Please, God…if you’ve ever heard my prayers before, bring me back to Lot and Daniel! I’ll be a good boykie from now on, s’true bob… Japheth projected fervent prayers into the gloomy, starless night, his grimy hands cracked and chapped, smarting as he clenched them over the rough sheets.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a real bath or slept a full night indoors. He swatted futilely at the fleas and mosquitoes that came to taunt him. His argument with Everett came back to him with aching clarity as he shifted himself against the unforgiving ground:
“We can find work at the Pharaoh’s Pearl. Word is he hires anyone to help him.”
“Help him do what?”
“Anything. Everything. He has big money, and we can roll with him!”
No one “rolled” with Farouk. He rolled over everyone in his path, feeling no regard or sympathy for anyone who dared to defy him.
Japheth’s thoughts drifted back to that evening, dragging him back to the last time he’d felt any vestige of hope. His belly held none of the gnawing, crippling hunger that characterized life here in the barracks dotting the creeks and mines. His clothing was clean and intact, and Ororo lay curled in a ball beneath his skinny arm, picking at the frayed hole in his khaki shorts.
He’d smothered a cry of outrage and indignance when she’d first tumbled into the Jeep after him, bringing in a crack of light with her as she landed on top of him with no thought as to where she leapt.
“S’true bob, Ororo, what’re you doing? Get out, GET OUT!” he hissed, glaring up at her innocent, nonplussed expression.
“Ororo big girl. ‘Roro no bay-bee,” she boasted proudly, before the Jeep clattered away with a jerk, knocking them both off-balance within the hatch. Japheth instinctively clung to her beneath the dusty-smelling canvas tarp and clapped his hand over her mouth.
“We have to stay quiet,” he whispered against her soft spill of hair. She smelled like the White doctor from Scotland who spoke funny and always grinned at him when he was playing in the courtyard; the faint scent of lavender and gardenia soap drifted up from her hair and clothing. What seemed like a grand adventure only minutes before suddenly made his heart pound in his wasted chest.
Ororo was with him. They were headed into town with men they did not know, with no money. Japheth’s stomach twisted, and he began to shiver with clammy sweat that broke out over his flesh.
“Why’d you come, Ororo? You weren’t supposed to be here!” he accused, pulling away from her and huddling in the corner of the hatch. She smoothed back her hair from her face and straightened out her rumpled shift.
“You get to come,” she shot back impudently. “Ororo’s a big girl. You said so. Ororo go bye-bye with Japheth.” She poked impatiently at the cumbersome tarp. “No like it,” she whimpered, changing her tune. “Want outside!” She reached up and tried to free herself, finally standing partly to push it off. Japheth’s breath caught as they bounced over a pothole with a loud THUNK!
He caught Ororo around her waist before she could be thrown free from the hatch, almost regretting the draft of fresh air and kicked-up dust that blew inside with her attempt at an escape.
“NO!” he whispered harshly. Her eyes were round and curious at his actions; she couldn’t understand why he looked so alarmed. She merely wanted to get out. This game was boring now.
“Want mai bay-bee,” she sniffed.
“She’s not here. I’ll get you a new one,” he promised hollowly.
“Want mai bay-bee!” she insisted, and her little cheeks grew flushed as she prepared to let him have it, screwing up her face and clenching her little fists. She struggled against him; Japheth wondered if the occupants of the front of the Jeep could hear them, and he weighed his options. If he cried out, perhaps they would turn around and take them back. Or at least take Ororo back; the thought of going into town, seeing the sights and asking Farouk for a job of some sort still appealed to him. He still pondered Everett’s scheme of getting in good with the owner of the Pharaoh’s Pearl. He pictured himself striding back in to the orphanage, big, strong, dressed in fine clothes and bringing his friends a shiny new football.
He never considered he might have a charge under his care, such as it was…
“Why’d y’come, Ororo?” he muttered miserably, and he gave a rusty sigh as she huddled against him once again. Japheth patted her awkwardly, but her nearness gave him strange comfort.
He didn’t know how far they rode; he was lulled to sleep by the rumbling trek and hum of the engine, and Ororo settled against him for a nap of her own, smacking her lips and occasionally sucking her thumb in her sleep. She occasionally patted him as though looking for her dollie.
