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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64


Written by Valerie Jones
Last updated: 05/10/2010 11:31:24 PM

Chapter 40

Remy stared out the aircraft window as the Guild jet touched down at a private airport on the outskirts of Chicago. He could see nothing of the world beyond, but it served as a convenient direction for his gaze while his thoughts turned. Across from him, Bobby straightened in his seat and Remy saw him wince.

“Ribs still botherin’ y’?” Remy asked. The assassin’s bullet had cut a long, shallow gash across his ribcage. Bobby had been managing well enough during their two-a-day practice runs through the Maze, but that was no longer a clear indicator of how much pain he might be in. The young thief wasn’t as transparent as he’d once been.

Bobby shook his head. “Not the ribs.” A faint note of humor lit his voice. “It’s the road rash, actually.”

Remy had to grin. He’d suffered a few of those—one of the downsides of riding a motorcycle. But at least Bobby had been wearing leather.

The jet turned off the runway, bouncing as it taxied across the seams in the pavement. Remy’s amusement faded. Tension coiled in his gut, twisting tighter and tighter the closer they got to their goal.

“So now do I get to ask what we’re doing here?” Bobby said as the jet began to slow. There was concern rather than aggravation in his voice, and Remy was once again struck by what a remarkable man Bobby had turned out to be. He could never have guessed what impact that one decision—made on a whim because the longing in the boy’s eyes that day had evoked such an echo in his own heart—would have.

Remy shook his head. “Non.” It was quite likely pointless to refuse. Bobby was smart enough to figure things out for himself. He knew Remy had kept the information about Adrian’s involvement in the shooting inside the X-Men, telling the Guild only that the OZT assassin had gotten hold of one of the golden passcards. Just as he knew that he was with Remy today because of what he’d witnessed. But Remy wasn’t ready to commit any of his thoughts to words, particularly in front of one of the few people in the world whose good opinion mattered to him.

Bobby shrugged. “Okay.”

Eventually the jet rolled to a stop. The attendant went forward to open the door and lower the stairs. A rush of cold, clammy air filled the interior of the aircraft. Remy could hear the hiss of rain on the tarmac.

He stood and picked up his wool overcoat. Slipping it on over his suit, he gestured for Bobby to precede him out of the plane. They disembarked in silence. Remy turned up his collar against the rain and heard the distinctive sounds as Bobby opened an umbrella.

A short distance away, Remy could see a single figure standing beside a parked car. Like people, engines had their own heat signature and though this one was rapidly cooling in the Chicago air, Remy identified it as belonging to a newer, high-end Mercedes.

Malcolm Lotho nodded in greeting as the two New York thieves approached.

“Guildmaster.” Remy returned the nod, his unease hidden behind a solemn mask. He was grateful for the rain, despite his discomfort. It would interfere with any kind of sound amplifying equipment that might be pointed their way.

“Remy,” Lotho returned. He hunched his shoulders against the rain then glanced toward Bobby. Remy could imagine the curious lift to his eyebrows. “So, you have something you wanted to discuss?”

Remy nodded. “Got a problem I don’ know how t’ solve.” He gestured to the man beside him. “Bobby, would y’ please tell Guildmaster Lotho everyt’ing from de time I asked y’ t’ keep an eye on Adrian?”

Lotho’s heat signature immediately spiked. “You put a tail on one of your own council members?” he demanded.

Remy throttled a burst of irritation. “Listen before y’ judge, neh?” He indicated Bobby should go ahead.

Bobby cleared his throat, his signature betraying a quiver of nervousness, then launched into a concise but detailed account of the events that had led to Warren’s shooting nearly a week earlier. At the appropriate time, he dug the photos Jubilee had taken out of his coat and handed them to the senior Guildmaster.

Lotho flipped through them, his heat signature rising and falling in increasingly high frequency surges as Bobby’s narration progressed.

Once Bobby finished, Remy thanked him quietly and sent him back to the jet. Lotho continue to examine the photos, the silence unbroken except for the sound of the rain.

“You can’t link this Garbo to OZT definitively?” Lotho finally asked.

