, and rang up Faith.  She wasn’t home, so he ended up getting her machine.  He’d just wanted to hear her voice, so he was left wondering what the hell he was going to say. “Uh, hey, I’m back,” he finally said, marveling at his own sheer articulate brilliance. After rolling his eyes at himself, he went on. “In Canada at least. I should be back in Los Angeles by tonight at the earliest, or sometime tomorrow at the latest. I’ll let you know if I can.” He paused, wondering if he should say more. Then he blurted out, “I’ve missed you,” and felt instantly mortified.  He hung up the phone, figuring that was a good enough “goodbye”.  Okay, yeah, he did miss her, but it still seemed like a lame ass thing to say.

He quickly forgot about it in the debriefing, where he left out a couple of things he felt they didn’t need to know or would be impossible to explain: letting Nomad go, and Bob’s god power helping him clear out the Black Fire base. They seemed genuinely surprised when he said they were mostly clones of dead Organization operatives, and named them to the best of his ability. “No one can clone,” Lafayette said, but there was a hint of doubt in his voice.

“The Organization can. You ask ‘em, they’ll deny it, but they deny being evil fucks too.”

Lafayette and the guy with him - some brass named Hartinger - seemed equal parts impressed and terrified as he told them everything else, from the canyon bombing to Timebomb blowing up part of his chest (he said part because it was easier to believe he’d heal from that). And because he was feeling generous, he mentioned his failed attempt to stop the car bomber. Hartinger, a round faced guy with hair the color of shoe leather and the sort of build that made him look like an overgrown toddler (he looked about thirty five, but Logan guessed he was more like forty five), must not have known about all of his abilities, because he stared at him in shock. “You smelled explosive residue on him?”

“Yeah, he reeked. He might as well have had a “I’m a bomb making limp dick” sign attached to his chest.”

He stared at him like he was crazy. Which was fine; if he thought he was crazy, he’d leave him alone.

Finally they got as tired of him repeating stuff over and over as he already had, and the briefing was over. But while Hartinger left, Logan hung around, shutting the door after him. Lafayette remained where he was, standing behind his desk, although a certain wariness entered his eyes. “Was there something else, Logan?”

“Uh huh. I kept my part of the bargain. How’s yours?”

He sighed wearily, sitting back down in his posh chair. “Unofficially, the bombings have all been blamed on Chechen separatists who wants to make the West more aware of their cause.”

Logan leaned back against the door, working out the angle on that decision. “Right. Makes the Russians happy, and since they will never allow Americans access to their Chechen prisoners, the crimes will remain forever unofficially unsolved.”

“Just so.”

“That sucks for the Chechens.”

“But it’s the perfect story. Mutants will not be pilloried for it. And Westerners know so little about the Chechens and their cause that this will disappear quickly.”

He sighed, unable to argue with him on any point. He was right - it was a tidy answer that would raise few questions, mainly because answers would remain forever elusive, and since the Chechens had done little to endear themselves to the international community, absolutely no one would defend them or raise objections on their behalf. He moved on to his next bit of business. “Fine. I want the girl taken care of. She’s one of those Rasiva orphans, so it’s gonna take her a while to adjust to not hording food and picking pockets, but I don’t want her tossed in the juvenile justice system or in the foster care system, all right? If you can’t get her set up like that, call this number.” He went to his desk, picked up a pen and a post-it note, and scribbled out the number for Xavier’s. “Just ask for the Professor, and tell ‘im she’s my responsibility. He’ll work something out.”

He looked at the note with some curiosity. “Professor? As in Xavier?”

“You do your homework. Good for you.” He turned and walked back towards the door. Lafayette must have figured out he was leaving, because he said quickly, “You did excellent work, Logan. Your country and your species owes you a debt.”

He turned to look at him askance, and considered giving him the finger, but decided answering his tacit request was good enough. “No, I’m not coming back. I said I’d do this one thing, and I’m done. I’m out.” He opened the door, and wasn’t surprised to see Hartinger loitering nervously in the hall, holding his laptop case like it was abdominal shield. When he opened the door, he jumped a bit, and his pale brown eyes scudded over his face before quickly looking back down at the floor. Hartinger was still unsettled by him? Good.

“It doesn’t have to end like this,” Lafayette went on as he continued down the hall. Lafayette was back on his feet again, as though that gave him some extra measure of sincerity. “The door is always open. If you’d like to come back, we’ll take you on at a moment’s notice. Intelligence could use a man like you again.”

Logan waited to respond until he was inside the elevator and he could turn to face him from inside the lift. “I’m sure they could. But I’m done bein’ used. Thanks all the same.” The doors slid shut on Hartinger’s uncomprehending expression, and Lafayette’s more emotionless, flat one, which still betrayed a hint of disappointment.

Hey, they were in Intelligence. They should be used to disappointments by now.

****

As soon as the elevator descended, Hartinger came back into his office, and closed the door, looking slightly stunned. “That was really the Alex Logan?  He looked like biker trash.”

Lafayette sat back down, relaxing in his chair. It wasn’t easy to relax around Logan. “That was the thing that made Logan so invaluable in undercover missions. He looked like the last man you had to worry about being a spy. He seemed low rent and anonymous, lost among the scum, and he could fit in quite well. It was a talent.”

