NYC - REVIEW THIS STORY

Written by Broadway
Last updated: 01/02/2007 02:01:11 AM

Chapter 6

"I'll kill him," Remy muttered, pacing the room readily.

"Who is it?" Scott asked Jean. Remy didn't look like he was in the mood to answer questions. But to Scott's surprise, he did.

"Eric Lehnsherr; the one you think can do no evil." He spat, shying away from Jean's consoling hand before adding as an afterthought, "I'm sure of it."

"Well where do we find him?" Scott interrogated.

Jean met his eyes, shocked. "You mean you're going to help us?"

Scott nodded. "She's a friend of mine as well. I'm sorry, but I still can't say that I agree with you a hundred percent, but I don't see anything wrong with checking Lehnsherr out, just to be sure."

Remy stopped and narrowed his eyes at Scott. "Gee thanks, mon amie, but we don't need your help OR your pity."

"Remy," Jean muttered.

"I wasn't pitying you; she's my friend."

Jean placed a hand on Remy's arm and guided him to a far corner of the room. Scott, noticing her hint toward privacy, buried his nose in the note again.

"Remy," she whispered, taking her brother's hands with her own, "We could use him. We can't do this alone. People, they don't know him; they'd never suspect him."

Remy pursed his mouth. "Cher was upset de last time I saw her, and it was because of dat fool over dere. How is Remy supposed to trust a man dat t'inks not'in of people like us 'cause we from de street? And if Remy 'members clearly, isn't dis de man dat had tears runnin' down your face earlier dis mornin', too?"

"Yes; but unlike some people I'm willing to put aside petty things like that to find Cher."

"Don't you t'ink Remy wouldn't do anyt'ing in his power to get back Cher? Dat girl is my life, Red."

Jean sighed. "I know, Remy. I know you want to find her and I can only imagine how much you must be hurting right now. That is why we NEED Scott, not only because he'll increase our numbers, but because he's a detective, a damned good one. Maybe he knows places or has connections that you may not be aware of."

"Impossible." Remy said tightly. He looked out the window of Cher's twelve-story apartment at the dismal night moon, weeping in all her pale glory as she basked in the silver starlight. He turned back to his sister. "Alright, we take him." He said it loud enough for Scott to hear, who turned around at the sound of Remy's voice. "But if you screw up just once..."

"Let's go," Jean broke him off, heading for the door.

"Where do we look first?" Scott asked, following the siblings.

"Logan." They said in unison.

"Not at Barry's, not on Jackson Avenue, not at Elements, not at the alley. He's gone!" Jean exclaimed, plopping down on a street bench.

Remy paced in front of her. "Yeah, he's not at any of his regular places. Too bad too, Remy t'inks he probably knows where to find Lehnsherr."

"Logan, really?" Scott asked, taking a seat next to Jean.

Remy nodded. "Yeah, Logan knows a couple of t'ings."

"I hope he's not hurt." Jean said, knitting her eyebrows in worry.

"Nah, Red. Logan's a big boy. He probably just beat it to that place of his upstate to lay low for a while." Remy cast a cautious glance toward Scott, as if he was unsure he should have mentioned Logan's other residence. It didn't matter, Scott knew about it already. "You know Logan, always layin' low for somet'in or ot'er."

Jean nodded the affirmative and stood up, suddenly rejuvenated. "So, what now? Logan's off the list; do you know anyone else that might know where Lehnsherr is?"

They looked to Scott. He shook his head. "Logan was my first and last resort, too."

Remy punched the lamppost and screamed, "Damn it!" He regained his calm immediately, so fast Scott even wondered if he had actually done it. Remy eyed Jean and Scott thoughtfully.

"What?" Jean asked.

"Looks like we're going to have to hit de Brunette." He answered solemnly.

"What! Are you serious? Are you sure there's no one else you night know, because I really don't feel like visiting that place. Not now, not ever."

Remy shook his head no and began walking, his companions following.