Remy shook his head. “Non, an’ dat’s after askin’ Colonel Fury t’ look into it, too. Garbo must be workin’ freelance.”

Lotho’s heat signature went through a range of colors before settling. “I’d heard SHIELD was protecting Worthington,” he finally commented. “What about the shooter?”

“Kazakhstani, entered the country illegally. He has ties to t’ Russian intelligence, an’ rumor has it he was on loan t’ another agency. No one could say f’ sure which one.”

Lotho cocked his head, and Remy could feel the intensity of his stare. “Is it possible this wasn’t OZT?”

Remy shook his head. “I’ve been watchin’ Worthington Industries f’ several years now. Warren doesn’ have dat kind o’ enemy outside OZT.”

Lotho heaved a sigh and let his hands fall to his sides. “What are you looking for, Remy?” he asked wearily.

The knot of tension in Remy gut pulled taut. “If I let Adrian run loose, he’s gon’ sell de X-Men out t’ OZT. He’s already proven he’s willin’ t’ go dat far.”

Lotho raised the handful of pictures. “There’s not enough here to call him into the ring.” He looked away. “Not after the mess with Rogue, anyway.”

Remy said nothing. The schism his relationship with Rogue had caused within the Guild would only polarize further if he were to take any direct action against Adrian, particularly on flimsy evidence. He waited silently, letting the other Guildmaster work his way through the alternatives.

Finally, Lotho seemed to reach a conclusion. He continued to stare out over the rain-drenched airport, his breath forming warm puffs in front of his face. “You’ll have to handle it outside the Guild.”

The tight coil in Remy’s stomach gave one last high-tension quiver and then released. He had his confirmation. “Oui.”

Lotho adjusted his coat. “Don’t mess this up. If it comes back to bite you, there won’t be a thing I can do.”

Remy nodded. “I understand.”

Without another word, Lotho walked over to his car and got in. Remy turned on his heel and headed back toward the jet, eager to get out of the rain. He needed a cigarette.

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” Scott asked Warren as one of WI’s media people put the finishing touches on the other’s blonde hair. Warren looked pale and drawn even with makeup, his odd blue complexion made all the worse for its unhealthy gray cast.

Warren glanced up at him. “I’ll manage. We really can’t afford to push the schedule back any further—the information will leak eventually.” The stylist stepped back and Warren carefully rose to his feet. “Besides, I’m only going to make a statement.”

Scott reached over to brace his old friend with a hand beneath the elbow. Warren gave him a tight smile, his furled wings twitching for balance as he took a couple of unsteady steps.

A mischievous twinkle lit Warren’s blue eyes. “Are you sure you don’t want to toss on that spiffy new uniform and go on camera with me? Guaranteed front page coverage.”

Scott snorted, tempted. Gambit and Bobby had returned from Four Freedoms Plaza a couple of days earlier with the equipment Richards had promised them. The uniforms were nice, he had to admit. Done primarily in black, but with red accents personalized to each individual X-Man, the armored body suits were versatile and far less bulky than he’d expected. And each had the red X emblem that had become the recognized symbol of both the X-Men and the resistance emblazoned over the right breast.

Finally, he shook his head. “It would only muddy the waters. We want people talking about the lawsuit, not the X-Men. At least at first.”

A woman in a stylish business suit and wearing a wireless headset stuck her head into the room. “Five minutes, Mr. Worthington,” she said. Warren acknowledged her with a wave.

“That’s my cue,” he said.

Scott gestured for Warren to precede him. “After you.”

Warren took a couple of steps toward the door. He seemed to have gained his footing. His wings lay quietly on his back, feathers rustling softly as he moved.

He glanced over his shoulder at Scott as the two reached the doorway. “So, have you kissed and made up with Remy yet?”

Scott scowled at his longtime friend. “Why is everyone making such a big deal out of this?”

“I take it Jean’s been after you, too?” Warren asked with a curious lift to his eyebrows.

“Jean, Logan, Ororo…” He was getting tired of the question—tired of trying to defend his opinion, and irritated that no one else seemed interested in holding Gambit the least bit responsible for the near-death of an X-Man.

Warren shrugged as the two men started down the hallway that led to the media area. “Betsy told me it’s making people nervous, but it sounds like things are even more unsettled than she said.”

