LOGAN: The Fallen Thorns MC

by Evelyn Glass

  “No, curiosity? No interest?” the same man asked.

  “No. I couldn’t care less,” he said honestly.

  Cole caught movement to his right as the middle man began to say, “I wish I could believe…”

  All three of the men felt and acted military or ex-military. Whatever they were, Cole had no trouble believing they were well trained in combat and maneuvers. He thanked whatever god was watching over him that they lacked some ability to think in all three dimensions.

  Cole was standing in a kill box.

  The distance between the three men was so Cole couldn’t get an easy shot at all three of them. It also protected themselves from each other’s line of fire. The setup was for a man who would either come farther into the room or attempt to run out of the room, or, of course, stand there in shock long enough to be executed.

  Instead of going for the man drawing to his right or attempting to outdraw and get one of the men in front, Cole fell backwards, through the white curtain and opened door, rolling as he hit the ground. As his roll reached mid-point, he heard the first gunshot explode inside while he began to draw his 9mm and used his abs and momentum to increase his speed. When his gun came free into his right hand, he was well out past the sliding glass door and laying prone on the deck with his weapon in a two-handed grip.

  A second shot rang out from the same source as before, which sounded and felt fired by the man in the green suit.

  The package was inside. They had their delivery. Why kill him? What was so important?

  Since the value of his life was now deemed less than the contents of the package, his curiosity was piqued.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Cole was not military nor ex-military, but he did grown up in Chicago in neighborhoods where is wasn’t safe to play in the street, where people didn’t sit on their porches at sunset or any other time, where it did matter to every child above the age of five what colors he was wearing and on what street he intended to wear them, where gunfights were heard as a matter of course and knife fights were waiting for you after school, instead of something as domestic and suburban as bullies. Cole grew up in a world where just about every violent situation he encountered resulted in him being alone while pitted against three or more assailants.

  At age nineteen, he joined the Chrome Horsemen, which he felt was a solid and respected club of men who were tough as they come and just as mean if pushed. Some of those men didn’t need to be pushed all that hard either. A good strong exhale might be enough.

  Cole became an enforcer, then an outrider, and then, five years later, he was placed on the security list. No, he wasn’t ex-military and he wasn’t trained, but he did have over twenty years of practical experience with close quarters combat against brutal and overwhelming odds. He also had a sharp mind and a vividly clear recall memory.

  He mentally pictured the men inside as they were when he did his backward somersault performance out of the kill box they had waiting for him. He visualized where each man was and where he was moving his center of gravity – which direction was the man moving toward? At the speed of thought, he encouraged his mind to logically progress the movements. If the man on the right, in the green suit, was stepping forward, which he was, visualize him doing so and visualize where he was now if he didn’t change direction.

  In a blur of mental speed, less than a half second, he used these estimations to adjust his aim and then fired blind three times into the stationary glass side of the doorway. Then he rolled to his left, came back to a prone position, and fired three more times into the open area of the door, burning black holes through the white curtain.

  Both attacks were answered with gunfire and shocked screams of pain. Again he rolled, back to his original position, and waited a breath, feeling and listening to the movement inside the room.

  Cole was sure he wounded two of the men, the one to the left, directly in front of him when he walked through the door and the gunman to the right in the green suit. The first barrage of bullets might, have caught number three, the talker, but Cole counted him as uninjured, armed, and highly pissed off.

  A body sagged into the stationary glass side of the door. The silhouette displayed through the shear curtain portrayed a bent man who was succumbing to his wounds. Cole aimed at the man’s head, hesitated, following his instinct and visualization of the room inside, adjusted his aim, and fired five rounds, adjusting his aim to the right as he fired, spreading his attack horizontally across the room inside.

  Two rounds blew through the glass and rocketed past, far above his head. A third and fourth were fired, as well, but didn’t sunder the glass. Either they went up through the ceiling, down into the hull, or into the back of the room.

  Without hesitation, Cole adjusted his aim again to the man sliding down the curtain, smearing it with blood and shot him in the head, blowing his body back off the curtain and glass. He didn’t want the dying man to clutch that shear fabric shield currently hiding him and yank it down.

  When the dead man was sent off the door by Cole’s last shot, a curse came from inside the room followed by two knee-jerk shots that didn’t ripple the curtain or make new holes in the glass.

  Cole rolled to the left, got up to a crouched position and stalked with a grace belying his size toward the edge of the boat, and the dock it was moored to.

  Snipers.

  Cole thought about that. If there were eyes on him, which Jim stressed there would be, he would have to assume snipers. Well, he would have to assume there were snipers if he wished to live long enough to tell himself later that he was overly paranoid.

  The gunfight threw enough explosions and lead through the air that someone must have dialed the cops by now.

  Question: do I want the package?

  Cole was sure that whoever was left alive in the room behind the curtain was wounded enough that they couldn’t follow him while he went over the side of the yacht and then jumped onto the boat across the way in an effort to test the sniper theory. He was sure that was a safe route to take at this moment.

  He would never know what was in that package if he did that, though.

