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Disclaimer: Same as before.


Chapter.8.



It was past two o’ clock, and the last member of staff had just left ‘Smokey Jack’s’. Jimmy Logan and Remy Le Beau where waiting around the corner, in the concealing darkness of the ally way opposite. They stood in the driving rain, hats on, collars of their trench coats firmly pulled up to almost meet their rims. Forge had left about half an hour ago with a several men, most of which Logan recognised and the ones he didn’t Remy most certainly did. Their was Tony Mortimer, a little sneak from the Bronx, Tom Cassidy, or Black Tom as he was more widely known when he ran the Irish mob down in Hell’s Kitchen but he’d been ousted some years ago by his own cousin, Sean Cassidy. Remy had recognised Jason Masson, a master forger he’d actually worked with on a couple of occasions, when times had been good on the Bayou, steeling priceless artworks only for Jason ‘Mastermind’ Masson to replace them with faultless copies. Cain Marko was there too, Logan had certainly recognised him; stepbrother of Charles Xavier, the most respected Chief of Police this city had ever had---that was until he’d been gunned down in 1931. Marko and his gang had been suspected of the assassination, but nothing had ever been proved. Logan had served under Xavier for a few years back in the twenties when he was still a little ‘green’---‘wet behind the ears’, as they say. Charles had been the only authority figure Logan had ever respected---a father figure almost. How he’d love to get his revenge on that bastard Cain; but now was not the time for settling personal vendettas. Speaking of which, the last to leave with Kenny Forge was Victor Creed.


Victor Creed---they both knew him, from very bitter history. When Logan had seen him the first time he’d gone into Forge’s office all those weeks ago, cruel memory had stirred, but it was past and Logan neither had the heart or the inclination to open that old can of worms again.


“Bas’tard.” Remy had muttered as he watched the huge blonde man getting into the car with Forge. Logan had looked over at him and recognised that look, something in his scowl had told him Creed held a rather unpleasant place in his past too---but he had said nothing as he followed the cars, with his dull eyes, down the empty, rain caressed street.


*


“Shall we make our move den homme?” Remy inquired with an unnecessary whisper as he idly shuffled a pack of much worn cards in his hands and looked across the street at the now deserted, night blackened club.


Logan looked down at the pack in Remy’s hands with vague curiosity as he started to shuffle them in ever more elaborate and clearly experienced ways. Taking his attention away and back to the club opposite, he hitched his collar up higher and started to walk across to the club without a word in reply to Remy’s question. ‘Gambit’ shrugged his shoulders casually before slipping his beloved cards, for they had been with him for a very long time, back into the right hand pocket of his ankle length coat and belatedly following the shorter man to the other side of the road.


Logan looked up and down the street a couple of times as he reached the door, to check that their were no wondering drunks or tramps about to disturb them as he fished about in his pocket and eventually pulled out the set of keys Ororo had given him earlier. As he opened the chunky lock as quietly as he could, Logan turned his head to the side, starting to warn Remy about something, “Whatever you do, don’t---.” But he stopped when he realised Remy was not behind him anymore, in fact he was nowhere in sight. “Damn Cajun.” He hissed as the lock finally gave way and he was into the club.


The room wasn’t as pitch black as he’d expected it to be, a small amount of light came from behind the bar, the lamps that were positioned there evidently, were never switched off. Logan wasted no time and after shutting the door firmly behind him, he quickly navigated his way to Forge’s office.


Once again he had to fumble with the set of keys; swiftly finding the one Ororo had told him was for the office door. He made his way inside with the minimum of fuss, but all the while wondering where that sneaky swamp-rat had disappeared to---he didn’t really trust him. Under normal circumstances he wouldn’t have trusted him as far as he could throw him anyway but added to that the way he had treated Ororo, supposedly the dearest person in the world to him, and that marked him down even further in Logan’s book.


“Mon Dieu, yo’ sure took yaw time, mon ami.”


Logan fought hard not to jump as sat right before him was that self-same Cajun; sat on Forge’s desk, legs swinging to and fro like an impatient child, shuffling that pack of cards again, grinning up at him.


“What the hell do you think yer doin’, bub?” Logan growled as he clicked the door shut gently as possible behind him.


