CHAPTER 134 – DATES AND GHOSTS (CONTINUED)
Westchester was quiet that night. Too quiet.
The mansion loomed against the treeline, its windows glowing faintly, but the grounds themselves were silent. Storm had been pacing the hall, robes flowing behind her like a shadow of white. Banshee was sunk deep into the armchair, pipe in hand, half-reading a newspaper. Thunderbird sat by the window, arms crossed, looking like a storm about to break.
Sean puffed smoke, voice rolling easy. "Y'know, lass, we should take advantage of th' quiet. Been a hell of a stretch. Maybe a game o' cards? Ororo, ye ever play poker?"
Storm gave him a sideways glance, lips curved. "A goddess does not gamble, Sean Cassidy."
Thunderbird snorted. "You're no goddess. You're one of us. And poker's about guts. You got guts?"
Ororo's smile vanished. Her eyes cooled like steel. "I have survived the Sahara sun and the endless sky, John Proudstar. Do not question what I possess."
Sean raised his hands quick, pipe dangling. "Easy now, easy! Didn't mean to poke th' hornet's nest. Jaysus, Proudstar, you've a way o' rattlin' folks."
John leaned back, gaze on the window glass. "If I rattle, it's because I see the cracks. Quiet like this? It stinks of setup."
And right then, the setup sprung.
A shadow slipped through the door like smoke. The faint hiss of compressed air. Banshee barely had time to turn before the dart thudded into his shoulder. His paper dropped, his body sagging.
"Sean!" Storm cried out, whipping around. But another hiss—another dart. She twisted, winds rising, curtains snapping against the walls. The dart bit into her side. Ororo staggered, eyes rolling. The gale collapsed into silence as she fell against the bannister.
Thunderbird roared, diving for the intruder. "Coward! Face me!"
The attacker was lean, masked, clad in black gear meant for shadows. He moved quick, sidestepping John's lunge. Another hiss—the dart aimed for Proudstar's neck. John slapped it aside, fury boiling. He grabbed the man by the throat and slammed him against the wall so hard the plaster cracked.
"Who sent you?!" John's voice was a growl.
The man didn't answer—just swung a short baton, crackling with electricity. It caught John across the ribs. Pain lanced through him. He gasped, grip loosening. The second dart hit clean.
His vision blurred, muscles locking. He dropped to his knees. The last thing he saw was Ororo's pale hair sprawled across the floor and Sean's pipe still smoldering by the armchair.
Then darkness.
---
Across the city, Logan was dressed sharp for once, a cowboy suit cut against his broad shoulders. He sat across from Mariko in a quiet little Japanese restaurant. She was poised, elegant, every move measured grace.
"You look uncomfortable, Logan-san," she said softly.
He shrugged, chewing slow. "Ain't used to wearin' somethin' this clean. Usually I'm more denim and leather than silk tie and shine."
She smiled politely. "But you wear it well."
Logan gave her a half-smirk, tipping his glass. "Don't let my rough edges fool ya, darlin'. I can play gentleman when I gotta."
For once, the meal was calm. No alarms, no claws, no fights. Just quiet talk of her family business in America, the embassy, the little bits of home she missed. Logan even laughed once, deep and rare.
But peace never lasts.
Outside, the night air was sharp. Logan lit a cigar, cowboy hat pulled low, ready to head his own way as Mariko joined the ambassador's car. He exhaled smoke into the streetlight glow—then froze.
'Scent.'
His nostrils flared. Wrong. Sweet and sour, oily with menace. His muscles coiled on instinct, world slowing down to a crawl. Bullet time.
Down the street, a garbage truck barreled toward him, too fast, too deliberate.
Logan's lips peeled back in a grin. "Cute."
He dove, rolling just as the truck howled past, metal screaming inches from his skin. Claws SNIKT out, gleaming silver in the night. He slashed—not at the driver, not yet—but at the rear doors, carving deep gouges that bit metal like butter. He pulled back, claws retracting, and the force yanked him up and onto the back of the speeding beast.
Wind whipped. Logan gritted his teeth, stabbing his claws into the steel to climb. Hand over hand, gouging rungs into the truck. Sparks flew.
He hauled himself onto the passenger side, smashed the glass with an elbow, and crawled inside like a demon breaking into hell.
The driver yelped, eyes wide. "What the—"
Logan slammed a boot on his ankle, crushing foot into brake. The truck screeched, tires screaming smoke across asphalt.
"Bad idea, bub," Logan growled, cigar clenched between his teeth. He grabbed the man by the collar and bashed his head against the wheel. "Real bad idea."
The man whimpered, dazed. Logan's claws sang out, tips hovering inches from his throat.
"Why did you ambush me?'
"I i wanted to capture you ,We already captured the rest of your team."
"Talk. Where's the rest o' my team?"
The driver shuddered, words tumbling. "Arcade! It's Arcade! He took them—all of them—he's working with Black Tom and the Juggernaut, they—they paid him to—"
Logan's eyes narrowed, red glow from the dashboard painting his face feral. "Arcade. "
He shoved the driver back, knocking him out cold with a single punch. Then he slid out of the cab, claws retracting. The city lights burned on the horizon.
His teammates were gone. And only one man was still standing to get them back.
Logan flicked the cigar butt into the street. It sparked out against the pavement as he muttered, voice low, final.
"Guess it's huntin' season."