Scott stopped short, taken aback. He’d felt the general sense of unease surrounding his team but had attributed it to the upcoming mission, not to the current tension between himself and Gambit.

“Why would anyone care?” he finally asked in consternation. “Remy and I have never gotten along.”

Warren chuckled. “You know, for someone with as many leadership skills as you have, you can be incredibly dense sometimes.”

Scott’s chest tightened as a burst of anger flashed through him. The last thing he needed was yet another person criticizing him. His lips thinned. “Fine. Explain it to me.”

Warren heaved a sigh, wincing at a pain in his chest. “Think about it, Scott. Ever since the G—” he paused ruefully, “—Remy’s organization took us in, you and he have been working together to turn all of us into an effective resistance force. Which you’ve done, I might add.” He studied Scott for a moment, his expression piercing. “I don’t think you realize just how well you and Gambit function as a sort of organic co-leadership. You’re Operations, he’s Logistics.” He made an encompassing gesture. “And we all take a fair amount of security from knowing how sound the command structure is.”

Scott could only stare at the other man as the meaning of his words sank in. Dismay followed. One of the most basic tenets of command was that you never let divisions in the leadership show. You always presented a united front.

Warren went on. “The fact that you’re being completely unreasonable about this isn’t helping matters. It’s not like Remy hasn’t admitted he made a mistake, but you’re acting like he pulled the trigger.”

Scott had to look away from the disapproval in his friend’s eyes. He knew he was being unfair. Gambit had done an awful lot of things right, too. And even the things Scott felt most angry about—Warren’s shooting, Rogue’s torture—weren’t strictly Remy’s fault. If he were honest with himself, he knew Remy wouldn’t have let either happen if he’d had the power to prevent them.

He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Okay. I get the point.” He suspected it was the fact that Remy didn’t have that kind of power—the power to guarantee the safety of the people who meant most to Scott—that he blamed the thief for.

Warren nodded. “That’s all I can ask.” He turned and continued down the hall, leaving Scott no choice but to follow.

The woman who’d given them the five minute warning opened the door at the far end of the hall just as they reached it. “Mr. Worthington, they’re ready for you,” she said, holding the door open for them.

Warren nodded in acknowledgment as he stepped past her into the controlled chaos of the area backstage of the WI media room. Scott found himself an inobtrusive place from which to watch as Warren was whisked away toward the stage by a trio of media people.

A few moments later, Warren stepped out into the bright spotlights. Scott heard the sudden surge of voices and the whir of dozens of camera shutters. From his vantage in the shadow of the heavy stage curtains, he saw Warren walk carefully up to the podium. Bracing himself with one hand, Warren raised the other in a call for silence.

Slowly the room quieted.

“Members of the press, thank you for coming today,” Warren began as the assembled journalists finished settling in their seats. “I have a statement to make, and then I’ll answer a few questions.”

The whir of the cameras continued, the strobe of their flashes nearly lost in the bright stage lighting. “As you are aware, eight days ago an attempt was made on my life. That attempt failed, obviously. The identity of the assassin is still under investigation by the authorities, and I am not at liberty to discuss any of the particulars.” He looked around the room. “That’s not why I asked you here.”

Warren paused to take a couple of breaths, and Scott could feel the electric current of curiosity running through the room. “Today I am filing a lawsuit in U.S. District Court against Draxar, Incorporated, a known front company for Operation: Zero Tolerance, and against the United States government, for the attempted illegal seizure of Worthington Industries’ assets.” A speculative murmur started up among the journalists as Warren went on to outline some salient points about the suit.

Warren finished his statement, and the room exploded into noise and motion. The journalists were on their feet, hands raised and shouting questions. Scott could only shake his head. He’d been involved in a few press conferences, and without fail he’d found them intimidating. But at least Warren’s shooting had had one significant benefit: there were far more reporters in the room than they’d originally expected. The story would make headlines for certain.

Warren didn’t seem to have any trouble handling the crowd. He seemed completely at ease as he accepted questions, calling many of the journalists by name.

