War Crimes, Parts 1-6

by Morgan Lewis

Prologue

1942: Allied controlled territory

Few rays of sunlight succeeded in penetrating the perpetual fog. Those few that didn't bring enough heat to even warm the cold metal that barred the windows, much less the occupants inside. Instead they merely threw strange unnatural shadows across the dirt floor to the moth-eaten cots crowded into the tight dank space.

One of the cots seemed to scream in agony as it barely supported the weight of its occupant. Every so often a slight breeze would stir through the small cell, causing the decaying wood to creak dangerously. Yet, through it all, the man resting on the ancient structure never stirred more than the faint rasp of his breathing.

Across from the cots three men sat quietly on the dirt floor with their backs propped against the stone wall. A forth stood, staring restlessly out the window. The one standing was obviously the youngest of the five men currently residing in the cramped room. His face lacked the creases and scars of the other four. Moreover, his face still contained an innocence that the others had long since lost. His eyes were still open. And in that moment they reflected undisguised fear.

One of the men on the floor made a quick glance over to the still form on the cot them let out a low wheezing chuckle. "What's the matter boy? Last night go by to fast for ya'?"

The young man visibly flinched but continued to look steadfastly out the barred window. "Thas' right," The man slowly rose to one knee from the floor. An ugly grin split his face. "They'll be hear soon 'nuff boy. Crack o' dawn. Good ol' early morning execution." The other to men on the floor began to chuckle darkly.

"Ya' goin' die like a man boy?" one of the other men said while he absentmindedly rubbed at his bandaged side. "Or are ya' goin' ta' piss in ya' pants when they level them guns at ya'?"

The young man turned away from the window shaking wildly. The man with an ugly grin took that as his sign to continue. "Ya' got a sweetheart at home boy? She's prob'ly asleep right now dreaming of her big war hero." The ugly grin parted briefly to release a cackle. "Cept', she don't know the truth now does she?"

The young man continued to shake with his back turned towards his tormenters. "Doesn't know that her big brave boyfriend's gonna' be executed today fo' neglect of duty. Doesn't know that her big war hero let his entire regiment get turned ta' hamburger 'cause he was busy getting' his beauty sleep!"

The young man whirled around with tears steaming down his face. "Just shut up!!" he screamed shrilly.

The three men on the floor burst into raucous laughter. "Was' a' matter little boy?" the man feeling his bandages managed to wheeze. "Did we scare you?"

"Just leave me alone!!" The man-boy cried hysterically. "Just shut your ugly vile faces and leave me alone!" His voice cracked with each passing word.

The three men grinned wickedly. They had not thought that their words could cut so deeply. This was young fresh meat. The kind that was perfect to torment. They would be able to forget their own fears and loathings just for an instant while they tormented another. Later, their own demons would return to haunt them again. But, for the moment, they would forget their own pains to lash out at someone, anyone in spite and anger.

"That's enough you lowlifes. You've already tormented the kid more than enough and it's disturbing my beauty sleep," the deep growl that came from the cot was barely more than a whisper. But, it was still enough to give the three tormenters a moment of pause.

"No amount of beauty sleep is ever gonna' help ya' ugly mug Jonson," Ugly grin managed to reply after a few moments. "Sides' we havin' a bit o' fun here. Tha's all."

The form in the cot didn't move an inch. Yet, somehow conveyed the sense of malevolence that had not been in the room a few seconds earlier. "I said shut up and give the kid a break. I won't ask nicely again."

The three men grumbled darkly but settled back down against the wall without another word. A few more rays of sunlight managed to penetrate the small cell from the rising sun. The effect, however, was anything but pleasant. More dark shapes danced across the floor in an macabre ballet.

"It's the truth though?" the young man stared dully at the dirt floor.

"Pa was so proud to see me leave for Europe to fight the Nazis. What is he going to think of me now?" The young man sank to the floor hugging himself tightly and shaking with sobs. "What is he going to think now?" For the next few moments the only sound inside the dark cell was that of a young man's cries.

The young man's sobs slowly faded into silence. Only to be replaced a few moments later by the sound of booted feet approaching the door. The young man tensed, but didn't rise off the floor. The second seemed to drag for an eternity as the five inmates listened to the clanking sounds of the guard pulling the keys off of his belt. The metallic squeal of the lock turning sent a shiver even through the stoical resident of the cot. Wood creaked and metal shrieked to admit the jailing and to more soldiers dressed in their fatigues.

"Jonson," the jailer muttered blandly and the man on the cot raised his head in curiosity. "These men are here to take you to see Commander Brennon." The indicated man gave no more expression than mild disinterest as he rose slowly from his cot to follow the two soldiers out into the hall. As soon as they were out of the earshot of a normal man, the would-be protector heard the three prisoners turn once again on their young prey. A nearly inaudible growl escaped from his clenched teeth. The poor boy was suffering enough as it was. You would think that even deserting scum like that would let the boy contemplate his last few moments in peace. They had learned quickly enough to keep their mouths shut when they had thought he was awake, after a few bloodied lips had convinced them.

The prisoner was quickly escorted through the near silent barracks. No one said a word, but their scents spoke more than loud enough for him. The two bootlickers, he had no doubt that they were bootlickers, escorting him fairly reeked of open disgust and high-handed superiority. Just because they could shove their noses far enough up some commanders butt to get pulled off of the open battlefield and serve as assistants they thought that they were better than those who tried to get off of the front lines in less orthodox manners.

One of the bootlickers gave him a rough shove to hurry him along and for a moment he consider snapping the boy's neck. He quickly discarded the idea though. With his luck the slacker would probably turn out to be some Senator's baby boy back in the states. Instead, they continued walking in silence until they reached the commander's tent.

Once inside the tent the two soldiers saluted smartly. "Private William Jonson from the brig as you ordered sir!" one of them barked. The man sitting at the desk didn't even look up from his papers. General Donith Brennon was not a man to show any trace of anticipation, but the prisoner could smell it on him. "Thank you, and that will be all soldier." Brennon replied with a voice the shout disinterest. Still, the sharp scent of anticipation increased marginally as the two soldiers left the tent. He had yet to look up from his desk, to even aknowledge the fact that another man had entered the room. It was all part of the game, a game that the prisoner could not afford to loose.

After precisely three and a half minutes, the prisoner was certain that it was supposed to have seemed like an eternity to him, Brennon glanced up from his desktop and fixed the prisoner with a cold icy stare. "I could and should order your execution," he said in a flat voice. The prisoner didn't even bat an eye. The scent of anticipation was growing around the commander again. Brennon pulled sheet of paper off of his desk and displayed. "This is the order for your death. All I need to do is sign it and there will be two bodies to bury this afternoon instead of just one."

Still the prisoner gave no reaction and anger began to mix in with the scent of anticipation. "I've heard some interesting things about you Private William Jonson." He stood and began pacing the inside of the small tent like an overconfident attorney addressing the jury. "That is your name isn't it." The prisoner didn't respond. Brennon had the scent a of a hound on the trail of blood. He picked up a folder of papers and began leafing through them. "After all, that is what it says here on your enlistment papers. William D. Jonson born Harold and Mary Blace Jonson of Mobile Alabama. Born and raised there according to this."

The prisoner remained still and unflinching even when the General threw the folder at his chest, sending the papers scattering everywhere. His voice was nearly as smug as his scent. "If you were going to lie about who you were you could have at least given yourself an accent that matches that growl of yours." The prisoner still offered no reaction and he could now sense anger as well as a touch of something that almost seemed like frustration enter into his scent. This man was most likely used to people he could intimidate easily. The General turned and slowly began pacing away from him. His voice turned casual almost conversational again. "Despite the obvious lack of validity of your papers they might have gone unnoticed. Heaven knows these days that there are more than enough young fools falsifying their records and lying about their ages to get in to the war and fight the Nazis. Far to many to closely examine each and every one. It is quite possible that you could have gone unnoticed." Brennon paused to poor himself a glass of something dark and took a small sip before setting the glass back down. "You had to keep drawing attention to yourself, though. Bad history of problems with authority, disobeying orders and the like." The General whirled to pin him with a glare that could have frozen the man where he stood. "Finally, you went too far. Even your reputation of courage and valor in battle would be unable to save your hide after usurping command of your Battalion during a charge and then giving the order to retreat."

"The commanding officer had taken leave of his senses. He was going to try to lead group of men, exhausted from three days of marching, in an insane charge across a mine field with a fresh set of enemy troops waiting to meet us on the other side of a ridge," the prisoner replied with no emotion in his voice save for a faint growl.

