7

Logan eyed the big guy, wondering where he should hit first - eyes, neck, knees, or the good old stand by, groin - when he heard racing footsteps somewhere in the distance. Not coming towards him, like the mob guys, but coming towards the Hulk, coming up behind him. A friend of the behemoth? Somehow he didn’t think so, so he decided to play the hunch. He was pretty sure the big guy hadn’t heard it yet. “Why are you with these idiots?” Logan asked, trying to distract him. “Don’t you know who you’re working for?”

The big guy cracked his knuckles. “Says the moron who does stuff for free. Maybe you wouldn’t be best known for being a homeless drifter if you weren’t an idiot.”

Logan tensed his arms, balling his fists at his sides. “Weird. I thought I was better known for killing assholes like you.” He decided to see if he could make this guy take the first move, and he did so by backing up a step. Just like he thought, it spurred the guy’s “fight or flight” response, and he lumbered forward, as graceful as an ox in high heels. (Which made for a great mental picture.) The ox was so focused on him he really didn’t notice Faith coming up behind him until it was too late.

He’d started to turn, but Faith had already launched into her drop kick, and she landed squarely on his back, heels digging in between his shoulder blades. He started toppling like a redwood, and Logan stepped aside, but instinctively popped his claws and jammed them upwards, skewering one of his kidneys (assuming he had all the standard issue organs in the standard issue places). He let out a grunt of pain and tried to grab him, but Logan slipped free just before he hit the asphalt with a bone jarring thud.

Faith came over and kicked him in the face hard, so hard that Logan heard a cheekbone snap, and if he wasn’t unconscious now, he was certainly heavily dazed. She quickly pulled up the ox’s coat and found his shoulder holster, pulling out his gun. “You ain’t man enough to have this,” she told him.

He grabbed her arm and pulled her away from him and down the alley. “Go West; I’m goin’ East.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “That’s how you thank me?”

He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “You’re the best girlfriend ever. But you need to get goin’ now, ‘cause if they see us together we’ll lose the element of surprise.” As if to underscore that, the ox groaned and shifted in the alley - he wasn’t completely down yet. Damn it. How tough was that fucker?

She tucked the gun into her waistband, and said, “You’re lucky that makes sense. See you on the flip side.” She took off up the side street, and he lingered long enough to confirm that the syrup slow mobsters knew which way he was going before taking off down the street.

He heard the squeal of a car cornering way too fast, and knew they’d sent out drivers as well. Terrific. He loitered in a dark doorway until he saw the speeding black vehicle, and made a quick visual scan, confirming there was almost no one out at the moment. But then again, this was where the town started to be known as the “bad side” - the only people here were doing illegal deals of one sort or another. They knew how to disappear fast.

Logan had to time this just right, but he figured even if he fucked up, he’d still get what he wanted. He ran and jumped up on the hood of a parked Subaru, and then launched himself at the speeding Escalade.

He jumped before it reached him, calculating inertia and momentum, and figuring even if he jumped too soon and they hit him, the sheer amount of adamantium in him would lead to major damage, but he was roughly correct in his calculations. He hit the hood and crashed right through the bulletproof windshield.

Glass flew like a hurricane of razor blades as he plopped straight into the laps of the driver and the passenger, both beyond stunned at the arrival of a sudden guest, and as the driver fought to control the steering wheel, Logan kneed him in the face, catching him straight under the chin. The passenger drew his gun, but Logan gave him a sharp elbow that shattered his nose, splattering him with blood, knocking the man out for now.

The Escalade crashed violently into a parked SUV on the side of the street, throwing him hard against the dashboard, which cracked and crumpled beneath his adamantium spine. The SUV’s car alarm started screeching like a banshee, which was funny since the thing was fucking totaled. It was like crying wolf after the paddock had been emptied.

There was a guy in the back seat, but he hadn’t had a clear shot until now. He aimed and fired, going for the throat, but Logan shifted and took it in the side of his face - a solid blow like an anvil to the face, followed by the singe and burn of torn open skin and hot gunpowder - and at the same time slashed out. Logan felt the contact and heard the scream, warm blood splashing on him, and when his gunpowder burnt eyes healed, he saw he’d cut off the man’s gun hand. Fair enough. It was rude to point anyways.

