The Thrill is Gone

Summary: “Gotta love family, eh?” Vic sat back and lit his cigar; his cheeks hollowed as he inhaled the sweet poison into his lungs.

Author’s Note: If you don’t like violence, this might not be your chapter.

Within minutes, Logan was in his truck, thankful that she had more than half a tank of gas. He had flung on his clothes from that day, wrinkles, sweat and all.

Remy… The night was cold, but the nuisance of the frigid air kept him wide awake and alert. Logan was running on all six cylinders, and he never had so much to lose.

Google was a good thing. Remy had emailed him his GPS location a while back, and both men’s cell phones were on the same network provider. According to the satellite feed, Remy and his cell were traveling due north on highway five. He didn’t dare call him again, even though he needed more details about where he was headed. Where he was being taken.

The streets were slightly familiar; Logan remembered riding along that strip when he followed Remy to Bella’s house to retrieve some of Rene’s things that awful night.

Belladonna… He realized with bitter frustration that she would need to know what happened to Remy. Then he wondered, what if she did know? Adrenaline was making him lose focus, making him torn between continuing to track Remy or just going straight to the horse’s mouth and talking to his ex.

His GPS made up his mind for him. There was an old time signature showing where Remy had been the last time he dialed Logan’s number. Logan passed a poorly lit convenience store and gas station and cruised through the next two stoplights.

His GPS beeped; he’d overshot his turn. Logan banged an illegal U-turn, heedless of whether he would get caught. His highbeams caught slick, black skidmarks along the asphalt, as though someone else had taken the same route he had, at a breakneck speed. The buildings along this side of the road were derelict, more so than the rest two blocks back. Logan grew more uncomfortable as he noticed the long gaps between street lamps. Remy would have had to find his way in almost complete darkness. Unease twisted his gut. Rem, please be okay. Hold on.

The mechanical sounding voice of his GPS told him to turn in to an abandoned alley, overgrown with clumps of weeds. The stagnant reek of the dumpster wrinkled his nose as he rolled down his window and parked at the curb. Logan had to focus past it, and it was time to put his gift to work. He inhaled deeply, taking in the miasma of scents, mentally discarding the ones that didn’t matter to him.

Each scent had its own temperature when he relied on his enhanced sense of smell. Much like wearing infrared goggles, Logan’s olfactory system could pick out “hot spots” of smells that were completely organic in nature, and he could also tell how old the source of the smell was, how long of a chance it had to degrade or evaporate.

Logan picked up Remy’s signature amidst the odors and stale smell of moldy, weathered buildings and concrete. It was still warm, but less discernibly, Logan caught another human footprint in the alley. Roughly the same age, and he was a smoker. Logan inhaled sharp bursts of the scents, then stopped in the alley. He closed his eyes and extended his awareness of the shapes and space around him, orienting himself.

When he opened his eyes again, his vision adjusted itself, sharpening to accommodate the darkness and to pick up details he might have missed before. Such as footprints.

Two people, both tall men, he guessed. The footfalls were deep and blurred, like the first man had skidded, no doubt from a dead run. The second set of prints were more closely spaced; perhaps the pursuer had shorter legs, or at any rate, a quicker stride. Logan growled low in his throat as he followed the trail down to the back of the alley. There was a wire-link fence around the bend. Remy might have tried to circumvent it, or to climb over it, but the trail changed by a back stoop.

One set of footsteps, moving slower, making a heavy imprint in the dirt. Two long furrows in the ground, like someone had been carried or dragged.

Sonofabitch knocked Remy unconscious, or worse. It didn’t bear contemplating. Logan needed action, not worst case scenarios. He doubled back and found what he was hoping for once he reached the clearing: another set of tire tracks.

They were headed north. Logan mulled his next destination carefully as he keyed the ignition, slamming the door shut as he shifted into drive and peeled out of the lot. He needed to hit the freeway. No idiot in their right mind would kidnap a man and keep him within city limits.

But Logan prayed that the next time he saw Remy, that it wouldn’t be his body. Cold fingers squeezed his chest.

*

Remy smacked sore, dry lips as he awoke, opening blurry eyes in what he guessed was a darkened room. It smelled like mildew, gunpowder and tobacco. His scalp tightened and every muscle in his body tensed. That’s when he noticed that his hands were bound at the wrist behind him. The stricture of a blindfold grazed his cheeks.

It took all he had not to groan in pain; Remy expanded his spatial awareness to determine how big the room was and how close it was to an exterior wall of the building. The floor beneath him was unyielding concrete. Remy tested his bonds; they were tight, restricting blood flow into his fingers, and the rope was unforgiving, fraying nylon.

His head throbbed, disorienting him. Remy’s ears picked the muffled sounds of men’s feet and furtive voices. Some of the accents were vague, perhaps Latino. Something scraped across the floor outside the door, and he heard what sounded like a forklift lowering its arm to unload its cargo.

The scuffling of feet grew closer, and Remy panicked. He wondered whether it would be prudent to play possum-

The option was torn from his hands. The door banged open, bouncing off the wall and making his heart skip and body jerk in surprise. A harsh light was flicked on, and he was grateful that he was blindfolded; its glare would aggravate the pounding in his skull.

“Up,” a familiar voice barked. “Up an’ at ‘em, princess. Don’t play dumb. I know yer awake.” A foot savagely kicked his hip, sending pain exploding through his flesh. Remy knew it would leave behind a bruise. He instinctively squirmed away from the man looming above him, but rough fingers tangled in his hair and yanked, threatening to tear it out by the roots and goading him to stumble to his feet. His captor jerked him out the door, and a draft of cold air rushed over his arms, raising goosebumps. They’d taken his sweater and shoes; he was garbed in only his black ribbed wifebeater and dark jeans. Remy’s phone and wallet were missing from his pockets.

He was a sitting duck.

They lead him stumbling down a corridor that felt narrow; the sounds of tools scraping against metal grew louder, and this time he also smelled motor oil and axle grease. His guardian tugged him through another door, not caring that he buffeted him against the frame, scraping up his shoulder. Remy grunted in discomfort but didn’t cry out. “Siddown!” the voice at his side snapped, and he found himself shoved into a wheeled chair that rolled back a few inches with the momentum. He struggled and was struck again for his efforts. “Dumb ass!” To his horror, Remy heard the sound of ripping tape, someone unrolling long wads of it, and sure enough, he was bound against the cold vinyl and metal chair. Panic made his pulse throb in his neck, and Remy broke out into another cold sweat.

“That didn’t take long.”

“Ya weren’t the one waitin’ on him ta come outta his old lady’s house,” muttered the voice of Remy’s captor. “Got real borin’ after a while.”