Japheth awoke with a start as the Jeep’s engine cut off, allowing the faint breeze creeping through the tarp to die away. He sat up, still crouched, and rubbed his eyes as this thoughts processed where they could be. Ororo rolled to her side in a little ball, content to continue her nap. Japheth took the opportunity to peer through the tarp at their surroundings, treating himself to a long look after he heard the doors of the Jeep slam, and two pairs of booted feet hit the packed earth and gravel. He raised the tarp only enough to peer outside.
All he could see were feet and wheels. He smelled the combined odors of greasy food and petrol, along with the scent of cleanser not unlike what the mission’s housekeeper used to clean the glass. His ears were able to pick out the sounds of the men’s voices, still unaware that they’d acquired passengers as they made their way into the small convenience store and cigarette shop.
“Need something t’wash the dust from m’mouth,” murmured the one, slapping at his clothing to rid himself of the accumulated dirt.
“Need me a woman, too!” scoffed his companion, and both of them threw back their heads and chortled, evoking cackles from the passerby leaving the shop with supplies of cigarettes and liquor. Japheth heard them making catcalls at a woman coming down the steps as she sidled away, climbing into the passenger side of a large pickup truck. Furtively he considered whether to ask her for a ride, still unsure of their circumstances if they stayed with the men who brought them this far. A woman might be more sympathetic. Japheth allowed himself a better glance, lifting the tarp another inch or two to get a closer look.
The woman’s skin was glossy and dark as carved balsa wood, and she was heavily painted with makeup, wearing a skimpy halter blouse and faded, short skirt of loose gauze. She hauled herself up gracefully into the truck’s cab with a swish of her skirt, narrowly escaping catching it in the door as she slammed it shut. Her hair was elaborately braided but covered with a cotton bandanna against the dust. She waited impatiently for a young man who was bragging about another girl, clearly indicated by his gesticulating of a wide pair of hips and his leering grin. She called out something rude; he came along, his strut leaving more catcalls in his wake as he hopped up into the truck. Japheth knew he wasn’t likely to get any help from her after all.
His options were cut short as the tarp was lifted away and shucked from them as the drivers went to load their purchases into the hatch, balancing cases of beer and boxes of cigarettes. Jaded, indignant black eyes leveled Japheth with a look that pinched his bladder in fear.
“I know’m not seein’ this,” he muttered, throwing up his free arm in resignation as Japheth attempted to huddle his way back into the corner. “We’ve got a pair of little stowaways, Davey! Urchins! From that bloody orphanage!”
“Shit!” he agreed. “Look’a this little snot! Think yer grown, boy? Takin’ a trip?” He gazed curiously at the other sleeping child balled up next to him, who was smacking her lips and moaning at the interruption of her nap. Japheth was at least grateful that Ororo wouldn’t have to hide any longer under the stifling tarp, if only to give her some fresh air and light. He knew she hated the dark. “What’ve we got here? Bring yer little girlfriend along for the fun?”
“Wan’ dollie,” Ororo complained petulantly on a low whine. Japheth crawled over to her to shush her and grabbed her protectively, bringing her fully from her stupor as she scrubbed the sleep from her face.
“Davey…look,” insisted the first man, scowling thoughtfully as he examined the girl, taking in her unique looks for the first time. Her clothing was clean but worn from repeated washings and being handed down from multiple owners.
Eyes as blue as tourmalines stared back at him in wonder.
“Want my dollie,” she insisted, heedless of the situation they were in.
“Want’cher dollie, princess?” murmured Davey. He grinned, nudging his companion knowingly. “The Big Man will know what to do with her. Think of it. Word on the street’ll spread about the newest girl at the Pearl!” he cackled. “C’mon, Gideon, let’s get back before he starts barking about where we’ve been.” Japheth’s ears pricked up at the mention of the Pearl. Before he could ask if it belonged to Farouk, Gideon snaked out a brawny, ruddy arm and attempted to tear Ororo from Japheth’s grip.
“Leggo!”
“YOU leggo, ya little snot!” Fear bloomed in his chest, only equaled by the anger that they would make plans for Ororo without asking him first. He had to protect her. He tugged on Ororo’s chubby little legs, practically hanging from them as they hoisted her from the hatch. The stench of the petrol was even more overpowering the longer they lingered. Davey chortled at the sight of Japheth clinging pitifully to the slight girl, her hair gleaming in the sun that appeared to be lower in the sky.
Pain exploded across Japheth’s jaw as Gideon struck him sharply. He was flung back into the hatch, his grip on Ororo broken as he attempted to regain his senses.
“Think yer a big man,” Davey scoffed.
“Take us…back,” Japheth moaned.