He kicked open the passenger door, and a woman exclaimed, “Oh my god! Are you -” She stopped dead as she saw the claws coming out of his hands, and dropped the cell phone, which shattered on the sidewalk. She backed up several steps, her eyes as wide as silver dollars. The vinegary scent of fear overwhelmed the scent of her perfume. “You’re - uh - um … one of them.”

That annoyed the shit out of him - one of them? Like he was something out of a freak show - but he didn’t have time to deal with that. He heard loud Russian conversation across the street, trying to figure out if open pursuit was best (the cops would surely be on the way) or if they should just retreat and set a trap for him later, so he took off running, retracting his claws into his hands.

The next block over, he paused to catch his breath and listen. There were police sirens approaching, and he figured the chase was over for now. Although there were probably cops on their payroll, there was no way for their boys (or girls - although it was more likely to be boys) to control the environment without giving themselves away. He wondered how the driver and witnesses would explain someone diving in front of their super armored Escalade, and figured it would be hilarious, but he didn’t stick around to hear it. He wiped the blood off his face before walking out of the shadows, trying his best to stick to back ways and alleys where no one would notice him or at least wouldn’t give a shit.

He made his way back to the coffee shop, and he’d just hit the block when Faith appeared, revving a hot red Corvette that was undoubtedly expensive (one of Tony’s? Or had she bought her own?) and hardly inconspicuous. Still, he was glad to see it, especially when she popped open the passenger side door. “Run into Big Stupid again?”

He assumed that was her name for the Ox. “Nah. I took out one of the Escalades instead.”

“Cool.” As soon as he was inside the car, she peeled away from the curb, then reached across and opened the glove compartment. He could see that she had a towel and wet naps in it. “When you’re a Slayer for a while, you learn you always gotta be prepared for bein’ slimed.”

“I bet.” He wiped the rest of the blood off his face and arms with the towel, which was so old it seemed as soft and thin as a chamois.

“I gotta change of clothes in the trunk, but I bet they won’t fit you.”

“I don’t look good in belly shirts.”

She laughed, elbowing him lightly. “Are you kiddin’ me? With your abs? Yeah you do.”

Now there was a mental picture he didn’t need.

****

There was nothing to do but go back to Faith’s place and wait. He took a shower and cleaned up, changed clothes, and they split a pizza while waiting for Mystique to call.

The incident - the Escalade crash - made the evening news, but only as part of a “suspected gang war involving the Russian mafia”. The plastic pretty newscasters didn’t mention a person hitting the car, and they had no witnesses saying anything of the sort, but he really didn’t expect them to. This was all entering a weird territory, especially for Canada, which really wasn’t accustomed to this sort of thing. They weren’t like New York or California or Florida, where a mob related killing was often met with a half-hearted shrug. People at very high levels were probably freaking out.

Not to mention the Russian mob. What was their next move? He’d proven they didn’t have anything he couldn’t get to - would they really try and trap him? How? Well, on the surface that was an easy answer: present him a target so juicy he’d have to hit it, even if he believed it was a trap. But what then? Getting him to enter a trap was easy - keeping him there was the hard part. Surely they knew about not only Bloody Friday, but that whole Triad/Yakuza thing in Hong Kong. They knew he wasn’t easy prey. So what did they have that they thought could stop him? More mutants of the ox variety?

That was actually a slightly bothersome thought. He didn’t have any delusions about that - Ox was not down and out. Along with super strength he must have been tougher than your average bear, because after getting a kidney bisected and taking a full strength kick in the face from Faith, he had still been moving. He would be back, and he would be pissed off. The only question was, how many friends did he have?

They were watching a Simpsons episode, him sitting in the corner of her sofa while she stretched out on it, her head resting on his leg, when she looked up at him and asked, “What if she doesn’t call?”

As the hours had ticked by, that question had occurred to him too. “If she wanted to take them on alone, she would have. I think she wants to make them suffer before she kills them.”

“That’s the betrayal angle. What about the caught and killed angle?”