“Take yer Ritalin and chill the fuck out, Gib.” The newcomer’s voice reminded Remy of someone, and this one was deeper and more gravelly, seeming to come from a physically larger man. “Gotta hand it to ya,” he remarked, addressing Remy this time, “yer old lady’s got a pair of vocal cords on her, huh? She like that when ya fuck? I got better ears than most people, but I coulda heard yer old lady comin’ down ten city blocks. Save the drama fer yer mama, that’s what we used ta say back in the day. Gotta keep some of that shit behind closed doors, eh?” Remy was silent. “But that’s right. Ya don’t fuck anymore. Do ya. Not her.” Remy’s cheeks flushed hotly beneath the blindfold. “Ya like ‘em rough an’ quiet, don’tcha?” Remy heard the low click of a lighter and smelled the sharp tang of butane in the tiny interior of the office. It put him on edge; there was a heavy smell of sawdust in the air, coupled with the stench of motor oil and gunpowder. One stray spark could send the whole building up in a fireball; it galled Remy that it was the least of his worries. “Someone ta boss ya around. I know who lights yer fire, bub. Saw ya with the runt. Ain’t much on the eyes, is he? Don’t matter if he can tap that ass, though.”

The voice was looming over him now, having closed the gap between them. Blunt fingernails scraped Remy’s cheekbones as the blindfold was tugged off. Remy’s ruby eyes drooped with fatique and swam as they peered up, up, up into the icy blue ones that stared out from a cruel, rugged face.

“We got a problem, though. Yer other boyfriend, here, Jul…he ain’t that smart. Ya probably figured that out by now. I always told him not ta shit where ya eat. I’m just guessin’ at what’s goin’ on with you an’ him, Bright Eyes. Gotta lotta stuff bottled up if ya feel like ya hafta kick someone’s ass in the front yard. I bailed him out the last time the two of ya got into it. That ain’t somethin’ I just do any ol’ time, fer just any of my people. Ya gotta rate. Most days, Jul does that.” Victor cradled Remy’s jaw in his large palm with surprising gentleness, but Remy still winced, flinching back at his touch. “Yer a pretty piece of ass. It’s a fuckin’ shame.” He lightly slapped his cheek and moved back, barely sitting against the edge of the desk. He stretched out long, muscular legs and crossed them at the ankles, musing. “Damn shame,” he repeated.

Kyle watched the conversation with interest; the corner of his mouth twitched whenever Victor said something that amused him. “Ain’t got nothin’ ta say? You shy?” Vic shrugged his shoulder up and sniffed himself. “Do I offend?” Victor sighed. “It ain’t gonna make a difference. Bein’ quiet. It ain’t gonna matter a fuckin’ bit. Ya know too much. Ya’ve seen too much. Dead men are the only ones who tell no tales, bub; they’re the only ones ya can count on not ta say shit.” Victor’s eyes narrowed as he pursed his lips around his cigar. He sucked hungrily on it, practically nursing it, and the embers at its tip glowed an angry orange in response. “I know what yer thinkin’. And yer wrong. No one’s as quiet as they think they can be. Someone always leans on ‘em. Folks get scared. They wanna protect themselves.” He nodded to Kyle. “Ain’t that right, Wild Child?”

“Right. Hell, yeah.” Victor hadn’t invited him to smoke with him. Kyle contented himself with digging out a pouch from his can of Skoal Bandits and tucked it inside his cheek.

“Shit just slips out,” Victor shrugged, letting a hint of a smile toy with his lips. “It don’t take much.”

He lunged to his feet and his hand darted out before Remy could blink. Remy smelled the acrid stench of burnt flesh and hair as Victor stabbed his cigar into the side of his neck, sending blinding pain ripping along his nerve endings. “AAAGGGGHH…!! NNNNGG…” He fought against the need to scream and his skin was stretched taut over his jaw, making the veins stand out in stark relief. Victor knotted his fingers in Remy’s hair to hold him immobile and drilled the stub into the wound. The ashes dropped onto his tank top, staining it in black-gray smears. Tears leaked from the corner of his right eye as he continued to lean away as far from Victor as possible.

“Nice. I like this one. Thinks he’s got stones,” he guffawed.

“Big ones,” Kyle agreed, sucking on the pouch and spitting a stream of foul juice into the corner.

“Man. What’m I gonna do with ya?” Victor shook his long blond mane and sighed. He moved back behind the desk and plunked himself back in the cracked leather executive’s chair. “Jul ain’t much of a brother in law, eh?” He kicked his feet up onto the desk, showing Remy the soles of his battered snakeskin boots as he crossed his ankles again. “Gotta love family, eh?” Vic sat back and lit himself a fresh cigar; his cheeks hollowed as he inhaled the sweet poison into his lungs.

*

The work inside the warehouse was slowing down to the sounds of metal parts scraping the insides of wooden crates as they were prepared for shipment. Several voices rose in complaint as someone cut off the radio, doing away with the throbbing acid rock pumping through the production floor.

Julien leaned back against the wall, arms folded tightly across his chest. His thin denim jacket offered little protection against the drafty building’s chill. Julien huddled closer to the tiny space heater and lit himself a cigarette. He’d worked hard to wrap up Vic’s “project” for him, lying to himself that he’d given Victor his money’s worth in the bail he’d put up. But once Victor owned you, he owned you.

Julien leaned up from the wall and began to pace, restlessness making him itch. Victor said his “clients” were en route to pick up their parts, but it was his second meeting that had him on edge, particularly for the merchandise Victor was furnishing them.

Alejandro Montoya was no one to fuck with. His handle on the streets was “El Aguila,” and he had a mean tattoo splashed across his back of the eagle from the Mexican flag strangling a snake from its talons, foam and gore dripping from its mouth. All those in the know didn’t look his way when his Lexus rolled down the strip; you didn’t want to be caught looking when one of his tinted windows rolled down, whether he wanted a word with you or his Glock was pointed your way. He was mercurial and unpredictable, and at twenty-six, he was one of the oldest members of the Heroes Poderosos. A thriving gun and protection racket made him one of the richest and most paranoid contacts in Victor’s Rolodex.

Victor kept his friends close and his friends’ enemies closer if their money was the right color. In the back room, Victor was already closing the deal with Hector Ayala, the “White Tiger” to his crew. They planned to move the parts quickly and distribute them far and wide, quick, easy, dirty money. The Mutantes Furiosos rolled large and hard, multiplying in ranks as quickly as you took them out; there was strength in numbers and in word of mouth, if no one killed you for opening yours. Hector and Alex Montoya roomed together at the same detention center as minors, but there was no love lost once they were out and went separate ways. Cats and birds didn’t mix.

Julien just had a bad feeling that he couldn’t shake loose. The fight with Remy and his sister left him raw, and he still tasted the raw hatred in his mouth, like bile. Without Bella, his safety net was gone. He had no roof over his head and no one to speak for him if the shit hit the fan again, or worse, if he conveniently disappeared. He knew it was part of the cost of rolling with Victor Creed. If you stayed alive long enough to get rich, that also meant being lonely.