  It couldn’t be drugs. It wasn’t big enough to warrant this attack on him and drugs wouldn’t warrant the attack anyway. Chemicals? Biotech secrets? Military level explosive components?

  Two thoughts then stripped all desire to see what was inside. The first, it would likely to be something he had no resources for selling and, thus, useless to him. The second, it was highly probable he wouldn’t recognize what the item was when he saw it. A jar of blue goo, for example, could be a lot of fucking things. Fuck that package and fuck the assholes inside.

  He went over the side of the yacht, faked a step forward, performed a fast retreat back against the boat he just left, and then ran low and fast across the dock to dive over the side of the yacht across from him.

  Now, he was hidden from view of the shore by the other yacht, the one in front of the one he was on, and safe from anyone deciding to fire some more shots out the back of Prague boy’s yacht he just left. This was a good spot to wonder if it was going to be a lifesaving thing to wait for the cops. He wouldn’t be in too much trouble and he had no tricks to pull against snipers.

  His phone rang. Seriously? Now?

  CHAPTER TEN

  Covered as he was, he shrugged, kept scanning the areas he could see, and answered the connection.

  “Cole? This is Jim. Package delivered?”

  “Yep Jim, it’s delivered, only they decided to kill me anyway, so I had to put some holes in them. One of them is well and truly dead; the other two are certainly wounded, likely critical.”

  “God fucking damn fucking Prague son of a bitch mother fucking assholes!” Jim thundered.

  “I feel the same. I don’t think there are snipers; at least no one has taken a shot at me. Did you ever see more than three of them at any time, Jim?” Cole asked.

  Jim paused and then said, “No. Three or two. Never fresh faces.”
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  “I’m going to have to chance it, then. This place will have locals rushing up on it soon and I have a date to return to,” Cole said into the phone.

  “Fuck a duck, Cole. I swear to God, I thought this was easy money,” Jim said with worried apology weighing down his voice.

  “If it were anyone else saying that, Jim, I might have some doubts, but I don’t doubt you for a moment. Even right now. I’ll call you from down the road.”

  “Safe wind, Cole,” Jim said with a defeated voice and then Cole broke the connection.

  From his jacket, he took a spare clip and reloaded the 9mm. He scanned again, knowing the snipers had scopes, so they were likely so far back he couldn’t see them even if he knew exactly where to look.

  Fucking snipers. How do you deal with fucking snipers?

  What came to mind just before he was going to stick his head out there and run for the parking lot, risking a bullet through his skull was that illusion he had before all this started: that perfect moment of him and Nicole, taking advantage of a rare free day to jump on the bike and take a ride.

  He liked the way she looked and how he felt around her, and how he felt about her. It was a great image and one he wouldn’t mind as his last thoughts in this world. So he let the illusion play, let the emotions fill him up and immerse him in stimulations. Then he took a breath and leapt over the side. As soon as his feet were flat on traction covering, Cole ran as hard and as fast as he could for the parking lot.

  Across his mind, inside the illusion, Nicole kissed him a quick but proprietary peck and then said, “Shoo, go take care of your thing.” Her voice rang in his ears along with the thunder of an adrenaline-jacked bloodstream. “Shoo,” he heard her say again as he made it past the closest line of parked cars.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Sirens were approaching when he made it to his bike and shoved his gun into the saddlebag. He slipped onto the seat, ignited the engine, and came off the stand with a single motion of practiced grace. The Harley roared to life and he gunned it out of the parking lot, hurtling out to the frontage road, letting RPMs roar from his pipes before gearing hard and fast, thrilling with the raw power surging through him and the bike. He ran expecting a bullet into his retreating back at any moment.

  “Shoo,” Nicole told him, making a rather cute motion with the back of her hand, as if brushing him into action.

  “I am, baby. I’m fucking shooing as fast as I can!” he yelled into the wind and shifted again, bringing the bike up to sixty in a thirty-five mile zone.

  Then he geared down, pulling the bike to rein, bringing his speed down to the posted limit, and letting the Lowrider chug down the frontage road while he panted air into his lungs.

  No sniper, or at least he didn’t hear one or notice an attempt. He was well out of range now.

  A sheriff four-door came into view and a passed him few seconds later with full lights, and sirens going, heading for the dock where the firefight occurred. Three more were running hard behind the first, trying to catch up.

  Cole cruised the bike into the parking lot where the café was and brought it down on its stand in a stall just outside the door. He cut the engine. Then he just sat and rubbed the gas tank for a time, petting his horse, feeling a strong affinity for the metal beast at the moment.

  Just as his breath was coming under control, Nicole came out of the door with her helmet in hand, bearing straight down on him with purpose in her stride.

  “What happened? Are you alright?” she queried, looking him over for signs of injury.

  “Nothing, I’m fine,” he said.

  “Don’t lie to me, Cole Porter!” she hissed. “I know you too well. What happened!” she demanded, her voice a whispered scream.

  Cole studied her. Her eyes were clear, bright, and currently very agitated. Apparently she hadn’t caught what she just said to him. On top of that, he not only saw her as she was now, but how she was in his illusion at the docks.