"Um, the Brunette?" Scott looked to Jean,

"It's a club in Brooklyn." She said flatly. "Its frequent members include gangsters- bad ones too, we're talking like Capone bad, serial killers, kidnappers, dealers, thieves, pretty much anything that roams New York's streets. Remy's been in there once, and that was all it took. It wasn't that he couldn't hold his own, on the contrary- he fended off six guys alone. It was because some things are too horrible for even a smuggler that's played the streets his whole life like my brother."

Scott was silent as he watched Remy enter a run-down Sears store and return in a 1941 Chevrolet Coupe, black.

"Nice," Scott said, sliding into the backseat, Jean in the front.

"It's a friend of mine's. He owes Remy a favor, t'ought I might as well use it before he finds out Remy slept wit' his daughter." Jean glared at him. "Relax. It was before Remy even knew Cher, Red."

Remy sped the entire way to Brooklyn, but the ride still seemed to last forever. The trio was anxious for information on Cher's condition. Remy was fuming, to say the least. He could be heard from time to time mumbling such things as, "...swear when Remy gets his hands..." or "better HOPE we don't find...."

Scott stepped out onto the sidewalk and inspected the club. Immediately, he knew Remy and Jean were right: the joint screamed 'Gangster Club.' It was obvious from the lack of that mile-long line outside of the door that came complete with every New York hotspot, especially on a Friday night, that this club was reserved for the few with blood drenched hands.

"I'm going in with you." Scott heard behind him. He turned to find Jean talking to Remy.

"We've been t'rough dis before, Red. You're not coming in wit' me, it's too risky. What happens if dey realize we related, eh? Dat gives dem a bargaining chip to use against me, and Remy don't have time to fuck around wit' dat. We need to find Cher now."

Jean cocked her head to the side, a sure sign to her brother that she was in stubborn mode. "No, I don't care, I'm coming in." She looked at Scott, who had been a silent bystander up until then, as if she just realized he was present. "Scott! Scott and I can go in, find a seat at the bar, and watch from there." Remy looked Scott over with speculative eyes. The detective felt as if a whole were burning into him from those critical eyes, but he did not flinch. Scott knew that's exactly what Remy was trying to get him to do, but damn it, he held his ground.

Jean continued. "I don't care what you say, I'm not letting you go in there without someone covering you. That place is dangerous, Remy. Satan practically OWNS it, for goodness' sake."

Remy weighed the idea in his head; Scott watched. Remy stole another glance at his stubborn sister. "Damn redheads," he mumbled to Scott before turning back to Jean. "You packed, li'l girl?"

Jean reached into her purse and pulled out a small 22 Caliber automatic, ivory handle. Scott's eyes went wide. This frail packed almost as much heat as he did.

"Are YOU loaded, mon amie?" Remy asked.

Scott, still a bit stunned, nodded dumbly and briefly flashed the 9-millimeter tucked tight against his body, under his shirt.

Remy nodded approvingly. "Good. I'm going in first; you two follow in about ten minutes."

Once inside, Scott quickly found two seats at the bar for him and Jean. She hopped onto the barstool and scoped the room nonchalantly, elbowing Scott slightly after finding Remy in a corner booth with a man. He was fat and boisterous with a greasy mustache and an even slicker smile, a woman sat on either side of him. At closer glance they were seen to be twins, young too. Jean guessed their age to be eighteen at most, and that was pushing it. 'Sick,' she thought. Scott, seemingly having picked up on her train of thought, shared her grimace.

"Ah, Remy. It's been a while, kid. Where ya' been?" Tha fat Italian said before guzzling down a shot-glass of God only knows what.

"Around, Valentine. Remy's been around."

"Yea, I bet!" Valentine laughed heartily, casting what he thought to be an alluring glance toward one of the twins that were pawing him.

"Anyways," Remy cut to the chase before he puked at the degrading sight before him. 'Just kids,' he thought almost sympathetically. "You ever hear of a fella named Lehnsherr? He-"

He was interrupted by a mousy looking man that had approached to whisper quickly in Valentine's ear and shoot the occasional dagger at Remy.