Remy laughed quietly, “Well it’s been a while homme. Remy jus’ wan’ed to see if he still ‘ad de touch.” He grinned mischievously as he put the cards in his pocket once more and then slipped off the desk. “I already cased de joint---dere’s no bugs.”


“Good.” Logan replied shortly as he continued his own little scan regardless. Satisfied that Remy was true to his word, Logan went immediately to Forge’s desk and flicking on his pencil flash-light that he always kept stashed in his inside pocket he started to look over the papers on the desk. Although he knew that the papers they were looking for would not be among them, whilst they were here he thought he may as well see what else he could pick up.


Remy went over to the filing cabinet in the corner, picking the lock with the minimum of fuss and rifling through quickly, but ascertaining soon enough that they were all of no use. He then began to flip pictures on the walls, checking the space behind all of them for a safe or some other kind of concealed cavity. It was obvious, but always worth a shot as any experienced thief will tell you.


“Hey.” Logan called over from the other side of the small room. Remy let the badly faded print of Thomas Gainsborough’s ‘Mr and Mrs Andrews’, slip from his grasp, making a swishing-scrapping noise across the wall paper as it fell back into place, turning his attention to Logan, crouched by a nest of tables with a large rubber plant on top. “Come look at this.”


The tall Cajun made his way across the dark room deftly, coming to rest in a crouch at Logan’s side. “What yo’ found mon ami?”


Logan flashed his thin stream of light onto a small black box set into the corner of the room. It looked solid on first inspection, there seemed to be no entrance from any angle. “Can ya get into this?”


Remy started a sly grin in the darkness before giving a short, knowing laugh. Cracking his knuckles with glee, his long hands out-stretched in front of him, he said, “Oh, Remy’s been crackin’ shit like dis since before he could walk, homme.” He gave his knuckles a couple of extra tweaks for good measure as he proceeded to click his upper few vertebrate also, with two swift movements of his head from side to side. Taking his hat from his head he set it down at his side and went to work.


Logan watched in mesmerised fascination as Remy’s dexterous fingers worked their expert magic. Tapping here, pulling there and twisting where necessary. After about two minutes there was a series of clicking noises and with a short scrapping sound, the metal black square object popping up an inch or two from the floor. “Dat’s it.” Remy whispered to himself---or the box, Logan couldn’t tell. But once he’d take that away it revealed a much more conventional looking safe.


“Fuck.” Logan muttered, he’d expected it to be there, but it still annoyed him.


“No worries mon ami, yo’ ‘ave got de---.”


“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know,” Logan cut across dismissively. “‘De’ Gambit.” He sounded derogatory but Remy ignored him and set about the real challenge that was now before him.


Placing his ear flat on the small safe door, next to the dial, Remy began to turn it slowly, all the while listening for the tell tale clicks that it takes years of practice, trial and error to notice. Logan stood back, pacing anxiously as he watched the ‘master thief’ at work. After a few moments and much twiddling of dial, this way and that Remy began to mutter things under his breath Cajun French, as he felt the thick steel door beginning to relinquish its resistance to his charms. Finally, one last resounding click and a noise of smug satisfaction from Gambit and the door swung open.


“Child’s play.” He exclaimed in a gleeful whisper as he turned back to look up at Logan expecting to be greeted with an approving face, it wasn’t often that he had an audience to play up to. But he was disappointed to meet only with Logan’s look of complete indifference. Although secretly he was quietly impressed by Remy’s ability to crack a state-of-the-art safe in little under a minute flat.


Logan then moved back to the floor and reached into the black chasm of the safe, nudging Remy out of the way as he did so, much to the disgust of the handsome thief. Watching as the gruff Canadian pulled out a small collection of documents that seemed to be all that was contained within, Remy peered over the shorter man’s shoulder to try and make out what was written on them, “What’s he got den?” He asked eagerly.


Logan didn’t reply as he got back up from the floor and made his way over to Forge’s desk, studying the papers as best he could as he went with his flashlight. Sitting down in the chair, he blindly reached from the cord on the desk lamp so he could read the information clearly, Remy making his way around the chair to read over his shoulder once more. Logan felt a smug smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he read the words quickly---this shit was gold---pure gold. “I’ve got you now Summers, you sneaky fuck!” He muttered to himself, not able to contain the spiteful joy he felt at finding these papers---they were going to blow the whole thing wide open, the New York establishment brought to its knees.