“No can do. Ya jumped into the wrong car, boykie,” Gideon shrugged helplessly. “Can’t get in th’way of hardworking men like us. A job’s a job. Gonna meet the boss.”
“Should just chuck ‘im,” Davey suggested, about to do just that as he hauled Japheth up from the hatch by his arm, hurting him. Davey smelled like stale beer and tobacco, and up close, he was missing teeth and had a mean scar beneath his eye. His flesh was pocked and mottled by long hours in the sun and brush.
“NO! WANT JAPHETH! WANT JAPHETH!” Ororo cried, finally snapping out of her trance and reaching back for him. She wriggled and kicked, squirming to go back into the hatch as her surrogate brother was badly handled and struck. Gideon and Davey swore, trying to avoid passerby peering over at the spectacle of two grown men trying to bring the odd looking children into line.
“Sod this,” Davey declared, dropping Ororo unceremoniously back into the hatch of the Jeep. He thunked down the beer case beside them, not caring that it left the children even less room than they had before. “Let’s go.”
“Right,” he agreed, flinging the tarp back over the children and using a rope to tether it to the racks and secure them haphazardly inside. Japheth finally gave voice to his terror, hoping someone would hear them. He screamed out, no longer caring if Ororo knew he was frightened or that he would be scolded when they got back to the mission.
“WE WON’T GO WITH YOU! LET US OUT! LET GO! NO!” He gripped Ororo close, his grasp almost painful as he poked her. “Yell, Ororo, really loud! We have to get out! We-“
The Jeep roared to life again as Davey gunned the ignition. Gideon gave the curious patrons of the station an indolent leer as he lit up a cigarette and puffed on it as the Jeep jounced back onto the gravel road. Japheth screamed and cried his throat hoarse until they were roughly two miles out, and he collapsed limply. His hands were chafed from trying to tear the tarp loose. Ororo’s idea to jump out from the hatch, even with the Jeep bouncing madly over the potholes and dips, no longer seemed like the worst option.
He didn’t know how long they drove. Ororo was silent the rest of the way except for the occasional whimper for her dollie, and for the doctor at the mission who let her play with the bay-bees. He heard her stomach growl and felt for the fiftieth time that day that what he did was wrong. Oh, so wrong…
~0~
“Have ye searched everywhere inside? Every room? Around the grounds?” Moira was frantic and pale, her eyes red-rimmed and restless. She plowed her fingers through her disheveled sable hair, her ponytail a hopeless wreck as her solitaire snagged itself in the strands.
“We can’t find her,” the headmistress insisted. “We’ve called the authorities. Sent out feelers in the next two villages. No one’s seen her at the barracks. No child there matches her description, and too many match Japheth’s.”
“That’s a horrid, ridiculous bluidy excuse!” Moira railed, flinging her arms wide. “HOW d’ye let this happen? Will ye tell me, HOW?!” She clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes brimming and overflowing as her shoulders finally slumped. She collapsed onto the couch feeling raw and spent. My baby. My little, wee bairn…
“Children play. Children get lost in the brush. All of the children were called inside for lunch. The last time Ororo or Japheth were seen, they were in the courtyard.” The headmistress wanted to add that the only visitors they’d had were the delivery men who brought the supply of vaccinations in their Jeep. It only seated two; there was no way they could have managed to make off with two children in the tiny vehicle. “Occasionally their parents find their way to us through word of mouth. Or people who think we’ve found their children. We’ll find her. We’re doing everything we can.”
“It’s na’ enough,” Moira sniffled, clutching the handkerchief that the headmistress handed her and mopping at her eyes. “Nay,” she whimpered weakly, her voice cracking again. It would never be enough.
Moira then did something she hadn’t done in a long time, excusing herself from the headmistress’ study and escaping to her own tiny suite. Once there, she kicked the door shut after her and flung herself onto her cot. Her shoulders shook as she indulged in the last of her sobs, still twisting the handkerchief in her hands and clutching the pillow. Memories of holding Ororo on her lap for stories, those blue eyes peeking at her from around door jambs and furniture and the sight of her brilliant smile when they helped in the nursery tore at her, stabbing her heart.
It was like losing Kevin, all over again.
She mastered her emotions and sat up, relaxing her body as she leaned her back against the wall, allowing it to support her. She breathed through her diaphragm, incrementally deepening her breaths and slowing down as she exhaled, and she opened her thoughts, reaching out for that secure, safe place and her anchor through times no woman should ever have endured.