Hartinger put his laptop bag on one of the chairs before his desk. “Do you really think anything he told us was true? The canyon blowing up around him, Timebomb taking out a chunk of his chest ..?”

“Satellites confirmed the canyon collapsed at the time Logan said it did, and I can see him surviving such an event. The same is true of Timebomb, although I’m surprised he had the sense not to go for his head, as he would have done even less of an injury to Logan than he did. Adamantium lined skull and all.”

He turned his chair towards the window as Hartinger took a seat and settled in. Hartinger was too much the soul of a bureaucrat, and was usually as entertaining as watching a cactus grow. He looked out on downtown Toronto, looking atmospherically grey, like they were now becoming part of a film noir. “This didn’t work out the way you planned it, did it?” Hartinger asked quietly.

“Actually it did; I assumed this would be his initial reaction. Even when his facilities seemed to be intact, he had an air of defiance about him.” He steepled his fingers under his chin, and wondered if Logan was one of the small figures he saw crossing the courtyard below. He didn’t think so, his gait was pretty noticeable; he didn’t walk more than he partially stalked, going to full when he was on alert or on the hunt.

“So you think he’ll be back?”

He smirked at his own reflection in the window, glad Hartinger couldn’t see him from where he was sitting.  He might wonder what he was hiding, and try and find out. “Of course he’ll be back.  He’ll have to be.”

19

All it took was one phone call, and he was there in one and a half beers, just as the Leafs game went into its second intermission.

He’d called Rags’s cell phone, and told him if he wanted to pop back to Toronto, he was waiting in a bar named Mulligan’s, and he’d buy him a Long Island ice tea, which he knew he owed him. Otherwise, he’d be flying back tomorrow.

Logan knew Rags wouldn’t pass up a free drink, no matter how far he had to teleport, although he grumbled when he showed up, aware that this was all a set up so he could get a quick and easy transport back to Los Angeles. Still, Rags had clearly gone for it, so how much could he complain?

As it was, he had to buy him two Long Island ice teas before they could go, and it was about time, as the Leafs were starting to suck.

It was jarring to go from drizzly Toronto to bright and hellishly hot L.A.,, but he’d been expecting it. He wasn’t sure if Faith would be at her place or at work, but he had no place else to go, so he headed off to her place.

He wasn’t sure he felt too good about all that had happened either, but he didn’t know what he could do about it right this second. He could check up on Ali, he really wasn’t really worried about her. Was it Asrahar that was bugging him? Perhaps. That, and the nagging question: were Black Fire really at odds with the Organization? They could have been deep black ops, and the whole thing of them going after them merely a show, so it’d all look good. The Canadian government was hardly the type to go put a boot in the ass of the Organization … but a person in power, a person with a grudge against the Organization, could have set it all in motion. Now that that remote possibility had taken root in his mind, he couldn’t quite let it go.

Still, when he knocked on Faith’s door, he tried to banish the thought from his head. But it didn’t work, not until he heard the chain lock undone, and she opened the door, looking out at him in surprise. She was dressed casually, in baggy black and red surfer shorts and a loose orange tank top, her messy hair held back - sort of - with a clip. He still thought she looked great. “Hey, I just got your message like five minutes ago! You’re quick.”

“I’ll pretend that’s a compli - holy shit!  Are those stitches?”  As he came in, he took her face in his hands, and smoothed back some of her hair, to see the small, dark line of stitches snaking out from beneath her hairline in a kind of crescent shape, reaching down almost an inch on her forehead. The skin was shiny and taut, as if newly healed, although some of the skin along her hairline looked reddish purple, freshly bruised. “What the hell happened? Are you all right?”

She rolled her eyes, grabbing his wrists and taking his hands away. “I’m fine. I’m a Slayer, we get banged up a lot. That’s just part of the deal.”

He gazed at her skeptically. “Maybe so, but what the hell happened?”

She shrugged, clearly trying to dismiss it. “I just hit the ceiling - literally. But I gotta hard head, and you shoulda seen the guy afterwards.”

“Dead?”

“As Bobby Brown’s singing career. So don’t worry, he paid for it.”

“That wasn’t exactly what I was worried about.”

She smiled lazily, slipping her arms around him, pressing her body up against his, and gave him a gentle kiss. She was trying to distract him, and it was working really well. “You know what’s really funny? I missed you too.”

He grimaced, aware she could be making fun of him, but surprisingly he didn’t think so. “Oh yeah? How much?”

She uttered a small laugh, and slid her hands lower, down to his waist. “Wait ‘til the Tylenol codeine kicks in, and you’ll find out.”

That actually didn’t sound all that fun, at least for her. He slid his hands down her back and held her tight, enjoying her warmth in the over air conditioned apartment. She seemed to sag against him for a moment, as if tired (and if she got the shit kicked out of her yesterday, she would be, Slayer or not), then straightened up and looked him in the eye. “So, how’d your thing go?”

He looked her straight in the eyes, and said, “It was no big deal.” And the funny thing was, he didn’t even feel like he was lying.

The End