A rough hand reached out and goosed him viciously in the side, and Julien yelped, twisting and jerking away from the contact. He spun on Kyle, who grinned.

“Jumpy shit, aintcha?”

“Fucker,” Julien spat, retrieving the cigarette he’d dropped in surprise. “They almost done?”

“Pfft. What’s yer hurry?” He spat another wad of tobacco foam and wiped his bottom lip with his index knuckle. “Yeah, though, they’re almost done in there. Be glad yer out here instead of back there with yer girlfriend.”

“What’re ya goin’ on about? Julien ain’ got no girlfriend!”

“No? Ain’t the impression I got when he was kickin’ yer ass across the front yard, man! That fight was sweet! He might be pretty, but he don’t hit like a girl!” Julien went pale.

“What’d ya do? C’mon, man, what’d ya DO?”

“Brought ya a friend ta play with so ya don’t get lonely.” Julien plowed his hand through his hair and began to pace until Kyle stopped him. “Hey…HEY! Listen ta me, dumb ass. Ya know what happens when ya do sloppy work. Did ya think we were just gonna let anyone who knows ya were in that store walk the streets? Unless Vic finds some other use for him, that’s it; no one’s even gonna be able ta ID ‘im with his dental records. Only reason yer here right now,” he said pointedly, jabbing him in the chest with blunt fingertips, “is because yer useful. Fer now.” Julien’s bowels twisted and he broke out in to a cold sweat. His hand shook as he took another drag of his cigarette.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Dat’s fine.” He turned away and feigned interest in the men across the floor sweeping up the stray sawdust and shavings littering the concrete. Kyle huffed and spat.

Kyle grew bored with Julien’s tense pacing and near silence and he decided to get some air. He headed outside and tossed out the used up Bandit in favor of a Camel. His hand bumped up against something hard and cold, and Kyle emptied his pocket, finding the forgotten cell phone. He made a thoughtful noise in his throat and opened it up, unimpressed with the low budget gadget whose buttons had slightly worn numbers. He clicked it on, and the screen flashed a photo of a young boy smiling at the taker; Kyle assumed it was Remy’s kid from the strong resemblance, even if he didn’t have those freaky, scary eyes. Kyle scanned through the menu and found the Internet icon, deciding to entertain himself by checking the scores.

Down the road, Logan watched his phone with more attention than the road, not caring that it was illegal. His GPS finally alerted him that Remy’s phone was in use; he almost didn’t believe his eyes.

“That’s it, you bastards,” he muttered. “Come ta daddy.” Logan continued down two miles and took the next exit. The GPS warned Logan in its tinny mechanical tones that some of the roads on the route might be unknown or the names might have changed. He was fine with that.

*

Alex Montoya watched members of Hector’s crew wander up the road toward the warehouse with his highbeams turned off. He took a hungry drag of his cigarette and flicked the ashes out the window. Beside him, a striking, dark-skinned Puerto Rican girl cracked her gum and picked at a chip in her manicure.

“This is bullshit. Tell Vic to get their asses outta there.”

“Callate, cavrona.” She narrowed her eyes at him dangerously. “Calmate,” he amended, puckering his lips at her from across the console. She rolled her eyes and made a “talk to the hand” gesture, sighing.

“I’m bored. You said we were going out after this.”

“Tu tienes mi promesa, mami. Chill the fuck out. We’re going out. Once these pendejos leave, we see Vic, we get my guns, and we leave. Just give him a few more minutes.”

“It’s been a ‘few more minutes,’” she muttered. Angel Salvadore toyed with the gold cross pendant around her neck that her mami gave her for her First Communion, knowing she mourned the little girl she used to be. Beneath her black leather jacket, Angel’s lithe back was grafitti’ed in elaborate black ink; an Aztec dancer with her wings spread wide stared out proudly from between her shoulder blades, complementing Alejandro’s. He leaned over the console, tugging on her wrist. She played tug of war with it before leaning reluctantly toward him and accepting his kiss.

She grimaced unprettily as she caught sight of a familiar woman getting out of a black Escalade up ahead. “Hell, no. Uh-uh. She don’t get to go in there while I sit on my ass out here. That’s bullshit.”

“Easy, mami.”

“I hate her.”

“I know that. Chill the fuck out.” The woman wore red unapologetically, from head to toe, begging either to be manhandled in bed or shot in the street. Hector’s girlfriend, Maria Callasantos, was well known and hated within a broad radius. Her nickname was “Feral” due to her viciously long nails and the slitted pupil contact lenses she favored; in some neighborhoods, it was rumored that they were her real eyes. She moved like a stray cat, rangy and sleek, able to sneak up on you before you even knew she was breathing down your neck.

She felt their eyes on her and smirked, turning and walking away with a switch.

“Puta!” Angel spat.

Once again, cats and birds didn’t mix. Maria sighed gustily as she joined Hector inside, tracking him down in the back room. Her heels clacked and echoed against the concrete floors. She made a face and fanned the air, disgusted by the scent of cigar smoke. “Where’s the bathroom in this place? I’ve gotta piss.”

“Be a lady,” he chided her, stroking the small of her back through her skimpy red dress. She purred and ran the tip of her fingernail down his jaw. Maria turned to Victor and raised her brow.

“Gotta powder my nose?” she inquired. He nodded toward the door.

“Down the hall. Three doors down on the left.”

“Peachy.” Hector made a low “mmmm” in his throat and swatted her rump on her way out. She didn’t even flinch. Victor grunted.

“Old lady looks good, man.”

“She’s still useful.”

“Guess she’s gotta be. Don’t let her linger too long in the john. Or wander around. Got it?”

“Yeah. We’re cool, man.”

The problem with cats was that they were curious…

Maria wandered down the corridor, slipping off her five-inch, red patent leather sandals and padding soundlessly to each door, peering around the edge of each frame.

She sniffed, drawing in a deep, quiet draught of the stale air. She picked up a human scent and mentally catalogued its owner. Young. Male. Healthy, but injured; she caught the tang of fresh blood and sweat. Fear. That was the strongest odor, and it went straight to her head. Maria always knew Vic was a crooked bastard. He picked one helluva night to take what this guy owed out of him while he was taking perfectly good money from Hector’s crew, not to mention those Poderoso pussies down the road. Maria tsked and gently nudged open the door.

“Awww, mijo,” she purred, eyeing the bound, blindfolded man with something akin to pity. He was gagged, and his head tipped limply to the side. She couldn’t tell if he was resting or just too tired or injured to hold it up. But he jerked at the sound of her voice. She sauntered up to him and stood between his spread knees, too close for propriety. She tipped up his jaw with the very tip of her talon, tapping the tip of his nose playfully. “Penny for your thoughts, papi. You the strong, silent type?” she quipped. He grunted and moaned from beneath the duct tape. “We ain’t gonna have much of a talk around that.” She dug her nails beneath the edge of silver tape and snatched it back, tearing it from his skin. Remy smothered a yell. “Callate!” she hissed.