Remy was immediately on edge. This was not good.

"Problem, homme?" He asked casually after the little man left, his long fingers toying with the silk tablecloth.

Valentine grinned, and then did something that shot ice through Remy's blood. He looked over to where Jean was sitting at the bar.

'Merde. He knows.'

"She's somethin' to see, eh Cajun?" Remy glanced over his shoulder but didn't answer. He refused to play mouse to this rat. "Well, maybe she ain't nothin' to you, because she's your sister."

Remy turned back around to look at Valentine. The fat man tore his beady eyes from Jean and resumed the conversation as if nothing had happened. "Yea, I know Lehnsherr. Why?"

Remy suddenly became aware of the situation but still said, "I need information."

Valentine tipped his head back in satisfaction, speaking what Remy already knew. "I can do that, White. I can do anything... for a price." His disgustingly ravenous gaze fell on Jean again, as if silently naming the stakes. "Something about redheads, huh? I LOVE 'em, absolutely love 'em." He paused to slip his pudgy fingers through one of the teenage twin's hair, the girl eagerly pressing against him at the attention in hopes of earning more money for the night. "So what do ya' say, Remy? I'll trade ya'. One night with that li'l girl for all the information you need."

Remy swallowed hard, positively revolted. 'Just like the good ole days,' he thought wryly. "No, man. Remy can't do dat. Sorry." He got up to leave, resisting the urge to kill the sick bastard point blank and wondering how the hell he and his lapdogs found out about his sister.

"Me, too." Valentine replied.

Back outside of the club, Jean, Scott, and Remy piled into the car. Jean and Scott waited nervously for Remy to recount the details, but didn't dare say a word. He was even more upset than when he went in.

Remy gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles but didn't start the engine. "Summers, get out of the car."

Detective Summers blinked, confused. He looked around to make sure he heard right, but was confirmed when Remy opened his own door and got out of the vehicle. Scott followed suit.

"I need you to take her back to Manhattan and watch her. You ever heard of de Nightcrawler?" Scott said he did. "Good, take her dere. I have a place on de top floor, de key is wit' a guy at de bar, his name is Warren. He knows Jeannie so you shouldn't have a problem getting in. Remy needs to take care of some stuff here. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Scott assured him it was as good as done and Remy thanked him. "Oh and Detective?" Scott turned from opening the car door. "Whatever happens to her, I'll make sure happens to you, too. Got it? I'll die if somet'in happens to Cher. You'll die if somet'in happens to my sister." And with that, Remy disappeared behind the club, leaving Scott to climb into the driver's seat and think on those words as he drove away.

Remy, in the meantime, made better use of his limited time. He went to find a prostitute from the lot of them behind the Brunette.

"Now, let's go over it again." Remy said later to the chosen candidate.

The woman had too much make-up on and the dress that climbed her legs could have used a wash, or two. She had an okay body, though, and most importantly, she had red hair, albeit it was died.

She rolled her eyes, clearly irritated. "Yea, yea. I'm going to go in, do my thing, tell him I heard he had a thing for redheads, and offer him a li'l something."

Remy nodded. "And if he tells you to get under de table and do it?"

"I say 'no' and make sure he gets his ass out HERE." She said, pointing down at the pavement to exaggerate her point.

"Okay, go ahead." Remy waved his hand toward the back entrance and told her to make it quick.

He waited for roughly fifteen minutes, slinking into the shadows behind the dumpster, anticipating. When the backdoor swung open to reveal a drunk, giddy Valentine and the whore he sent in, Remy sprung to attention. She giggled and backed him into a wall, instantly falling to her knees. Valentine didn't even notice Remy's fist make hard contact with his jaw until he was lying flat on is back on the street ground.

Remy shoved a few twenties in the woman's hand and sent her away, turning his attention back on the gangster at his feet once she was out of sight. He hoisted him up, slamming him back into the wall, and slapped him around a bit more. "Not so tough wit'out your people to watch your back, hey homme?"

