But he wasn’t supposed to be himself right now. He was supposed to be Logan Chandler, last of the gonzo journalists, well meaning but slightly delusional in the fact that he had yet to realize no one actually cared about the truth anymore. He would be afraid of a gun; he would fear death. But luckily, he was also macho enough to hide it.

“I’m exposing Black Fire to the world and shutting them down,” he replied, never looking away from the scarred kid with the gun. It was his one visual concession to “fear”.

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence, everyone - including the scarred Vik - just staring at him. Then Amir burst into laughter, a deep, mocking sort of laugh that seemed to echo off the buildings. As soon as he got a hold of himself, wiping tears from his eyes that weren't technically there, he leaned against the rickety railing, and said, "Oh man, that's funny. Yer gonna take on the others, huh? I should put ya out of yer misery now ... although it'd be fun to watch what they do to ya."

The others - he said it as though it should be capitalized and underlined, perhaps put in italics. The Others. It was somehow telling that they didn’t call them Black Fire.

But now it was time for Chandler to show his macho pedigree. “If you’re trying to scare me off, don’t bother. I’ve had the fucking Taliban throw grenades at me. If I was a chickenshit, I wouldn’t be here. Now, is he gonna lower the gun or what? This kid stinks.”

That comment elicited various chuckles, and even though he still had the knife at his throat, the kid squirmed. “Hey! I do not.”

“You do so,” one of his ganglier companions replied. “You ever heard of soap, Gheet?”

“Fuck you,” he replied sullenly, as even more of his friends laughed. Well, he did smell a little like a tire fire outside a rendering plant.

Vik glanced at Amir, and at his almost imperceptible nod, lowered the gun. Logan let the kid go, but at the last second shoved him away and ripped the knife out of his hand. “Hey,” the kid protested, stumbling briefly before turning around. “That’s mine!” A thin thread of blood trickled from an almost invisible cut on his neck. Yeah, it was a mighty sharp knife.

“No, it’s mine now,” he corrected, folding the blade closed and shoving the knife in his pocket. This was like dealing with a potentially dangerous wild animal (or your basic teenager). You had to be just assertive enough to gain their respect, but go overboard and you were just asking to be attacked. Likewise, if you were too acquiescent, they’d rip your throat out. So he had to walk a very thin line here. If he was too aggressive, he’d be shot; if he was too subservient, he’d be shot. At the end of the day, he might get shot anyways, but he’d keep his cover longer if he could hit the happy medium.

The kid glowered at him, and he simply waited for him to try something, keeping his look bland but his eyes sharp. He would let the kid decide how this was played, but he was tacitly letting him know that he would respond in force if he tried anything. If the kid hadn’t figured out yet that he was no threat to him, that was his loss.

After a tense moment, the kid looked away scowling, kicking at the dirt as he walked away. Amir said to the few other gang members left standing, “Show our ballsy white guy inside, huh?”

So he had a pass - for now - and was being led into the lion’s den, but this was by no means over. They could decide to simply suss him out, then kill him. Not that they’d succeed, but then he’d have to decide how much of his cover he could afford to blow. It would all depend on if Amir was lying to him or not, and what good his information was.

But, all in all, he just hoped he wouldn’t be forced to kill any of them.

9

The reason Wolfram and Hart had probably selected this area for their new L.A. headquarters was probably due to the fact that it was quiet. An industrial “park” was their nearest neighbor, a collection of white washed, tin walled cracker boxes used for various manufacturing and storage facilities, and only during the day, so demons of all sorts were free to come and go at night without fear of being seen by someone who shouldn’t see them.

But, on the negative side, the demons in Wolfram and Hart had to travel farther for a midnight snack.

Sculpted lawns covering the easy access to hell gave way to asphalt, paved expanses upon which the tin buildings rested, little heat sinks that still radiated the heat of the day even now. Even with air conditioning - and it was probably a law that death traps like this had to have them - those places had to be unbearable. Could they pay anyone enough to stay and work there? You’d think not, but he knew he was probably wrong.

He could hear the click of claws on the pavement behind him, the rasp and warmth of fetid breath, and knew the Red Wolves were right behind him, almost within pouncing distance. He was a little surprised he’d made it this far, but he supposed an entire wolf pack behind you was a great incentive to haul ass.

Although he’d walked into Wolfram and Hart and attacked them alone, he did that because he knew that’s probably what they were expecting him to do. He’d be so afraid of risking any more people in his life, his attack would be solo. But the truth was, he didn’t actually come alone. Oh sure, he went in alone, but that was totally different. He knew they’d probably try and kill him, so he brought back up that was waiting here for him, hidden but watchful. And since he was unable to guess the exact nature of what was coming after him, he brought along a couple of women who were probably every demon’s worst nightmare.