“Merde,” he hissed under his breath. “Please,” he said hoarsely. “Who…who are ya?”

“Maria,” she informed him haughtily, rolling the ‘r’. “Ain’t much else to know. I ain’t someone ya fuck with. Neither’s my man. He’s out there talkin’ ta Vic. What’d you do ta piss him off?” Remy shook his head. “What? You can tell me. I ain’t loyal to that bastard.”

“Please…help me. Ya don’ know me, chere…”

“Oooh. What is that shit, French?”

“Oui,” he said weakly.

“Mind if I take this off?” she asked before her nails inched their way beneath his blindfold. She tugged it off. “I can’t stand when I can’t see someone’s eyes, I hate it when Hector wears his…shades…shit,” she finished, mouth agape. “Damn.” She lightly stroked his cheek and stared into eyes that God couldn’t have made, staring out from one of the handsomest faces she’d ever seen. “You’re too pretty to mess up,” she accused. “What’d you do to make him rough you up, huh?”

“Don’ sound like ya care much, chere.”

“Eh. You’re right. What’d you do, if you were me? You start caring, and you end up with a knife in your back, floating face down somewhere and so torn up your own mother can’t recognize you. Can’t be a player if you can’t handle the game, homes. So I’m sorry, papi. Can’t do anything for you.” She moved to replace the blindfold.

His eyes glowed in the darkness, pupils dilating, and she was drawn into their luminous intensity as he spoke.

“Remy could take ya outta here, chere, if ya help ‘im outta dis mess. Nice lookin’ petit like you, oughta be shown off, non?” Maria giggled, a sound that hadn’t slipped past her lips since she was twelve.

“So as an empath…ya feel what I do. There anything else to it?”

“Like what?”

“Well, c’mon, Rem… Ya read feelin’s. How about controllin’ ‘em?”

It was one more secret Remy would regret until his last breath. He’d left Logan without a cohesive answer, which was just as wicked as an outright lie. He deserved Logan’s hatred if he lived long enough to confirm his suspicions about him. But now, Remy was desperate, and he channeled his remaining strength into softening his words to a hypnotic lull. She cocked her head to the side, letting her eyes roam hungrily over his face.

“What’s a man like yours got ta keep a sweet lil’ t’ing like you on his arm, chere?”

“Money. Sway. Balls,” she answered bluntly, then chuckled. She ran her fingers through Remy’s hair, giving him chills. “He ain’t as pretty as you.”

“Non? Remy ain’ so pretty right now.”

“Naw. Little torn up, but you clean up pretty. I can tell.”

Three doors up, Victor’s eyes narrowed and he no longer focused on Hector’s words. Voices… Coming from the wrong direction.

He stood and moved away from the desk, and Hector automatically rose to his feet out of respect. And caution.

Remy contemplated his options. “Know where dere’s a window?”

“Pfft…you’ve just been back here this whole time? This your first time in this dump? Sheesh. There’s a big window at the end of the hall. Don’t know if you wanna go that way, though. At least not right now. I didn’t show up alone, papi. My man’s with Vic, and those Poderosos,” and she paused to spit on the ground, “are waiting out there like vultures, acting like they’re gonna step in our talk with Vic. They need to step off.”

“Don’ sound like y’all are too friendly,” Remy mused. Sweat broke out over his flesh, and her strong perfume was making his head ache.

“You could say that.” She sighed. “We got a problem, though, papi chulo. Y’see, even if I cut you loose,” and she held up a hand to ward off his hopeful look, “you’re too beat up and look too much like someone who’s wronged Vic. They won’t trust you. Shit, even I can’t necessarily do that.”

“Chere…I’m harmless. Look at me.” His fingertips grazed her emotions, plucking at them with the lightest touch. She was rapt and relaxed, happy right where she was.

“You say that…I don’t believe you.” But her voice held a cooing note, implying that she didn’t mind. Remy had a sensual energy and an aura that sucked her in. He leaned back and tipped his head up further to better meet her unsettling gaze. Her eyes…those were her real eyes. The slitted pupils warped, widening until they were almost round, then retracting to narrow gashes, and Maria began to purr. It thrummed through Remy as she traced his collarbones with the tip of her nail.

“MARIA!”

“Shit,” she hissed. Her reverie was broken, and so was Remy’s hold on her. She stared down at him one last time. “What the…fuck?” She wiped her face as though she were scraping away cobwebs.

“MARIA! VENGA!”

“I’m outta here,” she muttered.

“Chere,” Remy whispered. She doubled back, then peered back over her shoulder toward the door. She gave him a long, meaningful look.

“What the hell. Eh.” She darted at him quicker than Remy could blink, and her talon flew out in a sharp arc. Remy winced as its tip caught him, dragging through the cruel duct tape binding his arms. A second slash, just as sudden, scored the tape over his right side. “Buena suerte, papi. Bye, baby.” She hurried out into the corridor, stumbling back into her shoes. Haste made her less graceful. Remy didn’t know if that was more cause to be worried. He wiggled his arms to force more blood circulation into the painful limbs.

*

Logan cut off his highbeams and rolled to a stop along the roadside, well behind the short line of cars outside the warehouse’s perimeter. The area was thickly wooded with pine trees and tall oaks, more practical than pretty. It ensured greater privacy from the road; he could assume that much. He drifted into the brush, removing his bright red flannel. His wifebeater was a dull gray and his jeans were dark indigo. Despite the frigid air, Logan wanted to remain inconspicuous. His breath left his nose in long, steamy trails and he lay in wait, listening to snippets of conversation. Logan grew frustrated with his own rusty Spanish as some of the warehouse’s visitors switched between both languages easily, cracking loud jokes and smoking cigarettes. Logan smelled the acrid scent of a Mickey’s and made a face. Logan crammed his cell phone deep into his jeans pocket and shoved his flannel beneath the base of a piny shrub as he scanned his surroundings.

The warehouse wasn’t poorly lit; that spelled out more of a disadvantage for him, since his enhanced vision made that moot. Darkness was his friend if he wanted to move about without detection.

So he moved.

“My pinche vieja started crying when I told her I knew about pinche Sancho.”

“Found him under the bed, jue?”

“Nah. Just the shit you hear about, the bed looked like it’d been rolled around in –“His voice had been cut off, and his cigarette he’d been about to light fell to the ground.

“What the fu-“

His friend didn’t even see the fist coming. It hit him like a bag of bricks, and down he went. Logan dragged them both into the brush, contemplating what to do with them. He needed the advantage, and taking out witnesses would help him along and let him get Remy out more quickly. Logan considered their clothing for a moment, then removed the sunglasses and dark cap from the taller one. He needed to blend in. The shorter one was stockier in build, so Logan wagered his black Southpole jacket with white leather sleeves would fit him.