"Stop!" He cried, clumsily smearing the blood streaming from his lip and nose. "What do you want?!"

"Tell me about Lehnsherr you sick piece of shit. NOW!"

"Fuck you." Valentine sneered, staggering back onto his feet.

Remy's patience had been flirting with the brink of control ever since he discovered Cher missing. Every second that passed put more and more ideas into Remy's head as to what was happening to the woman he loved with his entire heart. This fat, greasy, Italian picked the wrong man to fuck with tonight.

Remy elbowed him in the nose, sending him flying to the ground with a loud, sickening thud. Remy kicked him in the ribs twice with all his strength until Valentine yelped, blood sputtering from his swollen mouth, "Alright, alright. I'll talk. I don't know much, but if you're looking for him, he's probably in Manhattan."

"Where in Manhattan?" Remy said coolly, cradling his sore knuckles with his other hand.

"A warehouse! On, um, Christ what's the name of the street? Maple! Maple Street. He does a lot of business in that abandoned warehouse down there. He asked if I was interested in anything, but I said no."

Remy kicked him again, just for good measure. He wiped the accumulated sweat off his upper lip with the back of his now-raw hand. He then stepped on Valentine's groin and proceeded to walk over him. "T'anks, mon amie. Remy knew you'd see it my way."

Cher tentatively peeked an eye open, only to slam it shut instantly on account of the blaring light from the lamp swinging directly above her.

Reflexively, she tried to raise her hand to her face and shield the intense light beating into her eyelids, only to find her hands were bound behind the wooden chair she soon realized she was sitting on. Her feet were tied together and against the legs of the seat, a handkerchief knotted behind her head, sufficiently gagging her. Cher recalled the gun slamming down on the pressure point between her shoulders, back at her apartment, sending her into the black she had just emerged from.

Panicking, she struggled against her restraints in vain. They were tight enough to cut circulation, and knotted in such a fashion that even the slightest movement caused them to constrict even more. She wriggled violently against the rope, her head bobbing fiercely from side to side and suppressed squeals of frustration emanating from her throat.

"Stop that. In case you failed to notice, it's useless." The voice was solemn, almost warm, with a hint of a German accent. Cher recognized it immediately.

Eric Lehnsherr stepped into the light and peered down at the defenseless woman. She looked straight back into his cloudy eyes, her own fathomless pools of green saying all that she needed to, none of the words printable.

Eric merely chuckled at her though, finding the entire scenario completely amusing. Coming closer to her, he snatched her chin in his calloused hand and squeezed firmly with his thumb and forefinger. She narrowed her eyes, daring him to go any further.

"If you want to leave this place with a pulse, woman, I suggest you listen to every single word I have to say." He slid his hand from her face to behind her head, untying the gag. "I assume I don't have to say that if you scream, Sean here will be forced to use his new gun. I wouldn't risk it; it's such a pretty li'l head you've got on those shoulders. I wouldn't want to seen it blown right off."

Cher noticed a man had come around from behind her, clutching a Tummy-gun. He stayed within the shadows, but even if he stepped into the direct light Cher was under, she wouldn't have been able to see his face. He wore his hat too low to see anything but a chin with stubble sprouting from it and tufts of dirty blonde hair peeking through the sides. Sean, Cher decided.

Eric kneeled before her, his hands resting on her knees. His cold stare swallowed her own eyes, and she suddenly found herself very afraid and worse yet, vulnerable. He spoke slowly, annunciating each word perfectly. "You are beautiful." Her skin crawled at the very sound, her stomach jumped at the very feel of his sweltering breath on her porcelain face.

She inclined her head in another direction, a look of pure repulsion painting her usually pretty features. She shuttered when his hand rose again to her, this time to caress her pale cheek. She flinched and spat on him, causing his hand to immediately draw back and wipe the saliva from his eye before backhanding her across the face.

"Bitch! You'll regret that when I'm clutching your throat in a death grip."