There’s no turning back now, Scott thought as the weight of his responsibility seemed to settle more heavily on his shoulders. The lawsuit was the first domino in their planned offensive against OZT. Once it fell, they were committed to going forward.

He leaned out just far enough to let him see the first few rows of the audience. He wasn’t terribly surprised to see Trish Tilby front and center. In a few days the X-Men would be putting her life in jeopardy in the hopes of breaking open OZT’s public face.

Scott’s gaze drifted back to Warren. Let’s just hope it’s worth it.

“You in the dog house?”

Remy swam up out of soft, sleepy darkness at the sound of Scott’s voice. “Huh?” He cracked an eye to find Scott standing over him, arms crossed, and he blinked, trying to orient himself.

Scott cocked his head, his heat signature betraying curiosity and amusement. “I asked if you were in the dog house.” He gestured toward the black leather sofa Remy had stretched out on. “Why else would you be sleeping on the couch?”

The comment startled Remy into a grin. He sat up, yawning, and swung his legs over the side of the sofa. “Non,” he told the other man as he tried to massage the stiffness out of his neck. “No dog house.” He looked up at Scott from under his eyebrows, unable to resist teasing him. “Y’ really let Jean chase y’ out of y’ own bed, homme?”

Scott’s tone soured. “She’s a telepath and a telekinetic. Sometimes it’s safer.”

Remy laughed at that, and waved Scott toward the other couch. “I’ll bet.” He had no idea what to make of the other’s sudden friendliness, but he wasn’t going to argue. Hopefully it meant Scott was ready to give up his grudge over Warren’s shooting and the whole mess was about to blow over.

Scott settled across from him and laid his arms across the back of the couch. “So, if you’re not fighting with Rogue, what are you doing sleeping out here? It’s almost 8:00am.”

“Didn’t say I wasn’t avoidin’ her,” Remy allowed after a moment. Scott’s heat signature flared with surprise and he added, “Jus’ needed t’ get some sleep.”

“What, does she snore?”

Remy snorted in amusement. “No.”

That apparently wasn’t going to be enough of an answer for the X-Men’s field leader. “And?” he asked.

Remy chuckled. This was an odd conversation to be having with Scott, but he always enjoyed the chance to make the other man uncomfortable. “De woman only recently discovered sex,” he explained with a grin, “so no, I ain’ gettin’ much sleep.” And he couldn’t remember a time when he’d had more fun. His smile widened at the faint blush that stained the other’s signature. “She’s like a lil’ kid in a candy store.”

“Okay, that was a visual I did not need,” Scott said dryly.

Remy only smirked at him. Scott made an irritated noise, but it didn’t have much real emotion behind it. The silence stretched comfortably between them.

Finally, Scott sat forward and braced his elbows on his knees. “Well, I wasn’t expecting to find you about this early, but since I’ve got you, there was something I wanted talk to you about.” His voice and signature had gone solemn, and Remy tensed, his earlier amusement dying. He waited for the other to continue.

“I just finished finalizing the mission schedule with Logan and Ororo, so all that leaves is making sure you’ve done something to insure Adr—”

Remy held up a quick hand to forestall him, his gut clenching. “Don’t say it, mon ami,” he warned Scott quietly. Saying things aloud always meant someone, somewhere might overhear, despite how often he swept his office for bugs. “It’s taken care of.”


Remy shook his head. “You don’ want t’ know, an’ I ain’t gon’ tell y’.” He watched as Scott absorbed his words, the colors of his heat signature shifting uneasily.

“All right,” Scott finally agreed. “I guess that’ll have to be good enough.” There was a faint sarcastic edge to his voice.

Remy looked at him askance, debating what to say, or if it was worthwhile to try to say anything.

Scott seemed to follow the direction of his thoughts. The infrared colors that made up his heat signature flared bright with embarrassment and anger.

“I was really pissed that OZT was able to get to us like that,” he said suddenly.

Remy blinked a bit at the outburst. “Can’t blame y’,” he allowed after a minute.

Scott rubbed his palms together, obviously disturbed. “It’s just that Warren and I practically grew up together. We were there at the very beginning—part of the original five.” He shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. I guess I just wasn’t ready to almost lose him.”