He felt the thump of something metal against his ribs and found a knife tucked into his coat’s inner pocket. Logan didn’t want it to come to that, but he decided it would come in handy. All that was left to do was work his way inside, and if need be, mingle.

He waited behind a large tree for three men to walk out of the warehouse’s loading dock and jump down from the pallet. The chatter grew louder and more raucous, and Logan watched several men attempting to load up trucks with what looked like crates of auto parts. His hackles rose as he wondered if any of them came from Remy’s uncle’s shop. The odors of the warehouse assailed him and he stifled a sneeze; the pheromones of the men surrounding him were strong and acrid top notes laid over the scent of sawdust and motor oil. These were tough customers, and Logan had to sell himself as one of the gang. He put on his game face and kept his head down. To his credit, only a couple of them acknowledged him with brief nods.

C’mon, Rem, where are you?

Logan tensed at the crash of a heavy crate that slid off the edge of the forklift, splintering the wood and sending its contents sliding across the concrete.

“C’mon, get ‘em up, let’s go!” Logan wavered a moment, then decided to make himself scarce during the welcome distraction. He headed down a dark corridor toward the left, glad to get away from the noise for a few minutes to clear his head.

It also cleared his palate and gave him a cleaner slate to work with, since he picked up Remy’s scent. His back was up and unpleasant tingles were running down Logan’s nerve endings as the tang of blood hit him, not yet cold. He hugged the walls, bare to the rafters, not even insulated, ducking into an empty room at the sounds of booted feet. He listened to low, guttural chatter and smelled tobacco, smokeless, musky. It was just as well; one loose spark could send the place up like a powder keg.

“Gonna be glad when Vic’s through with this deal. Man, my ass hurts from sittin’ in the car all night.”

“Why?”

“Had ta stake out a house downtown. Keepin’ an eye on a mark.”

Logan suppressed a growl. The speaker’s voice grew muffled as he tucked a Skoal bandit into his mouth.

“Thought he was bad ass, too. But Vic made him sing like he was at the opera a little while ago. Fuckin’ pussy.”

“What’s he owe him?”

“It ain’t like that. Never mind,” he demanded. Logan knew he caught himself in saying too much. But it confirmed what he didn’t to admit, that the blood he smelled belonged to Remy. He waited for the sounds of their feet and voices to retreat and heard them move out into the warehouse, exclaiming over the destroyed crate.

He moved quickly toward the end of the hall; those rooms were completely devoid of light, presumably with no windows. It made sense that if someone wanted to smuggle a victim out of sight – Logan wouldn’t go that step further and think of them as hiding a body – that they would go that route. His nose didn’t appear to be lying to him. Remy’s faint scent grew stronger, but so did the scent of tobacco. He smelled the butane of a lighter and heard another set of voices coming from inside a small office. One of them was strangely familiar and raised his hackles. Logan edged around the side of the door and peered in through the crack.

Heat flooded his cheeks at the sight of Victor Creed, his ex’s lover, lounging back in the leather chair with his cowboy boots propped on the desk. He was speaking with a man in one of the same jackets Logan wore, and they broke into harsh laughter. Logan ducked back and immediately retreated further into the corridor, heading toward the back. He paused at the sound of more voices heading his way. Logan grew more wary about the possibility of being found out if too many people took a good look at his face. He rummaged in his pocket and took out his cell phone and opened it, pretending to dial. He kept his back turned to the men coming up behind him, and as luck would have it, they left him alone.

But he had to act fast, because Logan didn’t trust his luck to hold out much longer.

Victor looked up briefly toward the doorway as he heard an unfamiliar pair of footfalls in the hall pass by. Alex looked puzzled as Victor cocked his head and sniffed the air, holding up a hand to silence him.

“Whatsamatter? Que traes, vato??”

“Nuthin’.”

It definitely wasn’t nothing. The scent wasn’t unfamiliar, and Victor wore a shrewd look, narrowing his eyes as he considered the possibilities.

Walt’s ex. The pretty boy’s old man. It made sense. But what made him think he had the stones to walk into Vic’s place, as nice as you please, and think he could just take what was his?

Logan knew he was right on top of Remy’s scent, and anger simmered in his gut at the top notes of blood and sweat, even a hint of charred flesh. His instincts made him turn right. His fingers tentatively pressed a closed door until it gave without him turning the knob. Logan crept inside, surprised to find the room empty except for a chair and some wads of ripped duct tape lying on the floor.

“Shit,” he muttered, wondering what he’d missed. That didn’t look good –

His senses belatedly told him there was another heartbeat in the room with him, but by the time he realized it, a long, muscular arm clamped itself around his neck in a headlock, and Logan felt something sharp press against his jaw.

“Don’ make a sound,” Remy growled in his ear. The scent of his burnt skin was overwhelmingly strong now, and Logan heard a rushing in his ears as Remy’s arm began to constrict his airway with surprising strength. “T’ought I wuz jus’ gonna sit an’ wait fo’ anot’er round, eh?”

“Rem…”

“Mebbe Remy’s gon’ use you t’help him walk outta here, huh?”

“Rem…I am here ta take ya outta here,” Logan rasped. The piece of broken glass was withdrawn from the side of Logan’s neck, and Remy’s arm released him in surprise.

“Merde,” he murmured, waiting for Logan to regain his bearings as he doubled over, trying to catch his breath.

“…*kaffkaffkaff*…shit…sorry. Didn’t mean ta scare ya, darlin’.” Remy set down the piece of the window pane that he’d snapped loose, thankful that someone had broken it before him, providing him with a makeshift weapon. Remy’s hands reached for him, righting him and lifting the brim of the hat, lowering the dark glasses. Relief and shock flooded them both, and Logan gave Remy a brief, rough kiss.

“Me neither, chere…m’sorry.” His hand trembled as he laid it against Logan’s grizzled cheek. Logan’s were on him, examining him briefly. He probed the bleeding sore on his neck, and Remy hissed in pain.

“Who did this to you?”

“Don’ matter. Gotta get outta dis hellhole.”

“It does matter, Rem. Cuz they picked the wrong man, on the wrong day. I protect what’s mine.” If Remy was affected by Logan calling him his, he made no sign.

“Ya shouldna ever been pulled into dis shit, mec.”

“I’m in it now. I ain’t gettin’ out til I get you out, Rem,” Logan whispered hoarsely. “Ya hear me?”

“Don’ make promises ya might not be able ta keep, chere.”

Logan’s promise was about to be tested…


CRASH!

The door flew off the hinges and both men stumbled out of the way of the flying splinters. The light switch was the only appliance in the bare-raftered, drafty room, and the room came alive with its ugly yellow glare from the unshaded bulb overhead.