Comprehension dawned on Cher at that moment with those very words. "You're the one responsible for the Manhattan Massacre!" She gasped, pressing the small of her back as close to the chair as possible. Now, she was indeed afraid. Mortally petrified.

Eric again flashed his sinister smile, relishing the terrified look on his prey's face. "These are the moments I live for." He muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "Yes; I am he. Well, let me rephrase that. I can't very well take all the credit. My associate, Xavier, did help tremendously." He slipped into a blissful reverie. "It was more fun than you could imagine- first finding them, then hunting them, and finally, when the time was right, doing away with them. There is nothing, and I mean nothing, as satisfying as catching a glimpse of that last dying breath, the shade of blues and purples they turn, witnessing that feeling of hopelessness that overcomes them at the very end when they realize darkly that this is the absolute closure of their young, beautiful lives." He sighed and looked at Cher's horrified face. "Oh yes, they were always beautiful. Charles and I, we only hunted the prime."

She bit back gut-wrenching tears. "You're...a monster!"

"Why!?" He suddenly snapped. "Why am I a monster, because I have taken another's life? Your lover has done this exactly! At least I admit to enjoying it while Remy continues to lie to himself- telling him and all of you that it was out of self-defense and he was forced to do it! Lies!" He was screaming by now, and Cher could tell he was dangerously close to hitting something- probably her again.

Despite Lehnsherr's words, Cher refused to believe him. She knew in her heart that what he said wasn't true, that Remy was a good man and would never hurt another human being unless he had to. Why this crazed lunatic found it necessary to lie to himself was beyond her. Perhaps this was his way with dealing with the loss of Xavier. From what she understood he and Eric had been very close. Either way, he was a sick fuck that needed to be dealt with by Remy, and she prayed it was soon before this guy did something crazy.

"No, Remy! You can't just leave me here! Cher could be in trouble and I want to help!" Jean exclaimed as her brother packed two guns tightly against his ribs and threw on his black-with-white-stripes suit coat over it. Without even casting her a second glance, he strode purposefully to the front door of his place above the Nightcrawler, flinging it open. Scott was close on his heels, similarly loaded.

"Remy White, don't you DARE walk away from me when I'm talking to you!" Jean screamed from behind him.

Remy stopped dead in his tracks and spun around, eyes ablaze. Jean didn't even see him cross the distance between them and grab her shoulders, but she sure felt it. "Don't you get it, Red? Dis isn't your average, run of de mill bust. It's Cher's life! I know you can take care of yourself; dat's not my concern. It's dat if you go, dere's ALWAYS a chance you'll get jumped or swarmed. I'm not going to take dat chance; I've got to worry about Cher right now. Me and Scott are going, and Remy promises we'll be back before you know it."

Jean stood silent. She slowly nodded her head in understanding. "Okay," she whispered. Remy brushed her chin with his forefinger.

" 'Atta girl, Red." He kissed her on the cheek and walked out the door.

Scott, ready to follow out with him, turned first to Jean. "I'll bring him back alive, Jean. Don't worry."

She inhaled deeply and hurried to where he stood in the doorway, grabbing his hands with her own. "You bring yourself back alive, too." She said before pressing her mouth against his. He savored the brief embrace for all it was worth until he heard Remy's returning footsteps.

Remy, knowing full well what was probably taking place in the room, called from the top of the stairs instead of interrupting the moment, "C'mon Summers! Remy ain't got all day!"

The couple tore away from each other. "I will." Scott said, planting one last good-bye kiss on her cherry pout before racing after Remy.

Jean closed the door behind them and moved to the window. After she watched them drive off in Remy's borrowed mode of transportation, she slipped on her cream colored hat that matched her dress, adjusted the small veil covering her eyes, and went downstairs to hail a taxi. She couldn't remember ever having disobeyed Remy before this.