He shook his head, automatically dismissing it. “She’s too good. She won’t get caught.”

Faith studied him skeptically, long enough that he glared back down at her “What?”

“For mortal enemies, you sound like you almost admire her.”

He snorted derisively. "No. But I respect her. She's the best at what she does."

"Which is what, exactly?"

"Cause havoc and destruction. Nobody can take something down from the inside like Mystique can. She lives to destroy."

Faith chewed on that for a moment. "As thoughts go, that's not very comforting."

"Normally no. But in this case it works."

Or so he hoped. Again, they had no knowledge of any other mutants within the mob, and no idea what their powers were. It was possible there was someone who could see through Mystique, counteract her powers. If so, she really was screwed.

About an hour later, the phone finally rang.

"So you threw yourself at a car," she said, chuckling faintly. "Not subtle, huh?"

"I'm not supposed to be subtle. I'm supposed to make them piss their pants," he pointed out. Since her voice was female, non-Russian, he assumed she was in a different form, one that wouldn't be noticed by other mobsters. "Land line?"

"Pay phone," she confirmed. Which was good, as cell phone calls could be intercepted quite easily. Land lines were a hell of a lot more secure. "You should see these poor assholes. They're in a complete tizzy. They don't know why you're after them, and they're trying to figure out who you want."

"They'd give him to me?"

"To make you go away? Hell yes. They'd give you a million dollars if it would make you walk. Not only are you killing their people, you're doing two things they hate. You're shining a media spotlight on them, and you're making them look weak to other gangs."

This was Vancouver, so there wasn't a lot of choices. "Triad?"

"Looks like they're positioning themselves to move in on their territory. But they're waiting for you to back off. They don't want on your bad side again." She paused briefly. "You've done some fucking up of the gangs around here before, haven't you?"

He grimaced at the memory, and rubbed his eyes, which suddenly seemed dry and sandy. "Let's just say we've never gotten along. I don't like people who take advantage of other people, especially as a business model."

She chuckled again, but in a low, dry way that seemed inherently evil. It gave him a shiver. "How can you be a beast and a goody two shoes at the same time? I don't get how that works."

"I am not a beast," he growled, turning his back on Faith so she didn't see the expression on his face - or he hers. Not that it mattered; they could both guess.

Again, Mystique continued to chuckle. "Yeah, right. I saw you yesterday -"

"What the fuck have you learned?" he interrupted testily. Okay, this was a bad move, he was letting her know she'd gotten under his skin, but he couldn't help it right now. He hated being referred to as some kind of animal ... although, with a nickname like Wolverine, he would be called an animal for all the days of his life.

She sighed, as if he was a tremendous burden to her. "They keep referring to "the warehouse", which is where the auction's going to take place. It's on one of the piers, but I haven't narrowed it down yet. It's going on tomorrow night, although there's some fear that your appearance is going to fuck things up. Some people have gotten nervous; some who know your reputation have already pulled out and left."

"Smart people."

"The head guy here, Radinovitch, keeps insisting they can handle you, that you're not the only mutant in the area."

"The big guy?"

"Yeah, his name is Roshenko. They have been talking like there's more, though. The name Kolinkov has come up."

"Who's he?"

"No idea. I assume he's a mutant too, but I can't tell you what he looks like or what his powers are ... yet. The guy I doubled is just muscle; he's a low level lackey. I'm going to try and aim higher."

He knew that she had killed one of the mobsters in front of the Pacific Grand and taken his place - that was the only way this was going to work. Once his body was identified, though, they'd be in major trouble. Still, he figured she’d do what she was planning to do: take someone else's place. "Be careful. If they find the body -"

She made a derisive noise. "Oh please. Who's the shapeshifter here? By the time they find this idiot, we'll be long gone."

Yes, well, that was stupid. He should never have doubted Mystique's ability to kill and get away with it. "Tell me, do the Russians still meet at that bar downtown?"

"What, the one you razed several years ago? Yeah, but they're tripled the security there - they figure you're gonna hit it. They think you don't know about the restaurant, though."

"The restaurant?"

She gave him the address, and then said, "Gotta go. I'll check in once I have something useful. Happy hunting."