Faith emerged from one of the alleys quickly and quietly, punting the lead werewolf across the grounds and straight into a warehouse wall, which belled slightly inward on impact. “Oh man, are these those Eurotrash werewolves you told me about?”

Naomi just shot out a ball of electricity that hit the pack of remaining wolves and sent them flying, filling the night air with the acrid scent of burned fur. “They all look the same to me,” Naomi said, sparks dripping from her hands.

“It is,” he confirmed. “It looks like they got themselves a new member since we last saw them.”

“What is it with people and stupid cults?” Faith wondered, stepping out in front of him. Naomi joined her, and it was a little embarrassing, as anyone who saw this scene would think he was hiding behind them. He wasn’t, but it was better to be behind them than in front of them if there was some fighting to be done.

Angel shrugged. “Everybody likes to belong to something.”

The massive electric shock should have scared off the wolves, but of course these were semi-sentient, pissed off werewolves, so they weren’t as smart or as easily frightened off. They got up snarling, but kept their distance, obviously trying to figure out a strategy. Angel suggested one. “Get out of here while you can still walk.”

They ignored him; he expected them to. They collected themselves into a group and glared at them with acidic yellow eyes, thin skin pulling back over sharp ivory teeth, their growls synchronized into a single demonic rumble. Angel sprung the knife from his sleeve, and even though it wasn’t silver, he knew if he cut their heads off they’d die. That was a general rule, with a couple of obvious exceptions.

Faith glanced back at him, noticing the knife. “That’s new.”

“I figured I should be prepared for anything.”

“Fair enough. But does Logan know you’re stealing his bit?” She flashed him a smart ass grin before turning away, facing the wolves once more, fists raised and ready to strike.

“Hey, he has three apiece. I just got the one.”

The wolves looked at all three of them in a predatory fashion, but seemed unable to move, not even their alpha male willing to commit and risk a kicking or a zapping. But suddenly they lifted their muzzles as one, sniffing the air, and even though he hardly wanted to copy them, he subtly sniffed the air as well.

He got the scent at about the same time they entered visual range. “Whoa, saw the flash,” Brendan said, approaching from behind the wolves. “Thought you might need - oh shit.”

The wolves turned as one and sprang at Bren as a group, but before they reached him, the guy with Bren grabbed him and spun Bren behind him, shoving himself into the path of the werewolves. He looked vaguely familiar, and Angel recognized the leather/high impact Kevlar jacket he was wearing as much like the one Scott wore. A friend of Bren’s from the X-Men? Why didn’t he recognize him? “Don’t -” he began, but it was too late. The lead werewolf had launched itself at the young man and fastened its teeth on his raised arm -

- and the teeth snapped, just broke off all at once, hitting the asphalt with a sound like falling glass. The werewolf looked shocked, and the man ripped his arm out of the wolf’s now toothless, bleeding maw, leering down at him evilly. “Is that all you’ve got? Damn, that’s sad.”

Another wolf tried to launch past him, but he snapped out a leg so fast it was almost a blur, and side kicked the wolf square in the muzzle, sending it flying back with the not so gentle sound of broken teeth. “Nope, that’s not gonna work either. Try again.” He wasn’t scared or intimidated in the least - in fact, he seemed to be on the verge of laughing, which was a little unsettling.

Faith had started forward, but Angel grabbed her arm and stopped her. “He’s an X-Man. I think he’s got it.” He finally recognized him: it was Saddiq, who looked more like a teenage boy the last time he saw him. But now he looked more like the man he was becoming, whip thin but leanly muscular, and almost cruelly handsome, with an evil grin as sharp as a razor blade. Two wolves tried to get around him, but he kicked one and grabbed the other by the muzzle, forcing his hands inside its jaws. “Good dogs don’t bite,” he said, snapping its jaw with a sickening crack that made Angel wince.

He started to pick up an odd smell from the werewolves, one kind of like vinegar. It was fear and panic, and from the way their tails drooped, they were at a perfect loss what to do. They couldn’t bite Saddiq, nor get past him, and if they turned around, they’d get zapped by Naomi, and pounded by him and Faith. Suddenly they were in a no win situation, and didn’t know what to do. So they did the only thing they could - they ran away.

Saddiq turned to follow, but Angel told him, “Let them go.”

He turned back to fix him with a dark glare. “They could go after civilians.”

That made him scoff. “With no teeth and broken jaws? I doubt it.”

“They’ll heal,” Faith pointed out. “Regeneration’s part of the package.”

“But not quickly. They probably won’t get their teeth back until they return to their Human form. Besides, I only wanted to scare them off, and we did that in spades.”

Bren, in his spiky Brachen form, looked over Saddiq’s shoulder, and commented, “I guess it’s a good thing we showed up when we did.”