"The commanding officer had not taken leave of his sense until you knocked him out!" Brennon screamed while tense veins bulged and danced across his forehead. All pretenses had evaporated now.

"I did what I felt was necessary and in the best interests of the Battalion," he replied without twitching a muscle.

"What you did caused the failure of an entire offensive effort," the commander's neck looked as if it could quite possibly burst.

"The effort would have failed even with our dead bodies littering that field."

The commander's face seemed to catch fire it turned so read. He whirled decisively and stalked toward his desk. He grabbed a quill with such force it seemed as he meant to crush it with his bare hands. He held it poised over the death order prepared to sign. The smell of anger protruded from his every pore. Anger so intense that it could make a man forget himself for a moment. The prisoner decided that it was time to nudge that memory along.

"Go ahead, sign me to my death. I just wish I could be around to see you try to explain to your superiors why I'm in the ground instead of on the mission they want me on." Brennon's pen froze and the red drained out of his face quicker than the prisoner had thought possible. He trembled slightly as he carefully set the quill back down.

"What do you know about the mission?" Brennon's voice was soft and slightly strangled.

The prisoner grinned smugly. His shot in the dark had hit true after all. The tables were going to turn now, whether this General liked it or not. "I know that Generals like yourself don't bother with condemned men like me. In normal circumstances you would have barely glanced at my death orders before signing them, much less talk to me in person." That and the fact that I can smell the eagerness and anticipation on you like a bad stench. The prisoner kept that thought to himself. "Add in the fact that, as you have so aptly proved, I have no record. No one will miss me or even know that I am gone. I am also in a position where I can't ask for a lot, which means that almost any deal you offer me is better than the one I face right now." The prisoner scratched his chin pensively. "I imagine that this will be an extremely delicate operation and that after it's completion, if I'm still alive I will be allowed to go my way." Not much of a chance of surviving anything they had cooked up for him.

Brennon sat down hard behind his desk, his mouth hung wide open. This man was obviously used to dealing with people who were either to stupid too figure things out or too intelligent to let on they had a clue, much less through it in his face. The prisoner decided to drive his point home while the man still appeared off guard. He leaned forward pinning the man with a gaze of his own. "But, I'll let you sign those papers before I agree to some suicide mission. Death by a firing squad and death by a sniper aren't all that different to me."

Brennon closed his mouth tightly. He grabbed his glass and drained it quickly. Fear had entered his scent on top of the amazement that was painted all over his face. Slowly both were replaced by a firm determination that bordered on stubbornness. "You will agree to the terms of the agreement that I place before you soldier. You don't have a great deal of choice."

The prisoner returned his stare, equally stubborn. "Tell me about this mission," he finally replied.

A scent of relief so strong that it momentarily filled the entire tent came from the commander. "I can't tell much. Even I haven't received any real intelligence. I can tell you that it will be extremely delicate and extremely dangerous. You will be briefed upon your arrival in England. From there you will be deployed to where ever it is that they plan to send you."

"Those aren't many details," the prisoner stated darkly after a long pause.

Brennon casually walked to the front of his tent and threw back the flap. "You do have other possibilities, should you choose them." The young boy, who had fallen asleep on guard duty could be made out in the distance. He had accepted a blind fold was now trembling so hard it seemed that his body might fly to pieces.

The prisoner turned his back and tried to ignore the roar of guns and a bloody cry that they violently drowned out. "That wasn't necessary. I know my alternatives."

"Your choice, soldier?"

The prisoner let out a tired sigh. "When do I need to leave?" Brennon suddenly smelled so satisfied that the prisoner had to throttle the urge to punch him. "Immediately. A transport is waiting for you now, in fact."

"Kinda' confident, weren't we?"

Brennon's smile contained no warmth at all. "A good general should know the outcome of every battle before the first shot is fired."

"You really are a fool if you truly believe that."

"One more thing," irritation and a prickly smell of pride were entering into his scent now. "These records of yours," he put as much contempt on that word as possible, "will be conveniently misplaced. You will need a knew name and identity to avoid the possibility of being traced back." Brennon paused momentarily and grinned. "What will you call yourself from this moment on?"

The prisoner bowed his head in thought for a moment. When he lifted his eyes again, they were as hard as steel. "Call me Logan."

Part 1

Upstate New York
Today

Leaves settled peacefully from gnarled and twisted oak trees onto the worn two-lane road. An early fall sun was shining through the maze of branches overhead to cast an intricate pattern of light across the ground. Not even the slightest breeze blew to disturb the carefully preserved scene. It truly seemed as if nature had managed to carve out a small peace of tranquility in at least one point of the world.

The tranquility was shattered so fast that none had time to mourn its passing as two high powered motor bikes screamed down the road leaving a wake of shattered silence and leaves thrown every which way by the suddenly changing air currents. The riders continued on their path, unaware, and perhaps even indifferent to the frustration they had caused nature by destroying one of her more rare, but unappreciated, scenes. Wolverine usually enjoyed a break-neck bike race as next as the next guy. Today, however, he just didn't seem to have his heart in it. Wolverine glanced up about ten yards ahead of him were one young cocky Cajun was staring back at him challengingly. With the wind whipping about them at this speed it would have been impossible to shout a taunt between the two bikes, but Logan could see it written all across his face. What's the matter old man, that arrogant smile seemed to shout.

On another day that same expression would have probably motivated him to action far more effectively than any other stimulant. No prize could ever compete with the joy of watching that cocky gambler eat crow. Today, however, too many dark and heavy thoughts rode on his mind to fully enjoy the sport at hand. He had dreamed dark dreams last night. Dreams that spoke of things that had happened to his so long ago that he had nearly forgotten, tried to forget them. Why did he have to remember them now? Logan twisted his head to the side to avoid an airborne twig as his bike continued to scream down the road at speed considerably less than sane. Wolverine glared at the back of the man ten yards in front of him. Gambit hadn't been the only X-man to have several unpleasant surprised from the past return to haunt him. He had master the art while the Cajun was still at his mother's breast. That was what worried him about the dreams. As irrational as it seemed, to anyone other than an X-man that is, he hated reexamining old memories, even in his sleep, for fear that it could some how conjure the thing in the flesh.

Logan snorted, a sound lost in the roar of his bike and the howl of the air. He was really being irrational now. Any and all people connected with those dark dreams were long since dead, some of them by his own hand. If there were any parts of his past that he was certain were buried for good it was those contained in these dreams.

Yet, despite all his own self-assurances, Logan's mood remained black. Up ahead, Gambit gunned the powerful engine on his Ducati as he sped into a sharp turn at breakneck speed. Despite all his cockiness, Logan had to admit the boy could handled a bike mean enough to grind up just about any other fool who tried to ride it with surprising ease. Logan just hoped that there wasn't another a Van around this turn. The Cajun had barely avoided a head-on with one a few miles back. No van was waiting for him this time, however, as he came out of the turn smoothly, his form perfect. The fool them had the chutzpa to whip his head back at his with flashy grin that yelled, I know that you couldn't have caught that turn as cleanly as I did.

Logan had to grin in spite of himself. This young punk actually thought he could win this thing if he smiled hard enough. Psychological competition was almost as important as the physical aspect of the race, however the Cajun's cocky presence wasn't nearly enough to break the X-man's concentration.

Logan leaned tightly into a turn as he decided that he actually did want to win this race after all. Not just for the evening's drinks which were at stake, the Cajun could put down his weight in beer and that would cost, but for the chance to wipe that grin off of his face. Wolverine tightened his grip and gunned the engine as he came out of the sharp turn. He had managed to gain about three yards on Gambit and they only had about another four miles to go before they reached their destination.

The shorter man positioned his bike behind Gambit's to capitalize on his slipstream. The Cajun was no longer wasting backward glances. The next section of road could be especially tricky if you didn't give it your full attention. Logan smiled grimly. A sharp turn was coming soon and he could easily gain another five yards on the man ahead of him if he used it well. Of coarse, misjudging the turn could easily mean a fatal spill over a steep ravine onto the rocks below. Hesitation never even entered into Wolverine's thoughts. Leaves and other debris floating in the air whipped past his face fast enough to draw blood as he accelerated into the turn. He leaned his bike so far that he was nearly parallel with the ground. For a few insane, exhilarating instants, death rode less than an inch from his cheek.

The blood was leaping through his veins, as he pulled his Harley out of the turn. He had gained another five yards on Gambit's Ducati, just as he had planned. The finish line, Harry's Hideaway, was now in sight and closing fast. He and Gambit were almost neck and neck now. They spared each other a quick glance between the two bikes. Red on black eyes met dark brown in a staring match that would have had any speculator nervously backing away from the two contestants. Suddenly, Gambit tossed back his head and let out a burst of laughter, the sounds of which were almost entirely sucked away by the wind. It was a laugh of defiance, an expression of his absolute disregard for life, responsibility, sanity, or anything else beyond that moment. Wolverine was almost surprised to find his own voice join the Cajun's.