Charley Her heart thudded as she pushed herself through her usual boundaries, letting her ragged emotions swell and flow out to him, pleading with him to hear her.
His gentle mind touch found her, filling her with a moment of serenity and reassurance that would prove too short, too little and completely unattainable for weeks…months to come.
Moira? His voice flowed through her like a soothing toddy. What’s the matter? You sound troubled.
I need ye, Charles. I need yuir help. I’ve lost something dear tae me, and I kinna cope.
Anything. One word, filled with so much history and emotion and promise.
There’s a child involved. She disappeared. She’s…very special. Moira projected a flood of impressions, images, memories, feelings and affection into their rapport, filling him with all that she had gathered and treasured of the little waif with the ancient eyes, wanting to kick herself that she hadn’t made a move sooner to inform him of what she’d found. His thoughts and emotions held no rebuff, only admiration, sympathy and shared awe.
She’s very special, indeed. I’ll do what I can. Moira shivered; she felt the final touch of his thoughts as keenly as a kiss.
~0~
Japheth’s body was still sore from hauling purloined supplies into the pickup trucks, something his slight frame was ill-suited for. Farouk had no use for him, he’d said, in the main den of his saloon. Achmed hadn’t been impressed by him, either, at first glance dismissing his odd looks and poor health as not having the traits of a thief, not even as one of his urchins who begged from their marks.
He’d had to work for his supper on Farouk’s raids of the neighboring villages. Toting a gun, hiding along with the other ‘lost boys’ who were used as messenger pigeons and lookouts from soldiers, and narrowly escaping being used as worse due to his lack of physical appeal. He made himself as useful as he could out of a need for survival, even while making himself scarce.
Japheth would never forget how Ororo looked when they were dragged into the dark, clammy den of the Pearl, tripping over their own feet as Davey and Gideon approached the bar and slapped down a wad of money for their long overdue whiskey.
No one in the bar looked surprised to see two such young children in their midst. Working girls lounged in the doorway and on the tiny dais serving as a stage while one of them sang along “ badly “ with a torch song on the piano that was in surprisingly good shape. Her eyes were glazed with drink, and she ignored the occasional jeers from her companions hooting at her from their seats, waving currency notes and shimmying back at her efforts. Japheth covered his ears and stared at the floor. Ororo, on the other hand, watched them with wide eyes as she clung to Japheth’s hand.
Japheth leaned against the counter of the bar with Ororo still clinging to him like a little burr as they took in their surroundings. He could smell food, thankfully, and wondered when anyone would give them any. His hopes were dashed as soon as Gideon swigged down his shot of whiskey in a thirsty gulp, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He swatted Japheth away from the counter and hauled him by the scruff of the neck with him as Davey lifted Ororo like a sack of potatoes. She beat her tiny fists against him briefly, not liking his sour smell or sweaty skin; it caught random patrons by surprise that the child appeared so fresh despite the saturated air leaching inside and battling with the swamp coolers.
They were dragged into the back, greeted by several questionable looking men in the gambling lounge. To Japheth, it looked like a dungeon. Clouds of cigar and cigarette smoke wafted out and burned his nostrils, sickening him, and Japheth was almost grateful that he hadn’t eaten.
The worst smell of all emanated from the enormous, portly man in a linen suit that strained across his massive bulk as he contemplated his hand of cards. Sweat shone on his oily skin, not helped by the talcs and expensive cologne he used to remedy his condition. He sweated out hard liquor through his pores, and if Japheth had to describe it…he looked, sounded and smelled like the Boogey Man. His bald head was crowned by a red velvet fez. His eyes were beady and dark, peering out from the fleshy folds of olive skin that dwarfed the rest of his features. He was surrounded by a ring of cackling men and several high stacks of red and blue poker chips, a plate of chicken bones picked clean, and a row of empty whiskey glasses. His smile was tidy and amused as he eyed his two newest acquisitions.
“Hello, little ones,” he greeted pleasantly enough, making Davey nudge Gideon sharply from behind him. Gideon leaned back and stomped on his foot. You didn’t tempt the Big Man to pick through your thoughts as easily as a stolen wallet by provoking him.
Ororo wriggled loose from Gideon’s grip, as he had grown tired of holding her, and she practically climbed down from him like a tree, hitting the floor with a thud. “WANT MY DOLLIE!” This was greeted by a low chorus of laughter and a shaking of heads. She was a pretty little thing, and she had spunk.