"Same to you." He hung up, wondering why caffeine never seemed to work for him. Oh, if he shotgunned a pot of coffee or a six pack of Red Bull he'd get a brief buzz, but it only lasted a minute or two before it faded away, his system adapting to it and rendering it neutral. He felt like he could use the jolt right now.

"That sounded like I'm gonna hafta kick her ass," Faith said.

He smirked, turning to face her. "Don't ever let me stop ya."

She crossed her arms over her chest, her wide brown eyes surprisingly compassionate. "So what's going on?"

He sighed, the weariness settling on his shoulder like a lead cloak. "I'm gonna wait a couple hours, then I'm heading out again."

"Oh yeah? Why?"

"'Cause I'm gonna test their loyalty to their man. I'm gonna split them down the middle."

She narrowed her eyes skeptically. "Do you mean that figuratively or literally?"

He shrugged. "That's gonna be up to them."

At least adrenaline was a buzz that lasted a long time.

****

The restaurant looked like any other, a small rectangular building made of brick, the windows narrow and covered with dark curtains, but it didn’t look sinister more than homely and almost quaint. You’d never know to look at it that it was a front for the Russian mafia, except that they had borsch as a menu item.

There weren’t many people inside, which was a good thing. As soon as he entered, the small brass bell on the door jingling, he flipped the “Open” sign to “Closed”, and barked, “Leave, now!”

There were looks of confusion from the waitress, the hostess, and some of the diners. But a man at a far table looked at him with wide eyes, and Logan knew he recognized him. Because he was Russian mafia.

Logan dove for him as he reached under his coat, and people started screaming and scrambling for the door before his gun had cleared his jacket. Logan grabbed him by the wrist and twisted sharply, breaking his arm and making him scream as his gun tumbled from his useless hand. Someone burst out the kitchen door and shot him in the head - it felt like a cannonball grazed him, dropping him to one knee, stars briefly exploding before his eyes. He shook it away, feeling a warm trickle of blood down his scalp, and glared over his shoulder at the thick necked moron with the gun. “You guys haven’t learned a fucking thing, have you?” he growled. “Bullets don’t hurt me.” As he snarled at the man, his hand slid towards the first mobster’s fallen gun. “But I bet they hurt you.” He raised the gun and fired, and the man fell back through the kitchen doors. Logan hadn’t aimed, so he doubt he’d hit him, but he sure as shit scared him. After all, Wolverine wasn’t supposed to use guns.

The broken handed mobster was going for another weapon with his good hand, so Logan sprung his claws and plunged them through his shoulder and drove him down to the floor, kneeling on his gut and pressing the hot barrel of the gun into his forehead. His screaming went up a register as the smell of singed flesh filled his nostrils. “Shut the fuck up, asshole. The only reason you’re still alive is I need you to get a message to Radinovitch.”

At the use of his boss’s name, he fell silent, staring up at him with wide, wild eyes, pupils shrunk to pinpricks, heaving for breath like he’d just run a marathon, sweat and hair gel melting down his broad face. He was about one small shock away from a heart attack.

“You listening? Good. You tell him I‘ll go away as soon as he gives me Vogel. And if he doesn’t give me Vogel, I’m not gonna stop until I chop your boss’s ugly fucking head off. Got it?”

He nodded as best he could, and Logan tossed his gun across the room and pulled his claws out of his shoulder, making him scream again. Logan didn’t bother doing anything else to him, as he had no fight left in him.

Stalking to the door, it exploded open before he could reach it, and a dark suited thug in a long coat slashed at him with a machete. Logan brought up his arm to stop it, the blade biting straight through muscle and flesh before hitting adamantium bone and shattering like it was made of glass. As the fragments of blade flew across the room, Logan slashed him across the face, cutting off most of his nose.

The man screamed bloody murder, bringing his hands up to his nose stump as blood gushed freely from his face, and Logan kicked him in the gut, sending him sprawling on the pavement outside. “Did you really think that was going to work?” Logan taunted him, before kicking him in the face and putting an end to his screaming.

Now the ball was in the mob’s court. And, if he was right, things were about to get very, very ugly.