The sun was slowly disappearing behind the low hills in the distance. Shadows were beginning to darken underneath the varied buildings that dotted the landscape. One of those shadows shifted slightly, revealing for a brief moment the out line of a man before it was swallowed up by the dark once again. The man called himself Mr. White. It was a name that very few people had the money to know, much less employ.

He considered himself as independent acquisitions specialist. Anyone or anything could be purchased through him, if the price was right. His reputation demanded high prices all across the world. With a ninety-seven point four percent satisfaction rate you were free to name your price.

Mr. White pulled his coat closer and glared out across an open field at his target. He just hoped that this particular assignment wouldn't end up in the minimal, but still existent two percent. He had heard of this man's particular abilities and while he was completely certain that the vast majority of it was legend rather than fact he still believed that this would be one of his more difficult assignments. With luck, it would not be too much more difficult than that Cat Thief assignment had been for Ron Perelman. Mr. White raised his hand to his face as if to scratch his chin. Concealed in his glove was a miniature transmitter microphone. "Star, update me on our positions," he spoke quietly.

"All operatives are in position. We are now waiting on are man to mark the target," came the soft reply through a near-invisible earpiece. "Remember the orders. Wait until the two are separated. The Cajun means nothing to us. Our target is the short one," White paused for a moment. "Where you able to confirm which bike belonged to our target?" "Our target owns the Harley-Davidson. The Cajun is riding the Ducati. The idiot almost ran right into me with it." "They sighted you then. Will they suspect anything?" the question was rhetorical. "No, just another old van in need of a tune up." "Good. Everyone look sharp. We begin the operation in three minutes." "Confirmed, operation is go in three minutes." White switch off the microphone with a nearly imperceptible movement of his thumb. Everyone would need to perform at full efficiency for this assignment to be successful. There was no room for errors on this one. Mr. White smiled grimly. If anything, a ninety-seven point four percent success rate was an indication of a man who did not make errors.

Logan watched with detached interest as Gambit finished yet another bottle and then signaled to the barkeep to replace it with a full one before returning his concentration to the pool table in front of him. Maybe the man would get drunken enough that he could convince the Cajun that he had lost the race. They had been arguing over it ever since they had arrived. The finish had been close enough that they had finally decided to settle by some other competition. That was how they had ended up playing pool for the last two hours. They just kept trading off games, however, nothing decisive enough to declare a winner. Logan considered the odds of being able to convince his friend to decide it with an arm wrestling match.

Gambit gave Logan an arrogant grin as he popped the eight ball into a corner pocket without even looking. "One t'ing fo' sure, mon ami. The body t'ats go'n t'a pay for all t'is will be puttin' out a lot o' cash tonight."

Wolverine snorted. That was an understatement. Between his healing factor and what ever it was that allowed Gambit to down mass quantities of alcohol and stay standing they had amassed a huge bill for who ever was paying tonight. That last game had put him up one again. "Care to settle this like a man, Cajun?"

Gambit smelled heavily of alcohol and a mild strain of curiosity had just entered his scent. "What you t'inkin' bout?"

"We arm-wrestle for it. The loser takes the bill."

It was Gambit's turn to snort now. "I don' be t'at drunk yet Wolvie."

Logan let out a short bark of a laugh. "Ya, could fool me bub. What with all the beers that you've been downing." The thing was, despite the smell of alcohol on him, he didn't really smell that drunk at all. Did this kid have a separate, specialized liver or something as part of his mutant physiology.

Logan sighed, a sound that seemed more like a snarl. "Another game then?"

Gambit nodded as he went back to his bottle. He leaned casually against the table to wait as Logan collected and racked the various balls. This could very easily take all night. Neither one of them were losing their wits in the slightest. Logan was wondering if it was going to be dawn before a winner finally emerged.

Logan finished setting up the table and was getting ready to break when he noticed a sudden shift in Gambit's scent. His facial expression and body poise hadn't shifted a hair, but the man fairly reeked of surprise. Logan tilted his head slightly and followed his friend's line of sight to find him looking at dark-haired man that had just entered from at the other end of the bar. It was clear from his fellow X-man's scent that he knew the man and didn't like seeing him here.

"Who's yer friend Gumbo?" Wolverine asked conversationally as he made his opening shot.

"No friend o' mine," the Cajun could have been talking about the weather by the tone of his voice, but he smelled strongly of suspicion bordering on worry. "Jus' an associate t'at I knew some time ago." He paused to take another drink. "T'ought he was dead."

"Looks pretty lively ta' me," Logan said casually as he sunk the three ball in a corner pocket. He drew heavily on his own bottle before continuing. "Is he going to be eager to meet you again?"

"He don' know t'at I know him." Logan raised an eyebrow at that, prompting Gambit to say, "It be a long story, mon ami. Les' just say that if he had any clue about how much I know about him he wouldn' stop a' not'in ta' see me dead."

"So, what do you think that this joker is up to, bub?" Logan growled softly, as the seven ball barely missed falling into a side pocket.

"Maybe not'ing, maybe evert'in'," Gambit took his position behind the cue ball. "Maybe he jus' be here fo' a beer an' dinner."

Gambit's scent wasn't giving away very much, other than a wariness for the man. "Well, should we do something about this guy before he tries something?" Logan began calculating how to get the man out of a public place so that they could deal with him privately.

The bitter smell of regret entered Gambit's scent as dropped the ten ball. "Can' do anyt'in' homme. Code o' da' t'ieves. Unless I know or see a body doin' somet'in' t'at can endanger my family o' friends, o' in violation o' t'ief code, I got ta' respect his privacy and let him be about his business."

"I ain't no thief and I don't have to obey your codes," Logan's growl implied his belief that he shouldn't either.

Gambit botched his next shot and took a casual swig of his beer. "Ya' can take him by ya'self if ya' got da desire, but I can't help ya' on t'is one." It was obvious from his scent and tone that Gambit would not want to try to take this guy by himself. "Sides', ot'er t'an my say-so, ya' got not'in' ta' go on. No reason ta' give Scott o' de ot'er X-men fo' why ya' up and decided ta' beat some guy ta' a pulp."

Logan bit down against his growing frustration. It was clear, for whatever his reasons were, that Gambit wanted nothing to do with the man and would probably let him do anything short of taking the entire bar hostage before he deemed it necessary to interfere. It wasn't fear. There were a lot of different smells coming from Gambit right now, but fear wasn't in it. It was as if he just preferred not to draw attention to himself from this man or anyone that might be associated with him. "You're seriously going to just let this guy go no matter what he has done in the past?" Logan was struggling to keep the frustration out of his voice.

Gambit's silence was the only response that he received. The silence grew to encompass both of them as the game continued on and eventually finished in Logan's favor. Throughout the game Gambit pointedly refused to look back at the mysterious visitor. Logan didn't look back at him much either, but he did stay alert of the man's position, half-expecting him to pull out a gun or something. However, the man simply ordered a beer and a meal and quietly ate. When he finally left, half an hour after he had arrived, Logan didn't know if he should be relieved or suspicious or indifferent, like the Cajun.

Only one thing was for certain. The two of them were not going to decide their bill over the pool table. They had now been at it for more than three hours. Logan looked out the window and estimated that it was about two in the morning. He had had enough for one night.

"Hey, Gumbo."

"What homme," Gambit didn't even look up from the cue ball. "Do you want to decide the bill in another race back to the mansion?" at Logan's question a devilish smile appeared on the Cajun's face. "Ya' t'ink ya' can keep up wit' me t'is time?" Logan didn't miss the arrogant challenge in his voice.

"I'll try not to leave you to far behind me," Logan was in the mood for a challenge, especially an arrogant one. " I know how scared you are of the dark."

"Let's do it t'an." Gambit dropped his pool cue on the table and strode off to talk the barkeep into putting their bill on tab, no small fete, even for Gambit.

Logan drained the last of his beer and walked out the front door to were they had parked their bikes. A few seconds later, Gambit joined him with mischievous grin on his face.

"You put it on my tab, didn't you?"

"If ya' win homme," his tone of voice made that possibility seem ludicrous, "I pay ya' back." With no further words he cranked his bike into action. Logan was preparing to do the same when his nose suddenly caught an unfamiliar scent on his bike. It was as if some one else had been touching or handling his beloved Harley.