Ororo couldn’t put into words that what she really wanted was to go home, to the kindly doctor with the nice eyes who smelled pretty and let her play with the babies. She wanted to watch Japheth play Simon Says and football in the courtyard.
“You heard the girl,” Farouk crooned. He swirled his glass of gin and tonic idly, searching with his thoughts for his errant serving girl who was currently cowering in the kitchen. “You like dollies, princess?” She nodded, again stunning Japheth that she wasn’t afraid. She crossed her arms impatiently, staring him down, to the delight and awe of Farouk’s peers. He enjoyed her refusal to look away as he waited for his servant to answer his summons. The grubby teenager was wiping her hands on her soiled apron and edging her way through the men, swatting away the hands that groped her casually as though she were community property. The assumption wasn’t far off the mark.
“Here,” Farouk drawled, reaching into his pocket for a huge silver money clip. He peeled off a few notes and tucked them into her hand. She inwardly recoiled from his clammy flesh and loathsome touch, giving thanks that he’d employed her older brother as one of his gunrunners, and given her the job in the kitchens as a favor to him. He didn’t find her attractive enough to molest her or bring her to his private suites.
She smothered a gasp of dismay, however, at the cherubic, unique beauty of the little girl occupying everyone’s attention. She tried her best to keep her feelings from her face.
“Go next door, to Ainet’s boutique. Buy her the prettiest dollie they have. Bring it here,” Farouk ordered briskly. She took the money and stared at it curiously before taking her leave. Japheth was stunned.
The serving girl returned out of breath roughly ten minutes later, clutching a carefully wrapped box. She thunked it down carelessly when she arrived, still fighting off the groping hands and swearing at them in rough Egyptian. Farouk’s syrupy voice made her pause in her tracks.
“Clear these away,” he demanded, nodding to the empty glassware and plates. She sighed heavily before retrieving a huge tub on the sideboard of the sinks, and she loaded it with the dirty dishes before taking her leave. She fought the urge to run back to the kitchen to wash herself of the fetid essence and grime of the den and its owner.
“Take it,” Farouk offered, nodding to the box.
“’Roro, don’t!” Japheth pleaded. That earned him a clout upside the head from Gideon and a stern injunction to shut up.
Ororo peered back at Japheth and nearly ran to him, but she was torn, feeling something pull her back toward the table. Farouk smiled that lazy smile and scratched his chin.
“Go ahead. It’s for you.” She approached the table on steady feet, still only clad in the worn sandals and covered with dirt. The paper felt crisp beneath her fingers and crackled as she tore it from the box. It was printed with purple flowers and tied with a lopsided pink bow.
“Ooooooooh. Pwetty,” she breathed, taking in the sight of the porcelain doll attired in a frilly red dress with frothy white ruffles. She tilted the box, and the dollie’s eyes shut as though she were sleeping, then opened again when she tipped it back up. She tore at the lid of the battered box, freeing her prize from the limp cardboard and cellophane. She pawed through it, finding only a tiny stand for the doll to be propped on. She was disappointed at the lack of a comb for her shining curls of polyester hair.
Farouk sat fascinated at the child’s reactions and her looks. She was self-possessed and confident, something he’d never witnessed from the local children, even those under Achmed’s tutelage once they’d learned the ropes.
She would earn him a killing. He couldn’t let this prize escape.
~0~
The locals learned quickly not to cross the stocky, foul-mouthed foreigner who occasionally frequented the Pearl. He came and went as he pleased, and nothing pleased him more than being left alone with his thoughts once the job was done.
Logan was done being a soldier.
He stalked up the rickety wooden steps. This quarter of town always reminded him of the old West, with its porches and old-fashioned swinging doors. Vendor stalls defiantly occupied the streets, competing with the taverns and salons on the main block, and dusty pick-up trucks honked their way through the evening traffic as the denizens made their way home to meager dinners. Logan slid his Stetson from his sweat-soaked hair and ran his fingers through it roughly, giving his scalp a good, hearty scratch before replacing it. This bar always made him itch. Didn’t stop them from having the best beer in town.
The change of clothes still held the scent of smoke from the ruined barracks after Creed fired the pipe bombs and grenades in their wake. Being a “cleaner” was a dirty job. Logan acknowledged that he was good at it, and the money was nothing to sneeze at, if he didn’t mind losing a little sleep at night. He consoled himself that it was fine, as long as he didn’t start enjoying it. Like Creed.