Remy soon got the gist of the importance of the information contained within those pages and soon realised that this was his ticket, this was his passport to getting the death penalty that had been hanging over his head reprieved at the last minute---not just reprieved but a whole goddamn royal pardon. “What are yo’ gonna do wit dis, homme?” His voice was peppered with anticipation.


“I haven’t decided, but I’ve got a lot of ideas, I can tell you that!” It wasn’t the answer Remy was hoping for.


“Look homme, dese could get Remy’s ass right out of de fire---I need dem.”


Logan turned his head to look back at the Cajun, “Well I’m sorry bub, but this just got a lot bigger than savin’ yer skinny hide.” He said gruffly and then turned back down to look at the ‘priceless artefacts’ in his hands. Remy wasn’t best pleased by this turn of events to say the least and suddenly, as he became angrier his irrational, survive-at-any-cost, instinct took over, the instinct of a hustler---the instinct of a crook.


Logan didn’t know what hit him---literally. All he heard was Remy saying, “I’m sorry about dis homme.”, before he felt an almighty thud in the place just under the bottom of the skull.


Remy stood over him for a moment, just looking down at him, the swan-shaped paper-weight still it his hand. Then he snatched the papers up from underneath Logan’s head, a small pool of blood had collected on them from the wound he’d just inflicted. Giving them a quick shake to flick most of it off, Remy wasted no time in making his exit, dropping the paper-weight carelessly as he went, not glancing back once at the apparently lifeless body of his victim.


* * *


“Urrr...” Logan groaned weakly as his consciousness came back to him in gradual waves. “What the fuck?” He grumbled as he tried to move but found that he couldn’t but couldn’t quite ascertain the reason why just yet. His heavy lids where still closed but all he could see was the flame red of the blood vessels on their insides, the way that you see them when a bright light is shinning in your face and sure enough as they began to flutter open, sending sharp pains in all directions around his head, that bright light was there---directly pointed at his face. He couldn’t see anything else but its blinding, white fire, then he attempted to move and it was then that he realised that he was tied to a chair, hands securely behind him and his legs tied to either leg of the rickety wooden structure. Then, Logan remembered, “LE BEAU, YOU FUCK---WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU!” He raged as he tried again to free himself, the chair rocking from side to side dangerously, threatening to topple over.


There was a moment of silence and then a deep, gravelly laugh came somewhere from Logan’s left, but he couldn’t see anyone---but he didn’t need to see the bastard, he knew exactly who it was---Creed.


“Now, now Logan, calm down,” It was Forge who spoke, “If you don’t stop moving, you’ll do yourself a serious mischief.” He said with insincere concern as he stepped in front of the lamp, casting himself in silhouette to Logan’s eye. “Now that you’re back in the land of the living, perhaps you’d care to tell me where my documents have gone?”


“Blow it out yer ass!” Logan spat back, but his angry thoughts were still half on Remy---he knew he shouldn’t have trusted that swamp-rat bastard.



“Where are they?” Forge continued unperturbed by Logan’s insolence.


“You fuckin’ idiot!” Logan barked back. “Does it look like I know where they are---I was sparked-out over the desk for fucks sake, do ya think I did that to myself!”


Forge bolted without warning close up to Logan, pulling his right arm back and socking him with a sweet right hook. His head snapped to the side with the blow, piling on yet more pain to his already throbbing skull. Shaking his head once to clear the buzzing sensation in his ears, Logan faced back to the front, blood pouring from his nose, running into his mouth, “That all ya got, ya limp-wristed---.” He didn’t get to finish his insult as Victor Creed stomped in from the darkness, landing a powerful blow into Logan’s mid-riff. The chair would have tipped had it not been for Creed catching it with a well-placed foot, bringing it back down again---only to deliver another punch, this time directly into Logan’s chest. He managed to suck in a breath just before, but it was knocked out of him by the force of the hit, exploding out with a burning sting. Logan struggled to catch another breath as Creed moved away and Forge came back in.


“Now listen to me you drunken fuck, I want those papers back, so for your own sake, tell me who has them.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys, the keys Ororo had given him earlier. Holding them up in front of Logan he then said, “And I want to know what my double-crossing bitch of a wife has been up to.” Hissing the words with barely contained anger.