Remy shoved himself to his feet. “I t’ink dis conversation is gon’ require some alcohol,” he muttered. He was entirely too coherent to be having a heart to heart with Scott Summers.

Scott looked up sharply. “It’s first thing in the morning.”

“Fine, I’ll pour it in de coffee.”

Scott’s heat signature shifted abruptly and he chuckled. “And people say I have issues.”

Shaking his head, Remy went to start the coffee machine.

“Okay, next order of business,” Scott said while Remy was scooping grounds into the filter. “I talked to Reed for awhile yesterday about where we go from here, assuming this op goes off as planned.”


“I asked him if there was any way he could get us into space.”

Remy set the coffee pot down and turned around. It only took him a second to figure out where Scott was going. “Guess dat is de endgame, ain’t it,” he said softly. It really didn’t matter how much they accomplished against OZT—it wouldn’t be over until the satellites were destroyed. “What’d he say?”

“Give him a couple of months.”

Remy raised one eyebrow. “Really?”

Scott nodded, and Remy felt the first stirrings of excitement. Being able to put a name to the goal made it seem more attainable. “What about de Professor?”

Scott’s heat signature ran through a cascade of colors too fast for Remy to follow. “We know he’s up there somewhere. If we can just get our powers back—” He broke off and pounded a fist lightly on his knee.

“One step at a time, mon ami.” Remy turned back to the coffee maker. None of them could afford to think too far into the future, lest they lose track of the present. “One step at a time.”

Jubilee tugged uncomfortably at her skirt as she walked down the sidewalk. Ugh, ugh, ugh. I hate these things. Her thoughts pounded in time with her footsteps. How did I ever let Gambit talk me into this?

She snorted loudly. “Yeah, right,” she answered herself aloud. “A seriously hot guy shows up in your bedroom in the middle of the night asking for a favor, and you’re going to say no?”

A woman walking past Jubilee going the other direction looked at her oddly. Jubilee pasted on a bright, slightly manic smile and the woman quickly looked away. Jubilee chuckled and walked on.

Even if he is taken, she added resignedly. She’d nearly fallen off her chair when Logan told her Remy and Rogue had gotten married. Granted, they’d been going out for a long time, but she’d never taken Gambit for the marrying kind. Belledonna notwithstanding.

Besides, there was something just not right about daydreaming about a married guy. She huffed a sigh. It was depressing.

Two blocks down, she spied the restaurant. A red awning with the words Il Dolce in stylish gold lettering fluttered in the mid-afternoon breeze. Her stomach did a little twirl as Gambit’s words came back to her.

Walk in like y’ belong there, petite. De man y’ want t’ talk to will be sittin’ at de last table on de left. He’ll have bodyguards. Don’ let dem scare y’.

She summoned a smile. After Bastion and his prime sentinels, a couple of bodyguards weren’t going to be very scary. Taking a deep breath, she turned into the restaurant.

It turned out to be a confectionary. The interior smelled like powdered sugar, and the décor looked like it had come from an old-fashioned diner. A glass case along one wall contained cakes and pies and about twenty different types of ice cream in round, brown cardboard cartons. An older man stood behind the counter, his apron dusted with flour and sugar. He gave Jubilee a surprisingly unfriendly look as she stepped inside.

There were only a few patrons in the restaurant. Jubilee paused as the door swung shut behind her, searching for the proper table. She found it easily. The man seated at the table was huge and bald. He wore a white summer-weight suit and a matching fedora sat on the table beside him. He was eating an immense ice cream sundae. Two beefy men with guns holstered beneath their sports coats stood in front of the table, partially blocking her view.

Jubilee swallowed a squeak of surprise as she recognized the man. Gambit had sent her to see the Kingpin? If he hadn’t said it was a matter of life and death, she would have turned around and walked out right then. But she was an X-Man, and X-Men didn’t run away when people’s lives were at stake.

Taking a deep, bracing breath, Jubilee squared her shoulders and marched toward the Kingpin’s table. The two bodyguards watched her approach with a mixture of wariness and amusement.

Don’ try to push past de bodyguards, Gambit’s instructions echoed in her mind. They’d kill y’ before y’ gone two steps.