Scott had to admit, he was impressed. Remy single handedly found a way into the warehouse, actually GOT both of them through the top window, and discovered a discreet, dark corner to lay low for a bit while they scoped the place out. There was a balcony constructed of metal pipes and railings that ran the entire perimeter of the interior of the building. Remy and Scott could only see a portion of the warehouse from where they stood on it since there was a variety of closed in rooms and hallways, but it was handy nonetheless. It allowed them to get a full map-out of the place, even if they couldn't see through the roofs of the rooms. Not that it mattered terribly. Most of the rooms were being used for shipment, storage, and exchange of goods and therefore were swarming with unwanted attention. Almost all had ramps protruding from them, leading outside for the trucks that needed to haul merchandise in and out.

Remy turned to Scott. "We'll split up. What kind of gun are you carrying?"

"Nine millimeter," Scott answered, knowing already why Remy asked. If Scott found Cher first, he would shoot his gun in the air once and Remy would be able to identify who it was if the sound was coming from Scott's gun. So in this case, Remy would be listening for a nine-millimeter glock.

The two men separated, each going the opposite way on the balcony. It clanged under their weight, but it couldn't be heard over the trucks, slamming garage doors, and Eric's men screaming at one another.

Scott walked forth until he saw a metal door in the wall. Knowing he would have to check everywhere for Cher, he reached down and hoisted it up, chains and pulleys reeling loudly when he did. It was another shipping room, this one vacant. There was a gaping whole in the wall on the other side, signifying that there was once a ramp there but had probably rotted away in too many spots to have a truck drive all the way up it from the street.

"Hey!"

The voice was coming from behind him. Scott spun around and heard the nauseating crack his jaw made when greeted by a seemingly iron fist.

"You know," Eric began, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, "I have a problem maybe you can help me with."

Cher fidgeted in her seat in an attempt to scoot her olive green skirt down from where it had crawled up her legs as a result of all her previous struggling. No need to give this guy a free show, she thought dryly.

Still she replied, "Well, if you're debating suicide, you know where I stand as far as that goes...for you, of course."

"Don't be silly; it's nothing like that. I was thinking, my original plan was to kill you and then, upon arriving to find your warm corpse, Remy would also be killed. But really, if you think about it, where's the fun in that? None, right? Not really, anyway. So maybe I'll wait 'til he arrives, THEN kill you, right in front of his eyes, beat it out of here, and let the God damned Cajun deal with his remorse for the rest of his pitiful life. None of this strangling Charles insisted we do, though. No, when I kill you, it will be glorious- my finest murder yet. It will be, dare I say, a masterpiece." Eric took a moment to contemplate the headlines. SEVENTH MURDER IN THE MASSACRE: This one worst of all. Or even: BRUTAL HOMICIDE AT ABANDONED WAREHOUSE. Yes, he'd show even Al Capone a thing or two.

He looked back to Cher who snorted at his gaze. "Pathetic," she sneered.

"But what I'd really like," he continued, edging ever closer to her, "What I really wish is that you, Cher, would join me in my pursuits. Oh to see the look on that bastard's face when his fiancée is caught in his archrival's arms. Could you just picture it with me for a moment, beautiful? Me, you, a breath-taking sunset, sipping margaritas in sunny Mexico? That'd be the life would it not?"

She turned and smiled sweetly at him before pleasantly saying, "I would rather gouge my own eyes out with a spoon."

The slap that assaulted her face knocked the wind out of the pretty southern belle, but to her surprise, when she looked up, she discovered that it had not been Eric that had slapped her. Instead, it was that Sean guy, pointing his gun right at her, the tip just barely brushing her temple.

"No one talks to the boss like that, bitch. Not even a pair of eyes and legs like yourself." He hissed.

If Cher was surprised by the slap, she was utterly stunned at the blood splattered across her green blazer when Sean was shot twice in the chest. Eric lowered his gun and replaced it casually into his holster.

"No one talks to my hostages like that, Cassidy," he told the man lying lifeless on the ground at Cher's feet. He looked to her, "Unless of course, it's me!"

Scott cautiously rose to his feet, making no sudden movements. That is until he was jerked around and facing his assaulter: Logan.

"Did you think I was kidding, Private Dick, when I told you to stay away from them? What the hell are you doing here?"