Logan's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Gambit's tires pealing out on the asphalt. Logan cursed under his breath as he cranked his own bike. He was not going to let the Cajun get a good head start on him. The scent was probably from some person that had been admiring his bike and nothing more. Yet, as he spun his own tires to catch up with Gambit he couldn't quite shake an uneasy feeling of being watched.

"Mr. White, they are on the way."

White smiled grimly as he received the report through his ear piece. "Good, has the target been marked?"

"Affirmative."

"Good, meet us at the check point at 0400 hours," White didn't wait for the response as he switched off the transmitter. Everything was in place. They would not fail.

Part 2

Upstate New York
Today

If there was any chance what-so-ever that anyone could have heard him, Logan would have unleashed a tide of profanities that would have caused even the worst bar scum to walk lightly. Only it wouldn't be a common bar scum that he would have directed that tide at. No, the recipient of his wrath, if possible, would have been the cocky southern gumbo that was thirty yards in front of him right now and increasing his distance with every passing second.

Logan furiously gunned the throttle, but all he got was a grumble from the engine when he had been expecting a growl. He quickly checked the gas meter, which still read half full. What was the problem? It was as if someone had drained all the power out of his bike. Suddenly, he felt the engine cough and die on him.

As his bike rolled to a stop, Logan ceased to hold back the tide and every vulgar expression known to man in three languages came flowing out. He swore at his bike at the road and, most especially, at one beer guzzling X-man that was going to cost him a small fortune after this night. Why was it that fortune always seemed to smile on that thief?

Logan parked the bike on the shoulder of the road, giving it a kick for good measure, and dug around in his jacket for a cigar. He was certain that he had put one in there before he left for Harry's Hide-a-way. With his luck so far tonight, it had probably fallen out somewhere already. Logan grunted in mild relief and surprise as his fingers closed around the sought-for item. Just then his grin faded into a sour grimace when his matchbox revealed only emptiness.

"Why couldn't I have had some sort of energy based powers?" he grumbled softly to himself. "The Cajun never has to ask for a light."

Logan decided to that he might as well have a closer look as his bike to see if he could spot a loose wire or nut or something that could account for his Harley's sudden demise. He squatted down next the bike and squinted at the block. The engine was still too hot to touch, so he contented himself with to examine to engine with the aid of only the moonlight. It didn't take him very long to figure out that he was getting nowhere. Logan was a man of many talents, but mutant night vision was not one of them.

He grumbled as he stood. There was only one option. He was going to have to walk the thing home. It was the not the way he had planned on finishing his night. Further complaining, however, was not going to be a great deal of help. Despite this fact, or maybe because of it, Logan continued to mutter darkly as he pushed his beloved, expensive, and, at the moment, utterly worthless bike down the darkened road.

Suddenly the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He caught, just for a moment, the scent of several people in a passing breeze. Normally he wouldn't have paid any mind to the fact that there were people in these woods. Even from the mansion he would sometimes catch the scents of campfires and people from as far a twenty miles away. The only thing that gave him pause in this instance was the type of scent that his nose was registering. The scents carried with them the smell of anticipation, focus, concentration, and the unmistakable scent of someone about to do violence. In short, these men were getting ready to attack him.

It was some well-honed warrior's instinct that made him dive to the ground and away from his bike. He heard a strange whistle as something zipped past his ear, barely missing his head. It wasn't a bullet. Logan knew what a bullet sounded like. It sounded more like some kind of dart, tipped with heaven knows what kind of drugs.

Logan had dived, rolled, and returned to his feet before his bike even finished falling to the ground with crash. He was now running a zig-zag pattern as fast as he could to the nearest cluster of trees. He had to get out of the open to someplace where he wasn't such an open target.

He heard another strange whistling sound and dived to the right. Unfortunately, he was to slow by an instant to avoid the projectile. He felt a brief sting as the needle penetrated the skin, then bone of his spine. The sting was then followed by a wave of pain so intense that he double into a ball from the shock of it. His heart seized in mid-beat and refused to restart. Incredible pressure, like a huge vice clamped down on his skull, squeezing until Logan would not have been surprised see his head crush on the asphalt. His body immediately went into convulsions after it dropped to the ground. Muscles and nerves refused to respond to his commands as they twitched and spazmed at a frenzied rate. After a few seconds his twitching stopped and Logan remained still on the cold hard road, dead as far as any doctor would be concerned.

Then, his healing factor kicked in.

Logan came screaming back into consciousness. His eyes bulged out of his head from the pain of it. Healing was usually more painful than actually receiving the injury. Logan tried to catch his breath as the pain slowly receded. That dart had been tipped with something truly nasty. If he was a normal man, he would have been dead in less than an instant. As it was, he felt like he was suffering from the worst hang-over in the history of the world.

As his senses returned, he heard the sound of heavy booted footsteps of several men running. He didn't recognize any of their scents. That meant that none of them would be expecting him to be alive right at this moment. The element of surprise was his now.

The first one reached and grabbed his shoulder to push him over onto his back. Logan felt the sharp comfortable pain as he extended his claws through the skin on the back of his hands. As he rolled over, his left arm whipped out. The claws tore through the tendons in his opponent's forearm, causing him to drop the high-powered hand-gun that he was carrying. Logan didn't pause to consider the man further. He didn't have any time to lose. In the same movement, he slashed wickedly at the calf of another one of his assailants. That man went screaming to the ground in agony.

The third and final man dropped back out of the range of Logan's claws. He whipped his sub-machine gun around to train it on Logan. The X-man was still fairly weak and disoriented from the poison, but he managed a clumsy dive towards his assailant's mid-section. The two fell to the ground in a tangled heap as the gun shot off a burst of gunfire into the air. Before Logan could press his position, his assailant brought the butt of the gun down hard against Logan's jaw. Logan had already been seeing everything in double images. He grunted as stars now exploded in his vision.

His opponent shoved him away viciously and once again began to train his weapon on the X-man, while rising to one knee. Logan felt his fingers close around a large stone. Saying a quick prayer to a god that he sometimes convinced himself that he didn't believe in, Logan hurled the stone with all of his remaining strength. His vision was now so blurred that aiming was out of the question. He just threw and prayed.

Logan let out a sigh of relief as he heard a solid thud and promptly forgot about god now that he no longer needed him. The X-man stumbled groggily to his feet. He had to keep moving. There were still several other men out in the surrounding woods.

Suddenly blinding pain tore through his back. Logan went to his knees again, as bullets tore through lower gut. The man whose arm he had slashed had managed to pick his gun back up with his other good arm. Despite the blood spilling out of him, Logan lurched to his feet again. The only thought in his mind was making it to the edge of the woods that was just eight yards ahead of him. He was in no shape to take these guys on right now. He needed to give his healing factor a chance to repair some of the damage that had been done.

Bullets followed him into the dark trees, half of them impacting somewhere on his back and legs. Logan cursed silently. They were most likely wearing infrared equipment and his blood trail would lead them straight to him. The only thing he could do was put as much distance between him and them as possible and hope that he would be ready for them when they found him.

Mr. White walked silently across the asphalt toward the three men in various states of consciousness. Two other men followed at his back, both carrying long distance rifles slung over their shoulders. White sized up the situation rapidly and then flicked on his micro-transmitter.

"The target is heading Northeast from the road. All units converge on his position. Use your infrared goggles. He is bleeding and that should leave a nice trail to follow. Also, from this moment on out I want everyone using silencers. Too much noise has been made already." He hesitated a moment before adding, "Use extreme measures. Lethal force is advised."

Not that it would be lethal with this target apparently. When his present client had insisted that they use the methods that they were using, that poison dart could drop a rhino is two seconds, he had balked more than slightly. After all, the client had been equally insistent that the target be taken alive. White had finally just written him off as being more than slightly crazy. It wouldn't have been the first time that he had worked for a nutcase. Now he was forced to reexamine his former assessment.

White had heard rumors and whispers about this Logan. The man had quite a reputation. Most bounty hunters declined having anything to do with him. White had been the fourth person that his client had contacted. White knew how to sort fact from fiction when it came to discussing stories, lies, and rumors that made up a person's reputation. However, he had not considered that the part about the claws and being able to come back from the dead as truth. White hated it when he underestimated someone. It always proved costly.

White turned as two more men joined him the three of them on the road. Turning to the new arrivals he said, "Clean up here and make sure that no traces are left behind. You," he indicated the men with the long-range rifles, "follow me. We are going to have another go at it. And this time, I want you aiming for the heart. That way the venom will instantly spread throughout his entire system. We'll see how fast he can recover from that."

All five set to work, as white strode off determinedly. He had learned a hard lesson today. He would not underestimate this enemy again.