Angel stared at him in mild anger and disbelief. “Actually, no. I can’t believe Giles told you where to find me.”

“Umm, he didn’t. When we got to the office, I noticed the computer was still on. So I checked the browser history, found an address scribbled on a post-it in the trash, and put two and two together.”

Damn it! Bren was just too good at the detective thing for his half-assed operation. He noticed Faith looking at him expectantly out of the corner of his eye. “Well, you gonna introduce us or what?”

“Faith, Naomi, this is Saddiq. Saddiq, this is Faith and Naomi.”

All the strangely unsettling glee was gone from his face, replaced with his usual unreadable expression as Saddiq stepped forward and gave them a small, respectful bow before offering his hand. “Pleased to meet you. Are you a mutant as well?”

Faith shook his hand, and gave him a sly smile, eyes twinkling. She thought he was cute, and perhaps a little funny, but Angel knew her well enough to know it was his brutal fighting style that she found most attractive. Could it hold a candle to Logan’s, though? “Naw, I’m a Slayer, which is a real long story. So what’s your power? I couldn’t tell.”

“My skin is impenetrable. Save for adamantium, but somehow I doubt there are werewolves with adamantium teeth.”

“One would hope not,” Angel said, as Naomi slipped on her gloves. When Saddiq shook her hand, he mentioned that Bren had told him all about her, and he was honored to meet her. Angel couldn’t figure out if it was because Bren had talked her up, or if it was because she was a fellow mutant.

He had no idea why he was here now, or why Brendan wanted him to see them, but Angel was reasonably certain he could fold Saddiq into his plan. Well, if he was willing to play weak and inexperienced.

But why wouldn’t he? Being an X-Man seemed to indicate that you were on some level a team player.

*****

You could tell a lot about a person by their décor.

For instance, you could easily discern where their priorities were. The inside of Amir’s place looked like it was furnished from a junkyard, with a broken down couch and a rattan chair that was starting to unravel at one leg, while there were some large throw pillows scattered across the floor, stained with spilled beer and bong water and vomit. But there was a nice television on a rickety stand, with an old but not badly used Nintendo 64 with four connected controllers and about a dozen game cartridges scattered about.

Amir sat on the rickety chair, and Vik, gun tucked visibly into the waistband of his pants, sat on the floor, as did a second bodyguard sitting just outside the archway leading into other rooms (he could only see cupboards from his vantage point, making him think it was a kitchen), and Logan figured out that was the protocol. So even though he pretended he was going to remain standing, he eventually sat down amongst the floor pillows, trying to keep the newly stained ones far from him.

The bodyguard by the kitchen pulled out a fat hand rolled joint and lit it and took an experimental puff before bringing it to Amir, who took a long, deep drag off the joint, holding in the smoke for a very long time. After finally exhaling a large cloud of grey smoke towards the water stained ceiling, he held the joint out towards him, the look in his eyes amused and vicious. This was a test.

So he took it and took a deep drag off it. Pot didn’t effect him - presumably he’d had it before - but he could still feel just a little bit of it for a moment. The pot you could get in Asian made the pot you could get in the States seem like oregano; it was the difference between “near beer” and a genuine Irish stout. It was the real deal, the stuff that could knock even the most dedicated Western pothead flat on his ass. He knew if he didn’t have his healing factor, he’d probably be reeling, so he figured he’d take long pauses before speaking, like he was trying desperately to remember how to speak.

He offered the joint to Vik, who glared at him with his one good eye, and then handed it back to Amir, who gave him a nasty little grin. “So why do you call them the others?”

He snickered, shaking his head at him like he was an idiot. “Don’t cha even know they ain’t human, journo?”

“I know they’re mutants, if that’s what you mean.”

“Filthy freaks,” he commented, spitting on the floor before taking another deep drag off the joint. Only after he exhaled did he add, “Hate the fuckers. Things come too easy to ‘em.”

He found it hard not to laugh, but managed not to. He knew Amir’s drug use and the fact that the pot smelled like a rancid skunk would make smelling his veracity a bit more difficult, but not impossible. (Still, he might have to burn his clothes after this. He had a feeling he’d never get the pot stench out.)

A little more questioning and a few more tokes later, Amir told him something useful. “You’re not the only white guy lookin’ for ‘em. There’s a bunch of ‘em around Naher Canyon, probably searching for the old mujahadeen hideouts, but the mujahadeens aren’t around anymore. They’re some kinda military assholes, but not CIA.”

Naher meant river. Kind of a bland name, but probably functionally descriptive. “How do you know?”

Amir snickered again, looking at him like the dumbest damn thing he ever scraped off the bottom of his shoe. “’Cause the fuckin’ CIA built that big ass bunker for ‘em. If they were CIA, they’d know where it was.”