“Now it’s a party,” Victor chuckled. “Can’t say I’m surprised, runt. Knew it was you. Think I ain’t gonna smell someone new when they come up into my place?” Logan’s eyes narrowed; Victor’s blue ones gleamed. “The nose knows,” he informed him, tapping it. They stared down the barrel of his Glock as Victor was joined by Alex in the doorway.

“What’s goin’ on, homes?”

“Go do a head count of yer men,” Vic told him without even looking over his shoulder. “Got this asshole wearin’ yer colors. My bet’s on a couple of ‘em being taken out, at least.” Alex nodded and left reluctantly; he didn’t even want to know what Victor Creed was messing with on the side, but it didn’t look good. The vaguer it was to him, the better. He didn’t see shit, he didn’t know shit, if anyone came knocking on his own door.

“Ya know ya stepped into a whole world of shit, right, runt?”

“Guess I don’t know any better,” Logan shrugged, tossing the glasses to the floor with a clatter.

“Don’t move,” Victor growled, “or the pretty boy gets it. Hands up, nice and slow. That’s it.”

“Yer the boss,” Logan shrugged. With that, his left arm whipped up toward the unshielded light bulb. It shattered and darkened the room. His motion had been so quick that Remy didn’t see how he broke the bulb when he wasn’t nearly tall enough to reach it.

Logan had sharp night vision, but he was counting on the glare’s remaining spots before his eyes to be just as disorienting to their captor, as a distraction. He rushed Victor in the doorframe and tackled him, plowing into his sternum. Victor roared in surprise and rage, taken aback that the stocky, older man could talk him down so easily, hitting him like a Mack truck. They scuffled, and Victor took out a chunk of the fragile drywall as he made impact. Logan accomplished his goal of knocking the Glock out of his hand.

It went off as it landed, discharging with a loud crack. Remy deftly jerked back from its path, and he almost felt it come within a hairs’ breadth of his arm. His reaction speed was razor sharp, to Logan’s relief, yet another mystery he’d unravel when he had some free time with his boyfriend.

Now wasn’t the time to ponder it.

The gunshot threw the warehouse into bedlam. The uneasy cease-fire between the rival gangs was officially over.

“What the fuck?” Alejandro spun around at the sound of the noise and ran back inside, nearly getting knocked over by a handful of men running out. “MARIA!” He never saw his girlfriend leave, even after he’d dismissed her, and she was too visible and too easy a target if anyone wanted to take out their vengeance on him through the one closest to him. Two of his men were already flanking him, Colts drawn and eyes wild.

“Knew those pussies were gonna try somethin’, man!”

“This ain’t them!” Alex hissed. “Find Maria! Get her outta here!”

Kyle doubled back into the long corridor. “VIC!” he roared. He knew something was going down tonight. There were too many men from both gangs in the warehouse and milling around outside; they should have each only cherry picked a handful to come pick up their merchandise and seal the deals. Victor liked to live dangerously. His house, his rules.

Julien hid in the same room where they first brought Remy, heart pounding. He’d kept himself scarce as soon as Alex went back to meet Vic. He vaguely remembered a strange man wandering inside the warehouse, short, stocky and familiar, the only White man in Alex’s crew, from the look of it. It puzzled him, but he wasn’t about to question anyone. He would have been shocked to find that it was Remy’s lover who tried to step between them in the parking lot at his nephew’s party.

Julien’s hand reached awkwardly for the gun tucked into his waistband; he was alarmed to see how badly it trembled. “Shit, shit!” he hissed under his breath. There was an uncomfortable dipping sensation in his gut. If anyone broke in on him now, Julien knew he was likely to piss his pants.

It was time to figure out his loyalties.

“I’m wit’ Vic,” he whispered hoarsely. “All of nut’in, I’m in wit’ Vic.” If worse came to worse, he ran, but if he lived, it would get back to Vic, and he’d take him out, anyway. Julien muttered an uncharacteristic prayer and tried to ignore the cold, rank sweat that broke out over his flesh. He took a deep breath and cast himself out of the room, making his way toward Victor’s office.

Victor fought the runt, but he was a stubborn fuck and he wouldn’t let him go, constantly leaning his shoulder into him, right up under his ribs. The position kept smacking the wind out of his chest and making him cough. Victor dug his fingers into Logan’s skull, pressing inward with surprising strength. Logan saw spots and felt the blood rushing in his ears, but that didn’t deter him. They both struggled to their feet and their fists flew.

Victor drew first blood, a fact that didn’t surprise Logan. The upside was that it gave him the chance to size him up and take his worth in a scrap. Vic favored his left side, and he paused a moment, feinting and grinning at Logan as he licked the drop of his blood from a brutally sharp fingernail.

“Yer a tasty fuck,” he told him. “Too bad.”

“Ya think?”

“Ol’ Walt…ya know, he made me doubt his taste fer a second. But man, I’m lookin’ at you with new eyes, runt. You’ve got stones. After I fuck yer bitch, I’m takin’ a crack at you. Bet that old asshole’s still nice and tight. Did ya like it when Walt bent ya over? Betcha did.”

Rage darkened Logan’s features. Creases gathered over the bridge of his nose as his nostrils flared and his lips drew back from his teeth. His pupils dilated so far that they were nearly black. Behind him, Remy didn’t see the change that came over his face, but he read his broad, shortened, defensive stance and saw the skin over his knuckles strained taut and paper-thin, revealing stark red blood vessels. His fingers twitched, clenching briefly before he made up his mind.

His growl was blood-curdling and made Remy’s hair stand on end as he launched himself at Victor again. They crashed into the wall and spun, twisting and tripping over their feet. The bare planks snapped in protest at the impact. Victor’s long legs had him at a disadvantage, making him easier to knock off his feet, but he stood fast, barely skidding back as Logan tried to take him down again.

“Merde!” Remy saw the gleam of Vic’s Glock where it lay abandoned in the corner. He lunged for it and noticed that the safety was off. Remy tested its weight in his hand; it felt reassuringly cold and solid.

He was deprived quickly of it as it was knocked from his grip when someone behind him delivered a savage kick to his lower back. “Stay down!” Kyle barked, crushing his spinal cord beneath his heel. He ground his boot heel into his vulnerable body, already racked by pain from his bonds and the earlier beatings. Remy cried out harshly as the sound was smashed from his burning lungs. He squirmed, trying to go after the gun. Kyle knelt down and jerked his head back by the hair; Remy’s scalp smarted and his eyes watered. “Stay down, I said! Are ya deaf, Bright Eyes?” Remy marshaled his strength and twisted his body around, leaving himself open and vulnerable to the viciousness and lack of conscience he saw in Kyle Gibney’s hard blue eyes, as well as being almost flat on his back.

In a twinkling, Remy threw his leg up in a sharp, clean arc and kick him in his right lat. To his satisfaction, Vic’s man’s torso buckled and his mouth dropped open in shock and pain that seemed to expand as he caught his breath. He flailed and reflexively groped at the ailing muscle. Remy took that opportunity to trip him, and he stumbled backward into the nearest floor beam, striking the back of his head with a sickening crack. He fell to his knees, dazed. Remy didn’t look back as he scrambled once again for the gun.