Logan tore through the thick underbrush, not really caring how much noise that he was making. Right now he was trying to achieve speed, not stealth. He could smell his pursuers, less than fifty paces behind him and closing fast. Logan's vision was beginning to clear finally, but everything was still doubled.

Suddenly, a black-clad man crashed through the brush on his left. Logan immediately dove behind a tree, as the man emptied his clip in the x-man's direction. Logan listened carefully for the click that signified that his new attacker had gone for another clip. Logan didn't waste this particular opportunity. He rounded the tree and was on the man in a flash. It only took his assailant a moment to recover from his surprise. With a quick twist he managed to slip away from Wolverine's grasp and backed up a few paces, drawing a wicked looking knife as he did. Logan feinted a few times, but the man held his defensive position.

Logan growled ferally, hoping that it would unnerve the other man just a bit. He was quickly running out of time. The X-man decided on a full attack and charged his enemy with every once of speed that he could muster. The black-clad man simply positioned him-self so that Logan would slam full-force onto the knife. Logan winced only slightly as he felt the knife cut cleanly through his skin and penetrate his liver. Logan brought his claws through in a clean cross that slashed right through the man's kevlar vest.

The X-man stumbled away from the now dead body. He hated to kill. From his experience, it always came back to haunt you in some way or another. He braced himself as he yanked the knife out of his gut and then quickly put his hand over the gash to try to slow the flow of blood. This wasn't working the way that he had wanted. He was supposed to be healing from wounds, not gaining new ones.

Logan, however, had no more time for introspection as another four shadowed forms came running through the brush behind him. Logan hit the ground, as a dozen or more bullets flew over his head. He carefully made his way along the ground, hoping that the mist and vegetation would give him enough cover to make it to something a little more substantial. The bullets were hitting closer and closer to him with each passing second.

Suddenly, the hail of lead ceased. Logan risked an upward glance to see that three new men had joined the group. Logan had to swallow a grunt of surprise as he recognized the foremost as Gambit's friend from Harry' Hide-a-Way. He was obviously the man in charge of this merry little party. The scent of those around him held a definite subordinate tint.

"You can't escape," it was Gambit's friend that was talking. He paused to wait for an answer that didn't come before continuing. "Surrender yourself to us and I can guarantee that the rest of your experience will be considerably more pleasant than it has been thus far." There was another four-second pause. "This is a generous offer that I am normally not inclined to make." Again he waited for a response that didn't come.

While his cohorts tensed and readied themselves for action the man sighed and actually gave off the scent of one resigned to a rather unpleasant task. Logan wasn't fooled. Psychological games never worked very well against him. Mainly, because he was too crazy to be intimidated, even when he should have been.

"I would suggest that you take advantage of my unusual good humor and stand up slowly, with your hands where we can see them."

"Go screw yourself!" Logan finally growled back, his anger mounting. Suddenly, Logan realized his mistake. He must have lost so much blood that he was no longer thinking strait. He had just given away his position by foolishly responding to the other man's taunts.

The mercenaries opened fire once again. This time, however, their shots didn't fly over and around him, but struck home with destructive precision. Logan could feel his lungs being shredded to pieces by lead and his own bone fragments. Blood poured freely from dozens of wounds that now covered his body. He was having trouble keeping his head clear now. He had already lost so much blood that he felt light-headed. Darkness was closing in on him and he didn't feel his body anymore.

The gunfire had stopped now, but Logan hardly noticed. He could sense the men advancing on him again, but was helpless to do anything about it. He opened his eyes to see the leader and another man with a high-powered rifle standing over him. Even in his present state, Logan could see the surprise clearly written on their faces.

"-He's still alive-"

"-Not bloody human I tell you-"

"-Doesn't matter-"

"-Didn't get paid 'nuff for this one-"

"-He's starting to move again-

"-Nash, but a dart in his heart-"

"-For all the bloody good that will do-"

Logan could see one of the shapes above him take something off of its shoulder and extend it towards him. He heard the sound of air rushing and then blackness engulfed him.

Remy had debated about it for almost eight minutes before he finally turned his bike around and began to back track the road in an attempt to find Wolverine. What had finally decided to matter for him was the fact that the other X-man was so honorable that he wouldn't stoop to cheap tricks to win a bet. That was just one of the many differences between the two of them.

Gambit pulled over to the side of the road as his headlight illuminated the familiar outline of Wolverine's Harley. He was slowly growing more and more suspicious. For a brief moment Remy let his sense of spatial awareness scan the surrounding area. However, all that he could pick up where the trees and if Logan was hiding somewhere in there not even he was likely to find the man if he didn't want to be found.

Remy sighed as he walked over to Wolverine's abandoned bike. Why was it that the x-men could never just have a normal quiet night out? It always seemed to involve getting attacked by the Juggernaut or being transported to the other end of the Galaxy or what not. Now Wolverine was missing in action or off on another one of his anx-ridden self-examination sessions. Still, he was curious as to why his fellow X-man would have just left his bike on the road like this. Maybe it was out of gas.

Following on that curiosity, Remy twisted off the gas cap to check if the bike was out of fuel. The smell that wafted up from the gas tank sent warning bell ringing in his head. Fuel drain, the substance had a scientific name, but he and anyone else who had ever used the stuff knew it better by its more common appellate. It was an interesting little chemical that when mix with any type of petroleum based product became undetectable to all but the most thorough examinations. The compound stayed dormant until the fuel was heated beyond a certain temperature. Then it began a series of chemical reactions the rendered the fuel as combustible as water. The engine would then flood, choke, and die. After it had reacted with the fuel it gave off a strong odor like rotted fruits. Terrorists loved the stuff. They enjoyed using it to bring down planes at major airports.

Remy frowned thoughtfully. Fuel drain was a well monitored substance and extremely hard to acquire. Remy only knew a handful of people that would have any kind of access to it. His frown turned into a scowl. One of those people was a certain Mr. White that he just happened to have spotted that night. That was too large of a coincidence.

Remy hurried back to his bike. He had to tell the rest of the X-men. Wolverine was in terrible danger.

Part 3

1942
England:

The man who called himself Logan viewed the area around him from his seat with no small amount of disdain. Here he was, prepared to join a team of crack soldiers in a highly sensitive covert action, and all that they had given them for training facilities was a burnt-out empty field with a few ragged tents set up in a haphazard fashion. From what he could tell, the field had apparently been part of a farm at one time or another. The burnt frames of what seemed to be a barn in the distance confirmed that hypothesis at least. However, German bombers had long since erased any traces of human habitation from the now desolate grounds. Even though it had happened years ago, the smell of death still assaulted his nostrils strongly.

"They're really sparin' no expense for us are they," Logan commented dryly to the soldier behind the wheel of the old worn-out transport jeep that they were riding in.

The soldier just shrugged and made a non-committal sound. More likely than not he had been instructed not to converse with his present passenger. They had both been in the vehicle together for over four hours now and the man had never said anything more than two word phrases. Even his scent bore a professionally indifferent attitude. The kind when a man really doesn't want to remember you. It was that scent that got on his nerves more than the silence.

Logan grabbed his bag as the jeep slowed to a stop. He could already see a few other soldiers walking towards him, obviously the welcome committee. Logan turned to look at his travel companion as he jumped lightly out of the passenger seat. "Thanks for the company," he commented sarcastically.

Neither the man's scent or gaze faltered a fraction as he continued to stare directly in front of him. "I have never met you, nor have you met me. I am completely unaware of the existence of this facility, or the personnel on these grounds. They don't exist. Have a nice life." The man didn't say another word as he put the vehicle in gear and pulled off in a cloud of dust and ash.

"Nice guy," Logan commented to himself as his eyes followed the dust trail for a few brief moments. He then put all thought of the other soldier away as he turned to face the approaching officers. Logan went rigged and brought his hand to his forehead in a sharp salute. "Sergeant Logan Mathisen reporting for duty."

The officer returned his salute. "At ease soldier." The other man seemed to examine him from head to toe with just a flicker of his eyes. "I'm Lieutenant Wilcox, and this," he indicated the other two men beside him, "is Colonel Griffith and Baker. We will be your commanding officers until such time when it shall be declared to you otherwise."

Logan took a moment of his own to examine the three men in front of him. Wilcox was a tall man with a hard unchanging face. He looked to be somewhere in his forties, but Logan could tell by his scent that he was only in his late thirties. The war had obviously aged him somewhat. However, despite a mostly bald head and slightly protruding gut the man retained all the force and power that he had obtained in the prime of his life. Logan found himself respecting the man already. The two Colonels were another matter. They both smelled and looked considerably younger. Griffith was a head taller than Baker, who was barely taller than Logan himself. Both men wore their hair short, in the standard military buzz style. Logan could tell clearly by scent and sight who it was that commanded here.