For some reason, this tripped something in the back of his mind, burbling up a fact he didn’t realize he knew. “Oh right. The CIA armed and aided the mujahadeen against the Soviets.”

“No fucking kidding, man. Somewhere in Naher they say there’s a cave that isn’t really a cave - it leads to a bomb proof bunker full of weapons and shit, a place one of the warlords lived out of for a long time before they packed up their shit and went to Afghanistan. The rumors have it the freaks have made it their own, ya know, but I don’t know how they could have found it without getting their asses killed.”

“It’s protected?”

He shifted in the chair, making it creak ominously, like it was about a half a pound away from collapsing into a collection of loose fibers. “Prob’ly not, not in a conventional sense. It’s the old traps, the ones the mujahadeen left behind. D’ya really think they’d deactivate ‘em once they left?”

Of course; a security precaution. If there were lots of caves in the Naher - and he assumed there was - one of the most effective ways to find your quarry if massive air bombing didn’t flush them out was a cave to cave search. And some of them would have mines or even cruder booby traps for the first soldier who headed inside. Most of them would be well hidden and far from obvious.

And the funny thing was, Amir had just proved he was right about mutants. Some things did come easily to them; certain mutants could find that cave in no time at all, without risking anyone’s life. And Logan knew he could find that cave easily, simply by smelling where all the people had gone. Not a problem at all.

There was the problem of the Organization though, who must be the military guys Amir had seen (and he got no sense that he was lying). Did they have mutants with them? They must have. He’d have to take them out carefully, unless he wanted to blow his cover.

Then again, would it matter? They might wonder about the team being taken out, but the Organization would blame Black Fire for any deaths. And as long as he cleaned up Black Fire before their back up arrived, he wouldn’t have to worry about them ever being the wiser. He took another toke and passed the joint back. It was now just smoke in his lungs, much more stinky than his usual cigar. “How many military guys are we talking about? Are they American, Russian, British ..?”

He continued to give him a look like he was totally beneath him, which was fine by him. If he honestly thought he was that far above him, he wouldn’t consider him a threat. It probably also helped that he was getting increasingly stoned. “Fuck if I know. Why don’t you go ask them yourself?”

“Tell me where they are and I will.”

Amir assessed him with heavily glazed eyes, his lids half-lowered and sleepy. But there was still the look of a predator lurking beneath the drugs, something sharp that couldn’t be blunted. “You know, I bet you will. But you don’t think I’m gonna give ya something for nothin’, do ya?”

He reached into his pocket - slowly, as Vik hardly had a contact high - and pulled out a fistful of cash. “How much do you want?”

Amir’s reactions were slow. It seemed to take a full minute for his eyes to study the money and scud up towards his face, his smile growing at the same pace. “It doesn’t work quite like that. Oh, we’ll take the money, but I also want a little bit of your blood.”

Logan wasn’t terribly surprised that more gang members, ones he hasn’t beaten up, appeared clogging all the doorways, blotting out the light bleeding through the window. He glanced around slowly, still trying to keep up the stoned pretense, and counted at least a dozen men, ranging from about fourteen to surely eighteen.

Yes, he could take them all. But was it worth?

*****

As it was, he decided it was best for them to beat him a bit.

They claimed at first that they’d be taking him out of their “home” through a secret exit he couldn’t see, but he knew they were lying even before they put the bag over his head and tied his hands behind his back. To play the fear card, he told them in a semi-joking manner that his paper wouldn’t pay a cent for him. They didn’t disbelieve him.

They led him out, and he let himself stumble a couple of times, although oddly enough he didn’t naturally and he couldn’t say why. Was this some obscure Bob power sense? He had an uncertain but nearly palpable idea of the space all around him.

They took him out towards a car with a leak in its brake fluid line, and someone who smelled like Vik punched him in the stomach while wearing brass knuckles. Then the others closed in and threw blind punches, but Logan let himself drop, as it was easier to convince yourself you kicked a bone somehow than with a punch - up close and immediate, you knew or you didn’t. Besides, his gut hurt from the blow, and he actually coughed up a bit of blood before whatever internal damage was healed.

Some of them hurt themselves, but were derided as wimps by the others. He went limp, pretended to be unconscious, and they went through his pockets before picking him up and shoving him in the back of the car. (There was much complaining about his weight, but there must have been some honor amongst them, as they let him keep the knife.) Someone - it smelled like Amir’s other bodyguard - drove for a while, a relatively smooth road turning rutted and bumpy, and then finally he stopped, got out, and unceremoniously dumped him in the dirt.

Logan waited for a minute after he drove off before he started to move. He listened hard, but heard nothing around him. So, had they dumped him like trash, or dropped him off for Black Fire? The curiosity was just killing him.