Mayhem erupted in the warehouse as more guns were drawn and knives came out of various hiding places, gleaming in the stark overhead lights. Hector and Alex’s crews ran at each other, striking each other with fists and the butts of their Glocks. Blood began to hiss out from shallow, razor-fine wounds and spray a fine mist across the concrete.

Maria had enough. She ran from the warehouse, nearly stumbling in her heels, and with shaking fingers she found her tiny mobile phone.

“I don’t care who knows,” she swore to herself as she dialed nine-one-one. “This shit ain’t right.” She ran and spoke at the same time as the dispatch picked up on the second ring. “You’ve gotta send somebody, bitch! The warehouse off of Lee Byrnes Highway and thirty-two. Don’t you hear this shit!” The sound of gunfire made her shriek and duck behind a nearby Cadillac. She smashed herself back against it, eyes wide and watering. “Get me the fuck outta here!” She clapped the phone shut in a panic and ran toward the road.

“No you don’t, bitch,” Angel muttered from the passenger seat. She was through waiting, and it wasn’t every day that a chance like this reared its head. She tucked her hand into her pocket, feeling the cool metal of the shank, and she suppressed a smile as she climbed out of the car. She followed Maria’s flight, tsking at the easy visibility of her bright red dress in the dark.

Victor grinned through blood-stained teeth and spat out a reddish gob, wiping his mouth with the back of his fist. “Yer a good time, runt. Gotta hand ya that much. Show me whatcha got.” He beckoned to him, waving him forward and pointing to his chin. “Hit me. Right here.” Logan came at him, fist raised, but Victor caught it in his large, meaty grip and shoved him off balance easily, since he topped Logan by a foot and a half. He deflected blows with his forearms and wrists with calculated precision, a practiced fighter who was on to Logan now and who seemed to never tire.

Victor raked his nails across Logan’s neck with his next swat, drawing more blood without the use of brass knuckles. Remy didn’t know how he was managing to tear Logan’s flesh, but it sickened him to watch him tear at his lover as they fought.

He needn’t have worried.

“Like blood? Bet ya do,” Logan purred. “Yer gettin’ off on this, aintcha?”

“Yeah, baby…give some ta daddy,” Victor grunted as Logan slammed into him again, this time clipping him in the jaw. That only made Victor annoyed. He swung low and punched Logan in the testicles, just to watch his face change. Flecks of bloody froth flew from Logan’s lip and he almost retched as the pain swelled and throbbed.

“Fine,” Logan huffed. He braced himself for the coming, burning pain and winced as the flesh over his knuckles seemed to burst and peel back, exposing the bone. Victor’s eyes widened in astonishment as three blood-streaked, pale protrusions shot out of his hands, making an unnerving clicking sound as bones slid from hollow sheathes.

“Chere!” Remy grunted, not believing his eyes as Logan lunged at Victor, armed this time and more imposing than ever. Logan changed before them, going into his own zone, concentrating on taking Victor down. His teeth were bared in a feral grimace and Remy no longer recognized him as the man he loved…he wasn’t human.

He suddenly screamed as something sharp and hot sank itself into his neck, and he realized with horror that it was Kyle’s teeth. He worried his head back and forth, trying to snap Remy’s neck like a rabid dog. He smelled his foul breath and the remaining stench of his tobacco. Remy reached up and clutched handfuls of his flying blond hair and jerked himself lose, then backhanded him squarely in the nose, sending pain shooting straight through his nerve endings as he shattered the cartilage. He’d hurt tomorrow, provided that he lived. Kyle fell back again and Remy stood over him, hands shaking as he leveled the gun, aiming it between his eyes.

“Ya ain’t gonna do anything with that,” he hissed as blood poured from his nasal cavity and bubbled from his lips. “Pansy ass.”

“Shot m’uncle,” Remy reminded him. “Don’t be so damned sure of y’self, mec. Remy’s had a long night, and he’s tired. Ain’t got de safety on dis piece, and ya pissed ‘im off.” His hand was trembling fiercely and chills racked Remy’s body. He felt a sickening sinking in his gut, faced with the necessity of taking a life, if it meant walking out of the warehouse or being carried out.

Logan spun around at the staccato sound of gunfire. Kyle threw himself face down on the concrete, shielding his head with his hands. Remy’s mouth was a hard line and the end of the gun was smoking. He drove Kyle back with his graceful stride, backing him up as he shuffled back ontot he heels of his hands. He only stopped as he ran up against the wall. “Like hurtin’ people’s family? Huh?” He pressed the gun right beneath Kyle’s abused nose, pressing the tip firmly into his palate. “Huh?” His voice was smooth and cruel.

“Rem…don’t,” Logan pleaded suddenly, stirred from his haze of blood lust and rage. “Don’t, darlin’. Please…” Victor used the distraction to tackle him. He knocked him down and bashed his head against the floor, once, twice, three times, making Logan’s head ring and his eyes see red, literally from the blood dripping from the new lacerations. He howled as Victor grasped his claws, grown from his own extra-dense but still hypersensitive bones, and bent them back, making them strain and pop ominously. Agony wrote itself over his features and he struggled and cried out beneath Victor, who held him down with a knee to his back.

Remy whirled at the sound of Logan’s cries. “CHERE! NON!” He aimed gun instead for Victor, but it was too late. A gunshot cracked in the air and Remy reeled back as his shoulder exploded in new pain that disabled his ability to think. He stared dumbly at the gouts of blood pouring from the wound and staining his dark tank, and his arm hung limp, making the gun clatter to the floor from his limp fingers. He staggered and slumped to the ground. Julien approached, gun still drawn now that he was out in the open. He stared down at him cruelly, but there was no joy in his eyes over what he’d done.

“I roll wit’ Vic now, mon frere,” he informed him. “S’up ta him whet’er you stay or go. Go down now or he’s gon’ take ya down later. Yer choice.”

“Look who finally grew a pair,” Victor hissed as Logan struggled beneath him.

Logan fought to breathe, and instinctively he retracted his claws sharply, catching Victor by surprise. He got just enough leverage to twist himself up and back, duplicating Remy’s move of backhanding him with an unforgiving fist.

“Hnnggh!” SNIKT! The claws shot from their housings once more, gruesome phalanges with one goal in mind. Logan swung wild and raked them across Victor’s abdomen, shredding his shirt and flesh. Victor reeled back, stunned. His hand drifted to the wound and his fingers came up bloody.

“Ya…cut me…sonofa…bitch…”

“Easy, Vic!” Julien cried, hurrying forward to catch his boss under the arms, supporting him as he staggered to catch his balance. Julien trained the gun on Logan next as he shouldered himself under Victor’s arm.