"Colonel Griffith will show you to your quarters," The Lieutenant's voice interrupted Logan's thought. "After you have stowed your gear, report to meeting hall for debriefing."

"Meeting hall, sir?" Logan's voice held more than a touch of amusement at hearing a tent referred to as "the meeting hall". "And which tent would that be, sir?"

The Lieutenant eyed him stoically for a moment. Then he pointed to a small tent towards the other end of the field. "In your quarters, you'll find a Sergeant Brett Chancer. He's your buddy."

"Buddy?"

"For this mission, everyone in the company will work in a two man group. You will normally remain in contact with your field leader and stay under his command. However, due to the nature of the mission, at times the company will be deployed over vast areas and interaction between the entire group will not be possible. In those situations it will just be you with your buddy to watch your back." Wilcox didn't wait to see if Logan had any more questions. "Now stow your gear and get to the meeting hall."

Logan nodded in understanding. The system made sense. Logan stooped to pick up his bag and fell in behind Colonel Griffith. As he walked he reflected over what he had already been told, which, was practically nothing. All he knew was that it would be an extremely difficult mission, one that would require some specialized training before they embarked, and that he would be a part of a team of nine other highly trained operatives. All in all, Logan was liking this mission less every second.

Griffith directed him to a small line of tents, which served as a makeshift barracks. "This will be your assigned sleeping quarters, when you actually get to sleep." Logan raised a questioning eyebrow and the Colonel hurried to add. "Don't worry. You'll be no good to us if you go crazy from sleep deprivation."

Not exactly a comforting reassurance but Logan would have to be satisfied. "If that is all, I will meet you at the debriefing hall in a few minutes." Griffith gave a sharp salute, which Logan returned before parting.

Logan poked his head inside the indicated tent for a brief assessment. It wasn't as bad as he had been expecting. The dirt ground was fairly well packed down, so he didn't have to worry about kicking up dust all the time. The four cots that lined the inside of the tent were in decent repair and each one had mattresses. The standard issue blankets looked like they had seen better days but were still surprisingly thick and warm. The air even smelled clean, a great blessing to his sensitive nose, instead of carrying the scents of urine and sweat.

Logan noticed a large man sitting on one of the cots in the process of shining his boots. He was tall and quite broad and wore his pale yellow hair shaved close to his head. The other man's head rotated on a massively thick neck to look up at who had entered. A small grim smile played on his lips when their eves met.

"You must be Mathisen," the man stood and extended his hand, which Logan excepted. "I'm Sergeant Brett Chancer, your buddy." That last part he said with a slight quirk to his lips.

"Nice to meet you," Logan mumbled as he made his way towards one of the cots.

"The one on the far end is yours," Chancer added as he turned back to his shoe polishing. "Adams and Vanhorn have already claimed the other two."

Logan grunted in acknowledgement as he tossed his bag on the appropriate cot. "Lieutenant Wilcox said that there would be some sort of debriefing as soon as I got my stuff squared away." He glanced at Chancer trying to gauge some sort of reaction from him. "Is that when we find out what this mission is all about?"

The man, however, simply continued brushing his boot. "You know as much as I do." Appearing satisfied with the boot he set it down, picked up its companion and began brushing again. "For all I know, they could be planning to send us to take out Hitler himself."

Logan snorted at that, this war was complicated by far too many political factors to allow a solution as the one Chancer presented. To bad that they couldn't just make a great big bomb or something to take everything out. Then again, Logan shuddered at the idea of any government with a weapon of that magnitude.

Logan looked up as another two men entered the tent. The first one glanced at him briefly then looked over at Chancer. "Hey Chancer, how long are you going to sit there and brush those stupid boots. No matter how pretty and shiny they look, they will never make up for your ugly face."

Chancer glared at the other man and Logan could smell the tension between the two. "I prefer to find useful things to do with my time Vanhorn, instead of bragging about stories and conspiracies that no one believes."

Vanhorn's face darkened and Logan could smell the anger coming off of him in waves. "Just like a stupid sheep to the slaughter, never once looking at the truth right in front of you."

At this time the other man moved to intervene. "Stand down, both of you. We don't have time for another one of you childish arguments right now." He paused a moment while both men continued to eye each other with barely contained wrath. "Besides, right now we all need to assemble for our first debriefing."

Logan could still smell the anger and tension between the two men but they didn't say another word to each other. Vanhorn simply turned and walked out of the tent. A few moments later Chancer left the tent as well, but headed in an entirely different direction.

The other man that had entered with Vanhorn sighed as he sat down on his cot. "The three of us arrived in the same transport and for some reason those two immediately took a disliking to each other. I had to listen to them the entire trip." He shook his head with an exasperated grunt. Then looked back at Logan. "Name's Mclenn, Steve Mclenn."

Logan accepted the man's outstretched hand. "Logan Mathisen." Logan took a moment to examine the other man. He was about as tall as Chancer, but not nearly as broad. He definitely had more of a lean build to him. His hair was dark and though he wore it short, it wasn't nearly as short as Vanhorn and Chancer's had been.

"Well Mathisen," Mclenn said standing back up, "Why don't we find out what this is all about."

"Sounds good to me," Logan agreed as he followed Mclenn out of the tent.

By the time they arrived at the Briefing Tent, most of the other soldiers were already assembled. Mclenn pointed each one of them out to him and told him their names. "That's Lawrence Hopps," Mclenn indicated a tall gangly looking soldier with dark hair and eyes. "He'll be our Field Commander." Mclenn indicated another soldier that was barely taller than Logan. "That's Rick Adams, he's Vanhorn's assigned partner and pretty much the only one who can stand listening to all of his conspiracy tales. Next we have Ryan Shipper, Rungo George, Gabriel Lander," Mclenn paused a moment before adding, "Don't ever mention anything about long-hairs around him or you'll spend the next two hours listening to him talk about his girlfriend, Shyla." Logan nodded his head in agreement. "And, last but not least, Robert Venuti."

Logan nodded at the head count. He was going to have to know these men well. More likely than not they were going to be dying together. The entire company of soldiers went to rigid attention as Wilcox entered the room followed by Baker and Griffith.

"At ease," the Lieutenant said after he had taken his place behind a large desk. "First off, I would like to commend each one of you. This team is composed of only the best of the best. If you're here it means that you are a part of the top of what the military has to offer." The Lieutenant paused for a moment to let the statement sink in. "As such, you will have to prove yourselves during your next two months here. You will be submitted to a demanding training routine that will very likely test the limits of your physical endurance. But, without this training, it is unlikely that you will be able to survive to complete the mission that lays before you."

A slight murmur ran through the line at that comment and Logan could smell curiosity mixed with apprehension wafting up from the soldiers. The Lieutenant waited a moment for the murmuring to cease before continuing. "Colonel Griffith will be your morning instructor. From o-four-hundred hours until twelve-hundred hours, your butts are his." If possible, Griffith straightened slightly at the comment. The man was already stiff enough that he seemed to be made of wood. "Colonel Baker will be your nighttime instructor." Baker shot them a wicked grin. "From twelve-hundred hours to twenty-two hundred hours you belong to him."

"Now," the Lieutenant surveyed the room, seeming to weigh every one of them, "I will debrief you on the mission objectives." He turned to Griffith, "Lights Colonel."

As Griffith snuffed the few flickering lanterns that dotted the room, Baker set up some sort of projector from the other corner of the tent. A large image appeared on the tent wall next to where Wilcox stood. It appeared to be a map of some sort.

"Before the Nazi party came to party in Germany, and a good deal of Europe, a great deal of immigrants who, sensing the changing climate, left for America in search of tolerance and freedom. Among these immigrants were several scientist and physicist who have proven most helpful to our cause." Wilcox paused before continuing. "However, not all of these scientist were so fortunate, and now many of them are in forced labor camps and some are even lending the aid of there minds to the enemy."

Wilcox indicated a point on the map before continuing. "Our intelligence has managed to locate a small group of these scientist here, just north of Italy. They are currently involved in a project which, if successful, would be disasterous to the Allies." He turned to pin them all with an iron glare. "These men are your objectives."

The Lieutenant let that sink in a little before he continued. "For now, that is all that I can tell you. You will be further debriefed on the successful completion of your training."

Surprised murmurs met that statement. Inwardly, Logan groaned. The mission was everything that he feared it would be. An incursion into hostile territory to recover who knew how many hostages from an enemy fortress.