Scott straightened, no longer threatened. "I could ask you the same thing."

"I saw Remy's getaway car two blocks down, thought I'd come in and offer a hand." Logan shoved Scott once more, not yet satisfied with him. "And you?"

Scott shoved him back. "Remy brought me."

"You should have listened to me, Summers. But no, you always have to be a damned idiot." He paused. "And if you shove me again I'll fucking break your hand."

How could Scott resist?

A few punches thrown at first, but by the time Jean arrived they were a bloody heap on the floor, both bruised and equally at an advantage.

"What the hell are you doing? Stop it! Stop!" Jean screamed, running to where the two beat each other to a pulp. Logan was just about to throw a heavy punch to Scott's cheekbone when Jean wrapped her arms around his neck from behind, pleading for him to stop. "Please! Stop it! Someone will hear you!"

Logan tossed her off of his shoulders, only to be rolled to the floor by Scott's turning weight and be punched equally hard on the nose.

Remy's heart dropped at the sound of two shots ringing through the air. He had at first thought it to be Scott's doing, but at closer attention found it to be another's. This struck fear into Remy because those two shots could be going anywhere, or INTO anybody, even the woman of his dreams. Death wasn't courteous to anything, not even love.

Unfortunately, he couldn't determine the shots' location. The building's interior was constructed mostly of metal, causing echoes to travel fast and far, making it impossible for him to pinpoint them.

Without even realizing it, he had circled the entire balcony and found no trace of Cher. When he saw movement coming from within the door just ahead, he ducked into a shadow immediately, until he recognized the figures inside.

Running, he burst into the room and pried Logan off of Scott from under the arms, the stocky Canadian kicking his feet violently in hopes of getting one last hit in.

Scott shot up to a standing position and looked just as eager to resume the fight. He charged Logan once again, but Remy quickly intervened, holding his arms out between them to keep their distance.

"Enough! Enough! We don't have time for dis shit!" He turned to the woman that thought she was slinking in the corner unnoticed. "And you, I'll deal wit' you later." Jean's body wracked at the tone; his teeth were gritted- a sure sign he was beyond anger.

"I'm sorry," she offered weakly.

He raised a hand and said shortly, "Don't."

She was silent after that as Remy filled Logan in on what was going on. Of course, Logan was eager to be of assistance and agreed with Remy's suggestion to split up.

"Alright, I'll take de detective here, and you take Jeannie. What are you wearing?"

Logan whipped out his pistol and cocked it, answering Remy's question.

"Okay, you go dat way, dere's a flight of stairs at de end, go down 'em. Me and Scott will take de ones over dere and den we'll meet up in de middle over dere."

Logan silently poked his head into every door, insisting Jean stay behind him.

"So Red, you just couldn't stay put, eh?" He whispered as they made there way through a side door. It led to an open room with three more doors in it, so they crept in and moved soundlessly into the area.

Jean had a sick, anxious feeling dwelling inside of her very being. She wondered for a second if they would find Cher bound and gagged, lying on the floor at their feet in the next room in a pool of her own blood, throat slit. She shuddered involuntarily and chastised herself for even thinking it.

"Red?" Logan prompted.

"Huh? Oh! Um, no, no I couldn't just wait to hear how it turned out. Good or bad I wanted to be here and help."

"You're a good kid, Jean. No matter what happens, I want you to know that and know I mean it sincerely, darlin'."

Jean smiled warmly and proceeded ahead of him to one of the three doors. She felt a sense of renewal at his words. Logan was really something, pretending to be a grizzly man with a heart carved from stone- probably expensive stone, expensive, stolen stones. Like the one he offered her one night almost a year ago to wear around her finger. Funny, not even Remy knew about that one.

But no, Logan was so much more, whether he wanted anyone to catch on or not.

Jean's muffled screams could only have been heard for a fleeting moment before the chloroform-soaked cloth clamped firmly around her mouth sent her into oblivion, her last coherent thought being, 'traitor.'