They’d recovered twelve crates of guns and a few kilos of heroin from the barracks after tracking down a local “snitch” who’d diverted the promised shipment after pocketing a cool wad of cash in small bills. Logan kept his kills clean and necessary, talking his way inside in the local dialect and smiling as pretty as you please. He felt Creed champing at the bit behind him, itching to do some damage. Kill first, ask questions later, and torch any trail of blood you left behind before anyone could use it to follow you to your hidey hole. They’d found their worm huddled among three working girls in one of Farouk’s other gambling hells on the outskirts of the city and walked inside without knocking. One look from Creed sent the girls scurrying out and their boy scrambling for excuses that landed on deaf ears.
“Someone’s been a bad, bad boy,” Logan drawled. He leaned his head over to one side and let his neck joints crack, wrinkling his nose slightly at the odors of stale liquor and cheap perfume. The tang of their mark’s fear reached him and teased his nostrils in the closeness of the surprisingly plush room. Farouk sank more money into this joint than the last few they’d wet their lips at, Logan mused.
“Patch…I was just…a man’s gotta look out for himself.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Creed was shaking his burly, shaggy blond head in wonder. “Get it over with already, runt.”
“Don’t rush me,” he growled back on a sigh. He watched him back up in his chair, his eyes flitting around the room for the nearest possible route of escape. He kicked himself, and Logan smothered a laugh; he’d chosen the one room with a tiny window near the ceiling to give himself and his company the privacy he wanted, to the extent that he could have any.
He’d practically dug his own grave.
“C’mon, man, let me buy you guys a drink! Catch up on what’s been goin’ on,” he whined, making a show of calling down to the front desk, his hand shaking as he reached for the receiver. “Jimmy! Send up a bottle of that tequila you were telling me about! C’mon, man, we’re thirsty up here…what?” The light left his eyes as it dawned on him that he was alone. He punched the cradle button in disbelief, sweat beading on his brow. The sounds of commotion downstairs had died away, and blood rushed in his ears. He could hear his own pulse, feeling it trying to claw its way out of his neck, and cold prickles of terror broke out over his flesh.
Logan smiled. It didn’t reach his black eyes.
“It ain’t even ‘bout the money. S’bout honor,” Logan rumbled, his steady, broad steps bringing him to the table. He propped his boot against the empty chair, still warm from the one girl sitting there earlier, flashing her breasts until she heard the creak of the chamber door. “Ya got ahead of yerself, didn’tcha?”
“He’s gonna piss his pants,” Creed declared gleefully.
Logan tsked. “Shame. Nice room,” he mused. SNIIIIKKKKKTT…
Prayers that their boy had forgotten hissed out from his lips almost silently. Logan wanted to feel sorry for him but couldn’t.
“Ya read the Bible much, bub? New Testament?”
“Why the fuck do ya always do this shit, man?” Creed snarled. “Ya don’t even believe in that shit yerself!”
“Man’s gotta find God sometime…didn’t I tell ya not ta rush me?” Logan turned back, bold enough to take his eyes off his prey when he clearly had nowhere to go. He pointed one claw like a finger at Creed. “I’m just gettin’ ta the good part. New Testament,” Logan intoned, turning back to the worm, still muttering Hail Maries and goodness only knew what else under his breath. His eyes gleamed with desperate, hopeless tears and he felt his bowels twist into a pretzel knot. “Know who Caesar was? Guy was a lot like Farouk. Shit, I know the Big Guy would be laughin’ his ass off if I said that out loud ta him!” Creed snickered for emphasis, still shaking his head. “Roman guy. Big-time emperor. Ah, that don’t matter. What matters is what it says in that book of the Good Book, ‘bout not robbin’ folks of what ain’t yers. Payin’ folks what they’re due. Bein’ accountable ta authority, which in this case is Farouk. *Render unto Caesar, that which is Caesar’s,” he shrugged. “Fits, don’t it? Ya messed up,” Logan pronounced without further hesitation.
“Finally,” Creed huffed, scratching his ear with one dark claw, causing their mark to stare at the gesture. Creed supplemented the image of a yawning lion as he sucked his fanglike teeth in impatience before yawning. It was a guttural, ugly sound, and their mark felt himself teetering over the precipice, waiting to plummet to the rocky crags below. Creed’s teeth…
“Money’s in the safe. Downstairs, behind the desk,” he offered lamely.