"But sir," that was Hopps that was speaking now, "can you even tell us anything about the mode of extraction for the hostages?"

Wilcox eyed Hopps carefully before responding. "This is not an extraction mission soldier." His voice was as cold as ice. "It's an search and destroy."

Part 4

Clouds had been gathering outside for quite some time now. They bore the promise of a spectacular storm within a few hours. Storms meant strong winds and in this the northeast section of Italy where the frigid bora winds had developed into legend those winds could mean a lot of things in and of themselves. For the man who studied the spectacle of nature with a detached interest from his study window the message was not wasted. Man could play at ruling the elements all he wanted, but he was not and never would be the master.

The man allowed a smile, but no warmth, touch his lips. It was fitting, in a way, that the weather would choose such a day as this to unleash its violence. A storm of another making had been building for quite sometime and today would see its long overdue release as well. And the portents of this storm, complete destruction, or complete vindication. There could be no middle ground.

The man allowed his attention to shift from the forces outside to the faint reflection that stared at him from the glass. Eyes that glowed with an unnatural power met his own in the dark glass. Deep ugly scars made a criss-cross pattern over the left side of his face, extending from his jaw to just below his eye. The man brought his right hand to his face to feel the scars briefly. He could have rid himself of their presence long ago, but they had served him well over several years as a focus for his determination and a reminder of his rage. Once the storm had broken he would remove the scar. But, until then, they were too valuable to him.

The man sensed one of his servants moving down the hall towards the study. He sensed the man's movements and, to his surprise, fear. It was the later that always confused him when he sensed it in his servants. The average man would have a great deal to fear from one such as him, but didn't these fools realize that as his servants they were immortal, superior, and thus had nothing to fear. It was a reverie for another time as the servant entered the study. It was obvious that he had a message to deliver and equally obvious that he was reluctant to deliver it.

"Master Fallon," the servant said after some time, "I have just received an update from Mr. White."

"Yes?"

The man paused again. He was clearly agitated, more so than usual today. "Mr. White respectfully asks that an additional thirty percent be added to his fee as he encountered unforeseen expenses."

The man called Fallon wasn't sure if he felt amused contempt for Mr. White's pathetic antics or outraged at his open defiance. Money, however, was not a great issue to him. "Very well Professor Bressan. Give the man his worthless money. Just ensure that we receive our "purchase" in prime condition."

"Very well sir. Mr. White's jet should reach Monfalcone in about fifteen minutes. However," more nervous hesitation, by the heavens something had taken the man today, "if the storm does not abate, it could be another two hours before they could effect a landing."

An ironic grunt escaped Fallon's lips. Yes, man could play at being the ruler all he wanted. "I understand Bressan." He turned to stare at the other man for a brief moment, a cold smile on his face. "I have waited over fifty years for my vengeance. I can wait a few more hours."

Fallon turned to his contemplation of the window once again, effectively dismissing the other man. Bressan, however, waited on. Finally, after a long uncomfortable silence Fallon spoke. "What is it Bressan?"

Bressan seemed to gather his courage. For when he spoke this time, it was with resolve. "When this matter is complete, will you finally release us to our rest?"

Fallon turned and looked at the man in open shock. "Release you? Is that how you see this? As imprisonment?"

"How should we see it master?"

"As a gift," Fallon's tone hardened as his amazement faded to anger. "A gift for which any other man would gladly give his most precious possessions."

"We never asked for your gift, master."

"But it was given none-the-less," Fallon's anger was building slowly. Didn't these men understand what he had done for them? "And one day you shall thank me for it. For now, I want to hear nothing more mentioned in conjunction with the subject. Is that understood?"

"Perfectly, master," Bressan responded coolly. "By your leave." Fallon ignored the faint mocking tone and nodded his head in dismissal. Bressan quickly exited the study to leave him to his quiet contemplation once again.

The clouds continued to darken and gather outside the window. Fallon smiled once again. Soon, very soon, the storm would break, and all in its path would be destroyed.

Logan slowly pulled himself out of a drug-induced sleep. His head still throbbed and his entire body still hurt, but he could feel that his wounds had healed. That was always one of the down points of his healing factor. He couldn't even take an aspirin for pain because his mutant power would just counter-act it. There was never anything to do but sit back and suffer until his body finished mending itself.

Logan opened his eyes slowly and winced as fluorescent lights penetrated them. The area around him smelled sterile, almost like a hospital, but not quite. He could also feel movement, as if they were in a plane or some sort of vehicle. He was also able to make out five or six men scurrying about their tasks. Logan attempted to move, only to find that he was strapped in place by some sort of restraining gear. Two huge metal cylinders encased his hands and held him upright. Two more cylinders encased his legs below the knees and were embedded in the floor.

One of the men suddenly noticed that he was awake and signaled to the others around him. There was brief scurry of activity and then the group of men parted as the dark-haired man that Gambit had spotted in the bar stepped forward.

The man eyed Logan for a moment as if he was some sort of mounted animal taken down in a safari outing. "I definitely earned my pay on you, my friend."

Logan couldn't help the low growl that escaped his throat. The man smelled so pleased with himself. Logan felt the almost over-whelming urge to deflate his ego a bit by taking a bite out of it. "I'd be real scared if I was you bub. I'm the proverbial hot potato, and you're about ta' get yer' hands burnt."

The man's scent didn't change a fraction and, if anything, his smile became even smugger. "Not to worry, my feral friend. I won't be keeping you for very long. My hands are quite important to my line of work and I can't afford to have them burnt."

"Don't think that gettin rid of me is that easy. I always come back ta' bite when least expected," the man seemed unimpressed. So, Logan decided to up the stakes a little bit. "Two, maybe three days tops, and the X-men are going to be all over you."

The man turned away and began to walk off. His scent was still laced with confidence. "Your mutant friends don't even have the slightest clue as to where they need to began looking for you."

"That's not what the Cajun said. He recognized you from the bar," The man whirled around at that. His scent was now filled with apprehension and surprise. "Didn't do anything because of his stupid thieves code and ya' didn't seem to be up ta' anything."

Logan leveled a cool gaze at the other man. "The boy can be pretty stupid at times, but how long do you think its goin' ta' take him ta' put two an' two together?"

The man studied him for a moment longer, his face and scent like steel. Then, abruptly, both changed as a grin broke out on his face and relief in his scent. "You bluff well Logan. But your hand is still empty. I know it and you know it."

Logan smiled grimly. "Just keep thinkin' that, bub. It'll make it all the more satisfyin' when I hand your lungs back to ya'."

The man waved his hand dismissivelly. "Enough of this nonsense. We will be landing soon and I want to make the transaction as swiftly an smoothly as possible." As he walked off he shot back over his shoulder, "If he gives you any trouble, use more sedative on him."

As much as he hated to admit it, even to himself, the man was right. Right now his hand was empty. His only real options were to wait and see what it was that his mysterious captures wanted and hope that the X-men were somehow going to figure out what had happened and track him down again. Logan sighed. They weren't the best options, but they were all that he had for right now.

Logan felt the plane that they were in drop and slow down. By the feel of the motion, it was some sort of vertical take-off and landing craft. There weren't any windows in the area where he was being held prisoner. So, he had no clue as to where he could be at the present moment. The only thing that he knew was that there was a large storm brewing outside the plane. He could smell it.

The X-man felt the telltale bump that said the craft was settling on its landing gear. He heard the engines' hum soften as the throttle was cut back. Apparently they had reached their destination. Where ever that was. Logan tested his restraints briefly to avoid attracting the attention of the guard. They were solid. The metal wasn't an adimantium ally but seeing as his claws weren't either, they were more than sufficient to hold him.

The door to the cargo bay swung open and two of the mercenaries immediately jumped through the opening and out of his line of sight. Logan could hear the sounds of booted feet making its way towards the plane. He strained his ears to hear the words exchanged between the men and managed to catch a fraction.

"...see you managed to make it back in one piece..."

"...Still think you guys have a death wish wanting to mess with this guy..."

"...had some experience in dealing with him in the past..."

"...do you have the money..."

"...right here, but we want to see the merchandise first..."

"...fine, he's in here, but be careful..."

"...still afraid of the guy even in chains..."

"...you didn't see him out there...he is psycho...you got our extra thirty percent, right..."

"...relax, your money's right here...you can go out and blow it all on long-hairs..."

Logan froze. It couldn't be. But that expression, the scent he could now detect, and the sight of the man that followed it all confirmed the impossible to him. "Mclenn," Logan whispered hoarsely.