Logan looked at the keys through blood-blurred vision and then he laughed, despite the fact that it was killing his chest to do so. “What’s she been up to?” Logan said cryptically in a croaky voice, “She’s been comin’ to the conclusion that you’re a complete prick---that’s what she’s been up to, bub.” He laughed again as a thick glob of blood dripped from the corner of his mouth.


Forge scowled, gritting his teeth as he tried to fight the urge to just grab his 45. and blow this bastards brains all over the walls. Walking back over to Creed, he whispered something in the taller man’s ear and then left the room. Victor went back over to Logan, placing a hand at either side of his shoulder and leaning in on the chair. “Been a long time, hey Runt?” His wretched breath was thick in Logan’s face as he snarled at him. “By the way, how’s the little lady?” Logan lost it at that---roaring, he head-butted the blond man square in the face, it probably hurt him just as much as it hurt Creed.


Victor stumbled back, holding his nose as blood crept through the cracks of his cupped fingers, he took his hand away and looked down at the blood that covered them, “Oh, I’m really gonna enjoy this now.” He snarled with dark humour as he rushed back over to Logan and punched him again and again. After about the tenth blow, which came in the form of an upper cut to the chin, he stopped, a little breathless from all the effort he was putting into this. Pulling his jacket off, he then rolled up the sleeves of his white, blood-splattered shirt and roughly yanked his tie from around his neck---he really had only just started, there was definitely much more to come. Walking around to the back of the chair, Creed growled into Logan’s swollen, ‘cauliflower’ ear, “When I’m finished with you, I’m gonna find that little bitch and teach her a lesson she won’t forget in a hurry---I’m gonna fuck her up reeeeal good.” He laughed, “But not before I’ve done her over---if ya catch my drift.”


Logan was too out of it now to respond to Victor’s threats to Ororo’s safety, but he heard and took in every single word, vowing to kill this sadistic fuck the first chance he got---if he ever laid one finger on her...

“I’m gonna make her plead and beg,” the fowl man continued, “But it wouldn’t surprise me if the little whore screamed for more.” He gave a vicious, self-pleased snarl/laugh.


Then the beating began in earnest.


* * *



Ororo sat nervous, her leg jumping up and down like an uncontrollable twitch as waited for the return of Remy and Logan. They’d left over four hours ago now and she was becoming increasingly worried---what was taking so long. She looked up at the clock for the millionth time---it was five a.m. and it was growing light outside. She’d tried to get some sleep earlier but it had been no good, she was too on edge to rest.



Had she done the right thing? Wondering this to herself, Ororo went over to the window and looked out at the rain sodden street below. Crossing Forge had taken her great courage and she prayed that it was worth it---but she couldn’t quieten the nagging doubt at the back of her mind. Had all of her bridges been well and truly burnt? But this doubt was tempered by thoughts of Darkholme---Raven Darkholme. The flame-haired film and stage siren with a habit of making a play for any man within a ten mile radius---but unfortunately, her radar always seemed to be specifically tuned to the signatures of married men. The press was constantly buzzing with rumours of her flings with co-stars and other public figures, much to the delight of the New York society gossip mongers. Ororo had heard the whispers but had never paid them any mind, in fact she’d just plain forgotten about them---until Remy had told her straight to her face and she’d had to take notice.


“Bastard.” She muttered under her breath as she folded her arms and paced the small living space. But then Ororo was startled from her dark thoughts when a terrible screeching sound from outside and it sent her rushing back to the rain laden window, just in time to see a black car speeding up the road, skidding its way and that on the wet surface. To Ororo’s horror she looked on as the car door opened and a man was thrown out of it, the speed never dropping as he was hurled into a pile of bin bags and trash cans with a loud rustle and clatter. She watched as the car sped away, its tyres screaming, back spray and steam coming up from the road as it rounded the corner. Then, when it had disappeared from sight, her eyes dropped back down to the figure laid out cold in the gutter. “Logan!” Ororo gasped in shock and then ran down to get to him as fast as she could.


-TBC-


What do you think? I have to admit, I do like a darker, more morally ambiguous Remy! After all, he was originally meant to be a baddie...





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