“Preciate it,” Logan drawled, before he flipped the table over and flung it across the room as though the thick pine weighed nothing. Before he could blink, their mark’s head was severed neatly from him neck in one swift slice of Logan’s foreclaw. His expression still looked surprised as his body sagged to the floor from the chair.
“Pussy,” Creed muttered. “Ya take the fun out of it, runt.”
“Ain’t s’posed ta be fun, prick.”
“Pansy.”
“Dumb ass.” He ushered him out, heedless of his towering bulk and the menacing leer on his face. “Yer a freak, Vic.”
“Let’s grab the cash, an’ grab ya a stiff drink ta chase that bug outta yer ass,” Creed suggested. “Damn, this place stinks.” Logan and Creed took their time, knowing it was pointless to cover their steps. They’d already cleared the front lobby just by walking in through the front door. Two gunmen lay bleeding and staring up at the ceiling, one still twitching next to his liver. That had been Creed’s handiwork. As Logan so ably put it, he was a freak.
Say what you wanted about Logan’s MO. Taking their mark’s head off guaranteed he wouldn’t suffer feeling his heart ceasing to beat. He didn’t need the light dying from another pair of eyes staring into his face, pleading with him for mercy to chase him into sleep. Vic dragged their mark’s body down the hall by the ankles like a kid pulling a Radio Flyer wagon behind him and the head neatly tucked into a burlap sack. Logan merely waited outside by the truck, swigging tepid water from their shared canteen and dashing some over his hair to cool off. He felt a burning pain in his shoulder, then the excruciating *pop* of the shell lodged in his soft tissue burrowing its way back out as the flesh knitted itself back together. He barely noticed that the lefthanded shooter clipped him coming in. He seldom did anymore.
Vic heaped the bodies in the clearing about a half a mile away, drenched in unrelenting sunlight that beat down onto his ruddy skin and wheat blond hair. Anyone who didn’t know him, seeing him in repose like, wiping sweat from his brow, would have taken him for Zeus stepping down from Olympus until they noticed the blood stains turning his olive tank top into a gruesome parody of a Jackson Pollack painting. Logan helped him with the large, oblong package wrapped in dark brown butcher’s paper and string, cutting it open with his claws once he approached Vic.
“Bout time.”
“Nag, nag, nag,” Logan jeered mirthlessly, scowling as they laid the fillets of fresh meat gleaned from a recent kill over the bodies. Vic left a trail of them leading out toward the savanna at random intervals, creeping almost too close to a grazing pack of lions.
“Here, kitty, kitty!” Creed whistled sharply through his teeth. The large male cat flicked its tail back and forth, recognizing Vic as a fellow predator and yawning menacingly.
“Freak.” Logan headed back to the truck and hopped in on the driver’s side. When Vic returned and yanked open his side to get in, Logan made a show of fanning the air and wrinkling his nose in distaste. “Ya ain’t riding up front with me, bub, ya stink ta high heaven!”
“Fuck off!” The money rested in the case between them as they drove through the brush.
That brought Logan here. Creed was already upstairs, availing himself of the club’s perks. He hadn’t even changed his shirt.
Logan sidled up to the bar and ordered a beer, slapping off the fluted cap and drinking it straight from the bottle. His throat worked thirstily, the bulging cords of muscle pulsing with each swallow as he drained the bottle and thunked it back onto the counter. The serving girl watched him with wary eyes, her face jaded but belligerent. He waved notes of the local currency at her briefly, waiting patiently to be served again. She dutifully retrieved the empty bottle and wiped the moist ring staining the counter with her rag that had seen better days.
Logan took a moment to let the sounds and scents of the Pearl “settle” around him before he picked through them, one by one. His server had made near-futile efforts with deodorant and talc, probably that morning, to stave off the stench and humidity of the saloon. He smelled the brush, both from himself and a gaggle of workmen filing inside from the street. Unfiltered cigarettes. Cheap vermouth. Chicken wings with Tabasco and stale beer nuts abandoned on one of the small tables by the dais, fifteen feet away. Logan was thankful that his day’s labors robbed him of an appetite.
His hackles rose as he caught the scent of young flesh. A child. Female. Too young for a monthly cycle or even acne. His feet dragged him from his stool, deaf to his server’s disgusted announcement that he was forgetting his beer. She left it still capped on the counter and went about her business, until she saw him heading into the gambling den.
Common sense won out over curiosity, and she strode back into the kitchen, out of sight.