“Gon’ pay for dat, mec,” he promised.

“Quit grandstandin’, ya stupid fuck,” Victor hissed. Julien jerked back and stared up into Victor’s sneering face. “Take him down!”

“Non,” he murmured softly, black eyes defiant. “You take ‘im down.” He flung Victor’s arm loose, throwing him off-balance. Logan was dragging himself to his feet, watching the scene unfold warily, hating the outcome.

“Yer in this as deep as Rem,” he told him in a gravelly, ruined voice. “Ya dragged him into it, and I’m draggin’ him back out, even if I hafta walk through ya.” Behind them, there were still men in the warehouse engaging in various scuffles. Auto parts clanged off of concrete and flesh, and the floor began to resemble a slaughterhouse. Three already lay dead, the result of Victor’s folly and sloppy way of doing business. SNNIIIKKTT… A second set of claws slowly extended from his other hand, bony tips gleaming like rapiers.

“M’only in it as far as I wanna be in it, mec!” He aimed the gun at Logan, then twisted around and trained it on Vic.

“I dare ya. Try that shit, pansy,” Victor snarled, almost amused. “If I don’t come after ya, someone else will.” Julien wouldn’t put the gun down. He was trembling and chilled, and his cheeks were eerily pale. A tear leaked from his eye and he smeared his cheek with a smudge of motor oil as he wiped it away. Victor grinned. “Waited too fuckin’ long ta make up yer mind!” Julien wasn’t fast enough for Victor as he swung out and neatly rammed his elbow into Julien’s teeth, disarming him as he dropped the gun. Victor kicked the gun free and went to work on Julien, kicking him and hurling him against the wall beams. Logan tensed, ready to throw himself at Victor but welcoming the distraction.

“Vic! Let me do ‘im!” Kyle shouted weakly. Vic scooped up the gun before Logan could reach for it himself.

“Knock yerself out, man.” He caught it deftly and took aim, just as Victor shoved Julien away from him. BAM! Julien’s body jerked, and Remy watched in horror as his dark eyes bulged in realization of what happened, slapping ineffectually at the broadening red stain on his chest.

“Quoi…? Shhh…chere?” He reached out to Remy pleadingly as blood dripped from his mouth. “Chere?” he repeated as he stumbled, then tripped over his feet in a macabre dance until he tumbled lifelessly to the floor.

“Think you’re takin’ me down, punk ass? Just because you got stupid? Huh?” Kyle railed. He aimed the gun at him again, meaning to deal insult on top of injury, but Remy was having none of it. Bella’s horrified look from the front porch swam in Remy’s vision and her words echoed in his head as he ran at Kyle, plowing into him despite lacking the use of his arm.

“Remy, NO!” Logan charged toward them, meaning to throw himself between Remy and the Glock. Remy threw his full weight at Kyle and sent him reeling back. The gun fired and shot out the overhead light. Victor slinked back into the darkness, clawing at the stinging wound that was sapping his strength. Logan knocked the pistol from his fist, but he didn’t weave out of the way as Kyle’s feet continued to carry him back into Logan’s path.

His claws connected with his back, impaling him with the blood-curdling tearing of flesh. He didn’t even cry out. His head flopped from one side to the other, staring into Remy’s face and seeking out Victor imploringly.

“What…fuck…Vi…Vic…ccckkk??” Logan’s eyes were horrified as they found Remy’s, disbelieving that Kyle’s body was slipping off his claws and sliding to the floor. Logan’s breathing was a gulping lurch that caught in his throat as he retracted his claws. He stared at the blood dripping from his hands, which now shook.

“Rem?” he whispered, shaking his head numbly. “Remy?”

“It’s okay, chere,” Remy told him, even though he didn’t believe it. Logan needed the lie and the assurance that he hadn’t just lost Remy to unintentional violence. “It’s okay.”

They turned at the low scuffle of uneven footsteps down the corridor. Victor had disappeared. Logan was resolute, and he replaced his grim mask, eyes hardening so quickly that Remy feared he had already lost him.

“Chere,” he murmured. “Don’t. C’mon. Please don’t, chere…”

“He’ll come back,” he told Remy woodenly, tossing the words over his shoulder as though Remy had said nothing. “They always come back…” Logan strode down the corridor, following the scent of Victor’s blood stench and the smeary trail of it on the floor. Remy watched him leave with bleak eyes, and suddenly his strength left him. He slumped against the wall and slid to the floor, cold, shivering in his meager, drenched tank top and bare feet. He closed his eyes against the continuing violence around him and didn’t even flinch at the sound of sirens outside.

Logan opened the creaky door to Victor’s office and found him slumped over the desk, reaching for his lighter and a cigarette. He glanced up at the sound of Logan’s footsteps and the slow, telltale slide of his claws breaking through flesh. “Ain’t…ready ta…leave the party, runt?” His hand shook as he pushed the cigarette between his lips and leaned back against the desk. He lit it and drew in a hungry draft of smoke, even though his remaining breaths were precious and dwindling.

“Nah. I’m ready. Been ready.”

“Yer a pussy,” Victor huffed. “Can’t hang. Knew ya didn’t have any balls…”

“My guts are still inside me.” Victor barked a harsh, creaky laugh.

“Goodie…fer you. Heh. Yeah.” Victor dragged more tobacco into his collapsing lungs. Logan looked at him with no pity. A voice in the back of his mind screamed that Remy had suffered enough tonight, that it would kill him if he knew Logan willfully took Victor’s life.

The kid just doesn’t understand. I ain’t got a choice. He almost lost him. He could still lose him if he didn’t get him in an ambulance.

“You a prayin’ man, Vic?”

“Screw…you,” he huffed.


Remy opened his eyes at the sound of feet up to him, and he stared blearily up at Alex Montoya, livid and manic.

“Where is that fucker? Huh? Where’s Vic?”

“He’s gone, mec…he’s already dead. Down…dere,” Remy informed him feebly.

“No! NO! He AIN’T dead! He ain’t dead, cuz I’m gonna tear his ass up! He OWES me! Half my boys are down, and that fucker owes…me.” Tears welled thickly in his dark eyes, and he almost looked like a vulnerable young boy, except that he had a gun trained on Remy. “What’s he got on you?”

“It don’ matter,” Remy said.

“What’s he got on you?” Alex insisted.

“Don’ matter. S’done. Ain’ got not’in’ on Remy no more.” Alex shook his head and plowed a hand through his long black hair. His sob was strangled and brief. He crossed himself and kissed the small crucifix hanging from his neck, then stormed down the corridor.

Logan advanced on Victor. “Say yer prayers. They ain’t gonna help, but I ain’t gonna go ta the grave knowin’ I didn’t give ya a chance.”

“Gonna meet me in hell, runt…”

The door bounced off the wall behind Logan, startling him as Alex burst inside.

“This is for Maria,” he spat.

BLAM!