  “The drop,” he began, his brain spinning with questions and feeling connections to her that were simply not possible to have, “it went sour. They decided that a witness wasn’t in their favor, so they tried to off me.” He watched as the magnitude of this registered in her thoughts and then watch the shakes travel up from her hands to her shoulders to join the tremors coming up her spine. He hated the feeling of her in this condition, knowing he was the cause. “But it is done. See? No holes, no hurt, no pain, and no blood. Just me. A little winded, but fine.”

  “Cole?” she whimpered and now she was shaking quite a lot.

  He pulled her to him and brought her into his arms, and then lifted her so he could cradle her on his lap while he straddled the bike. She not only came willingly, she clutched and soothed her hands across his chest and shoulders, as if not believing he didn’t have holes in him. “I got to make a call, baby,” he told her while getting his phone out. “People are worried.”

  “I’m worried,” she complained.

  “Yes, but other, admittedly less important at the moment people, are also worried. They don’t deserve to have demons gnawing at them.”

  She nodded, kissed his left cheek, and nodded again. “Fine, but then you are mine. This is our day, remember?” Her voice was definitely laced with a feeling of prior claim.

  He nodded his agreement and dialed Big Jim.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Cole? If you aren’t Cole, hang the fuck up!” Jim’s voice demanded.

  “It’s me, Jim. I’m out. Out and clear of any pursuit.”

  Jim’s sudden release of breath came through the cellphone sounding like a hurricane. Then Cole could hear the protesting squeaks of his chair as he sat down behind his large desk.

  Jim’s voice was that of a wrathful volcano when he said, “I only wish there were more of them so I could ring the life out of their useless bodies myself. Do you need anything? Do you want anyone to meet you and see you home? Do you have enough money?”

  “Jim, are you going to ask if I wore my jacket next? I’m fine. They aren’t and they also aren’t going anywhere with the package.”

  “You left it with them?” Jim asked.

  “Want me to go get it now?’ Cole asked and Nicole’s head popped up off his shoulder giving him a wide-eyed stare.

  Noting her overreaction to his jibe, he decided to cut Jim a little slack, too. People weren’t quite in the joking mood yet. “It was the package or me and I decided that the package was delivered. Our job was complete.”

  “No, I’m glad you left it there. It wasn’t something we could have handled anyway. They supposedly had a specific buyer, but I never learned enough about that side of things in order to find buyer by myself. No, it is best left exactly where it lays. Like you said, we did our job, exactly what they paid us to do.”

  “Did they pay us?” Cole inquired.

  “Up front, yes, which was one of the reasons I didn’t think this would go down like it has. They felt and acted, like professionals. I thought you would be treated in a professional manner and, knowing your people skills, I felt like you were the best man for the job.”

  “No worries, Jim, but I will accept a beer when I come in again,” he told him.

  “You got it and I’m happy you’re alright.”

  “Me too,” Cole admitted. “See ya.” He put the phone away and Nicole began kissing him — his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, and then his lips, and then his lips deeply.

  She fell into him as no other woman has. Delving into his core, soothing discovered stress, revealing areas of need, healing him where she came across worry, or strife. Her hands heedlessly explored his shoulders and chest, working his muscles with her lithe strong hands.

  “God, Cole,” she whimpered. “When I saw you out here, I knew. I just knew. Don’t lie to me! Anything but that. What? Am I so fucking frail?”

  “No, baby, but look at you. You’re torn up. I hurt when you are like this. It’s done. We still have our day. So, what do you want to do?”
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br />   She gazed into his eyes and opened her mouth to say something, and then snapped it shut. Then she glanced around, as if getting her bearings. After observing a sense of greater control and calm descended across her face, Cole met her eyes when she looked back to him and said, “Your place. I want to go to your place and sit like this for the rest of the day, and kiss, and talk. Can we do that? Please?”

  He gave her an intimate brushing kiss across her lips, and said, “We can do that. That sounds like a perfect thing to do.”

  He set her back on the ground and she got into her helmet, and then with simple, easy grace, slid in behind him, wrapping herself tight against him and squeezing his butt with her thighs.

  Cole started the Lowrider, eased its chugging engine out of the parking lot, and willed the bike to carry them home. It roared to life and flew for the highway.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Nicole looked around Cole’s home with curious awe accompanied by some annoying déjà vu while feeling warm humor bubble up at the picture it gave her of the man she was rapidly coming undone around.

  Video games, action movies, and what looked like some home videos were around the floor in front of the TV. Coke cans were on the coffee table. A couple of beer bottles were poking their necks out of the trash near the kitchen in what she supposed was the dining room, but felt more like living room B.

  The house had three bedrooms and two baths. The home office was a bit cluttered, but she could sense order from it, as well. Nothing was rich or luxurious. Nothing was polished or glass cased like at her place. Nothing had gold chrome or tinkling glass. He did have an expensive set of kitchen knives, which she recognized, having the same set at her place.

  Browns. A great deal of browns were in his home. The two strangely odd elements, inside this blend of typical suburban male, were the oil paintings on the wall and the complete works of Shakespeare lying with its spine spread open to save his recent reading space. It looked like he was about a fourth of the way through the volume.