Logan followed the faint scent like a beacon. He knew from the jump that Farouk held no qualms about exploiting the needy families who would literally sell their own children if it would put food on the table. He’d seen enough of it from behind enemy lines. ‘Tweens seated outside of brothels, swinging on verandas and eating melting popsicles while their brothers, uncles or fathers shilled from the street, luring tourists and soldiers inside.
Outbursts of drunken laughter were cut short as though someone extinguished all sound from the room. The faded red streamers of tape fluttered in the vents of the swamp cooler, stirring up the motes of dust in the salon and making them dance in the fading light.
“Pull up a chair, stranger,” Farouk crooned, beaming at his favorite contract gun and raising his glass in salute. The old bloat still hadn’t learned the value of self-control or more frequent baths. Logan’s nostrils burned, nearly making his eyes water, but he mastered it. His stance was wide, his back stiff as a poker as he measured him up from the doorframe.
Logan didn’t reply; Farouk expected it of him by now. His fathomless, nearly feral black eyes swept the chamber, taking in the occupants one by one, assessing their weaknesses and vices of choice and storing it away for future knowledge. Farouk was flanked by two of his toys, both attired in skimpy ruffles and hoop earrings as big as Logan’s fist, lips glossed blood-red.
The third one sat perched nearby, close to the window, diligently braiding the hair of a child seated on her lap, amusingly occupied with a similar task of her own. The child was painstakingly combing the curls of a careworn porcelain doll, growing frustrated by a stubborn snarl. Logan recoiled indignantly at the sight of the child’s attire, garbed in garish clothing that mimicked Farouk’s whores. The little girl was humming tunelessly to herself, absorbed in her task and behaving surprisingly well as her own locks were tugged mercilessly tight into impeccable cornrows.
“Doesn’t she just brighten up this drab room like a little beam of sunshine?” Farouk observed. Ororo peered up at the sound of his voice before slowly swinging her gaze toward the haggard stranger in their midst.
She wasn’t afraid of him.
“Creed’s upstairs,” Logan explained. “I’m done.”
“Dinner’s on the house,” Farouk offered.
“Ain’t hungry.”
“Speak with Gideon on your way out, then.” Farouk shrugged unaffectedly.
Logan’s feet remained planted where they were. Farouk continued to smile, his beady eyes unreadable to anyone else in the room. Logan flexed his left shoulder, letting the joint pop thoughtfully as he remembered back to his afternoon.
Here, kitty, kitty…predators and prey. Logan felt himself flicking a phantom tail.
He wanted nothing more than to grab the kid and run, but this wasn’t his moment. He needed a plan.
And he needed a moment to kick his own ass for giving a damn.
“Win big, Boss.”
“I always do.”
Logan crept back into the kitchen, ignoring the sour look from his serving girl from the bar as he headed through the dark slab door beyond the galley. He gave two short raps. Gideon’s swarthy, pocked face peered out through the crack, and he was allowed entry without preamble or greeting.
Once ensconced inside, Gideon made a show of opening the safe, yanking it open with a sharp click. He extracted a gleaming leather case and laid it on the desk, snapping it open before he pulled the ledger from the drawer. His scrawl was surprisingly neat for a man who habitually toted a gun; Logan’s name was entered on the line as “Patch”, with “pif” noted under the “Amount” column, for “paid in full” for services rendered. He laid out the stacks of bills neatly on the desk and shoved them toward Logan without meeting his eyes.
“Don’t spend it all in one place,” he scoffed.
“Yeah, yeah,” Logan murmured, giving his stock answer to the familiar lecture. Logan knew that Gideon was a sadistic bastard, and that he put on the Mother Hen act for kicks. He swept out of the room with his take stowed in his ditty bag strapped around his waist and obscured by his baggy seersucker shirt. He tipped his hat at the serving girl on his way out. She merely rolled her eyes before resuming her duties, drying the stack of steaming dishes in the sink.
Logan was pleased to find his beer still untouched on the counter. He drained it much like he had the first, knowing the attempt to wash the taste of the Pearl from his mouth was hopeless, no matter how diligent.
He shook off the faint impression that he was being watched on his way out.
Charles Xavier nursed the glass of single malt whiskey thoughtfully and watched the stocky man with haphazard hair and clothing lope outside with almost lupine grace. Unlike the other patrons of the Pearl, his thoughts were cloaked, muddled in psychic static. Charles’ impressions were fleeting, but he caught the empathic signature of his emotions…pain. Regret. Anger.
Strength.
Leaving a generous tip on the table, Charles followed the signature like a beacon.
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