Jubilee stopped in front of the two men, both of whom towered over her by a good foot and a half and probably weighed three times as much as she did.

“Um, hi,” she began and then mentally kicked herself. She tugged nervously at her skirt. “I have a message for your boss.”

“A message from who?” one of the bodyguards asked. Behind him, the Kingpin continued to eat his ice cream as if nothing were happening.

Jubilee forced herself not to fidget. “I was told that if your boss could identify me, he would know who sent me.” Gambit had been emphatic that under no circumstances was she to use any of the X-Men’s names or say anything that hinted at their identities. She’d thought it sounded kind of freakily paranoid when he said it. Now, it seemed much more reasonable.

The Kingpin looked up, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of her standing there. She’d left her X-Men bandana at home today, and instead opted for a bright yellow one. But then he nodded to his bodyguards.

One of the men motioned for Jubilee to hold her arms out to her sides. She complied, and only barely managed to contain an indignant squawk at the thorough search. Gambit had warned her about that, too.

Once the bodyguard finished, he stepped aside to allow her to approach the Kingpin’s table. With an involuntary glance at the second man, Jubilee did so.

The Kingpin licked his spoon and gestured to the chair across the table from him. “Would you like some ice cream?” he asked in a surprisingly friendly voice. Before she could answer he turned and called to the man behind the counter, “Mario, bring this young lady some ice cream.”

“Uh… sure,” Jubilee agreed without enthusiasm. Her stomach was doing so many somersaults there was a good chance she would spew all over the Kingpin’s white suit if she ate anything.

Mario nodded and turned toward the glass cases. Jubilee watched him for a moment then forced her attention back to the Kingpin, but the Kingpin had gone back to eating and didn’t seem to be paying her any attention. She bit her lip, impatient to give the man his message and get out of there.

But, Keep quiet an’ let him ask de questions, Remy had said. So she pressed her lips firmly together and kicked her feet under the table as she waited.

Gambit is so going to owe me, she thought fiercely as she watched the Kingpin spoon ice cream into his fleshy mouth.

Mario came by after a minute with a stemmed glass bowl filled with three scoops of strawberry ice cream, which he set in front of her along with a spoon. Hesitantly, Jubilee picked up the spoon and took a bite.

“Wow, that’s really good.” It wasn’t gooey sweet like most ice cream, but tasted like real strawberries.

“Mario here makes the world’s best ice cream.” The Kingpin dropped his spoon in his nearly-empty bowl with a clatter and leaned back in his chair, lacing his hands across his broad stomach. “Now, I believe you have a message for me?”

Jubilee’s gut clenched. “Oh, right.” She set her spoon down on the table and reached into the back pocket of her denim skirt, withdrawing a folded photograph. It was actually only half of a photograph—one that Jubilee herself had taken—and she wondered yet again what it had all been about. Bobby had been uncommonly serious, too, when he’d asked for her help.

She laid the photograph down, still folded, and slid it across to the Kingpin. “I’m supposed to tell you that the man your out-of-town friend is looking for is named Adrian Tyre.” Gambit had made her memorize this part. “He’s not going to be easy to find because of OZT but there are a couple of places to start looking.” She listed off three addresses in the New York area.

The Kingpin arched his bushy eyebrows as she spoke, and she got the distinct feeling he was startled. But the surprised expression disappeared immediately to be replaced with a frown. He picked up the photo and studied it.

“Very well,” he finally said. He waved dismissively, and Jubilee scrambled to her feet, though not before taking another bite of her ice cream. The Kingpin looked up at her, the intensity of his stare halting her in her tracks. “Tell the one that sent you he’s playing a dangerous game.” He raised the photo. “But I will pass on the message.”

Jubilee nodded uncertainly, her stomach turning sour at the implied threat in his tone. “Yeah, okay,” she agreed, simply wanting to get out of there. Gambit had told her never to mention this little meeting to anyone, himself included.

The Kingpin made another of those dismissive waves, and Jubilee nearly ran out of the shop. Once she was out on the sidewalk, she had to take a couple of deep breaths to ward off the queasy feeling in her stomach. Then she headed back the way she’d come with quick strides.


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