Mclenn grinned broadly as he stepped into the cargo bay. "Miss me sweaty?" This wasn't possible. Mclenn had been dead for more than fifty years. But here he was. The same soldier that Logan had fought along side in World War II and not a day older from that time. He was even wearing the same military fatigues that they had used on that fateful mission together.

"You're dead," Logan gasped.

"Oh, really?" Logan had to keep his eyes from bulging as Vanhorn stepped in behind Mclenn. "The government told you that, didn't they. And you trusted them, didn't you. Well, I guess that you would, seeing as it was you that left us behind to die now wasn't it?"

"No," This was too much. Logan shook his head as if that could dislodge something from his sight and hearing which was causing them to go haywire like this. His head was pounding now and for the first time in a long time, Logan felt fear.

"Logan Logan Logan," Mclenn was talking again now. "Come on now. It's not that bad. Don't you remember all the good times we had together?" Logan looked up at Mclenn, his mind racing. "That reminds me, I owe you something."

Without further warning Mclenn threw a vicious left jab to Logan's cheek. The X-man tried to roll with the punch as much as possible, but he felt a cheek bone fracture painfully. Mclenn then reached out and grabbed a handful of Logan's hair.

"And what is with this hair Logan? Did you misplace your standard issue scissors and razor? This can't be a regulation cut." Mclenn's grip tightened painfully. "But, you know what they say..." Mclenn's hand forced his upper body down while his knee drove hard into Logan's chest. Logan gasped as he heard and felt ribs snapping. "...when you break regulations, you only hurt yourself."

"That's enough," Vanhorn's harsh voice cracked like a whip. "We'll have time for fun and games later, when the others are here."

"Others," Logan managed to gasp between coughing and spitting blood.

"That's right, Loganator," Mclenn had that big grin on his face again. "Chancer, Hopps, Venuti, the whole gang is back together again." Mclenn's face became suddenly grim. "Everyone you let die."

"So, this is all about vengeance then?" His ribs had already managed to knit back in place, but his chest still felt like it was on fire.

Mclenn gave a short bark of laughter. "No Logan, this is about justice."

Logan just stared back at him. "You see Logan," Vanhorn was talking now. "You did some very nasty thing. Things that would be considered illegal in any court despite the WarTime circumstances. But the government covered the whole thing up, they always do, and you got off Scott-free." Vanhorn's scent was full of rage even though his face showed no emotion. "Well, the governments lies stop here and now. The truth if finally going to come out."

"Gentlemen, this is truly a touching reunion," Vanhorn and Mclenn's head whipped around to see Gambit's friend walking towards them, "but if you will simply give me the money, I will give you the prisoner and you can continue this moving scene in a more suitable location."

Mclenn nodded to Vanhorn who placed a large briefcase on a nearby table. The Briefcase opened to reveal neat rows of bill in various currencies. "Mr. White, Thirty-million in various European and American currencies. Plus, an extra three million for your difficulties and unforeseen expenses."

Logan barked a ragged laugh, "Kid, you didn't do your homework very well. Clan Toshidan has had a price of forty million in any currency ya want for the past two years. They ripped ya' kid." Logan continued to let out a ragged mocking laugh.

Mr. White just stared at him for a moment. His face was cool calm, but his scent revealed a war of conflicting emotions. Finally he turned to Mclenn and Vanhorn. "Do you mind?" He said indicating Logan.

Mclenn smiled in return. "Be my guest."

"Thank you," and with that Mr. White drew a small handgun equipped with a silencer out of his coat. He leveled the gun at Logan's throat and pulled the trigger.

Logan reeled back from the force of the blast as the bullet tore its way through his esophagus. Blood filled his throat and he found that he could not breathe. His healing factor immediately went into action to repair the damage, but he was already blacking out due to lack of air. The last thing he heard as he dropped into blackness was the sounds of White's voice saying. "You know, that was kind of fun."

The gravel crunched under Scott Summers booted foot and Scott cursed himself silently for making so much noise. For the past year he had been observing the way that Psylocke and Gambit walked without making noise and had been incorporating what he had learned from observation into his own skills. As always, he had been a fast and able learner, but even now it was more natural to him to use a bold straight-forward gait, walking more on the heal instead of the ball of the foot.

Scott shifted his balance slightly and continued walking, gratified that he was now making no discernible noised. He let his gaze pass over the scene in front of him once again, hoping to find some detail that he had missed the previous times. Hank and Bishop were deployed out in the forest were the trail of Logan's blood had lead them. Gambit was by the side of the road, carefully dusting Logan's Harley for fingerprints and otherwise inspecting it for clues. Jean stood by his side, physically anyway. Her mind was spread out across a thirty meter radius searching desperately for some clue to Logan's location.

Scott gave his wife's hand a quick squeeze to reassure her. She smiled back at him in way that showed she understood that it was to reassure himself as much as her. Just the physical touch of her hand seemed to give him strength. At times he didn't know how he would have survived the many hardships in his life without this wonderful women's support. He had definitely married above himself.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Gambit stand and begin moving towards them. He gave Jean's hand one last squeeze and turned to face the other X-man. "Find anything?"

Gambit's eyes didn't quite meet his own. "Non. It be a slick job. Who ever be de body t'at did t'is is a professional."

Scott tried to keep his growing concern in check, knowing that it would feed back to Jean and cause her to worry even more. Ever since Gambit had arrived at the mansion early this morning with the news that Logan was in some sort of dire circumstances everyone had been on edge. The one gratifying aspect of the entire situation had been the quick and decisive way that the X-men had responded to the emergency. Scott smiled sadly, Xavier would have been proud. Psylocke, Storm, and Cannonball had immediately started a search using Cerebro to scan for Logan's genetic signature. He, Jean, Bishop, and Hank had followed Gambit back to the spot were Logan's Harley had been left. They had found signs of some sort of a struggle but, unfortunately, little else. For all they knew, Logan very easily could have escaped his would-be captors and was now licking his wounds is some bar with a long-necked bottle for company.

Scott's thoughts were interrupted by a rustling sound in the woods that eventually formed into Hank and Bishop. He waited for the two of them to reach him before he asked the question to which he already knew the answer. "Do you know which way he went?"

The ever stoic Bishop simply shook his head. It was Hank who elaborated. "The trail continued on for about a mile. Then there seems to have been some sort of struggle. We found tracks of at least six or seven men converging on his trail." Hank shot a hesitant glance at Jean before continuing. "The area was pretty badly chewed up. Whoever they were, they were packing a lot of ordinance. And we found another one of these." He displayed a wicked looking dart. "It to is tipped with a rather nasty fast-acting neuro-toxin. The kind that acts faster than nerve endings can send messages. It kills normal people before they know that they've been hit. Just slightly less toxic than those cigars he favors."

Scott smiled grimly at Hank's attempt at humor. "Logan is many things. Normal is not one of them."

"That, of coarse, is a matter of documented fact," Beast grinned back wearily. "However, this kind of a poison dangerous, if not lethal even to a man of Logan's unique abilities. In conjunction with the amount of lead they obviously put in him it could be enough to bring him down."

Scott closed his eyes tightly to fight down his rising emotions. He couldn't accept the idea that Logan was dead. The man always found a way to survive, always.

"Scott?" He could hear the concern in his wife's voice and as he opened his eyes he could see the unshed tears glistening in her eyes.

Grab a hold of yourself man, he berated himself silently. He was no good to the team like this. He turned back to Gambit. "Are you sure that you didn't here gunfire or something?"

Gambit Just shook his head. "Non, when ya' right on top of a one-t'ousand cc engine wit' de t'rottle wide open, its kinda' hard to here anyt'ing else."

"After the struggle, all the separate trails scatter, they double-over, make false trails, and in general make it impossible to track anything." Hank hung his head. "These guys are good. They didn't leave us anything to go on."

Silence hung in the air for a moment before Gambit finally spoke hesitantly. "Non, t'ey left us one good t'ing to go on."

Everyone listened in stunned silence while Gambit described his encounter with Mr. White that evening and then proceeded to relate a great deal of information about the man. Scott had to restrain himself from berating Gambit for not taking actions to restrain such an obviously dangerous man. Well, what was done was done. Right now they needed solutions and pointing fingers wasn't going to help them any in that regard.

Stunned silence met the end of Gambit's speech. "Gambit, do you think that you can locate this Mr. White?" Scott finally said.

"Oui," came the reply. "Wouldn't have mentioned it if I didn't t'ink I could."

"Good, let's get back to the mansion and regroup. We have work to do." Scott just hoped that they were going to be in time to help Logan.

Part 5

The North Adriatic Sea
1942

Logan shifted once again in a vain attempt to find a comfortable position. After a few moments of restless movement, he settled down, resigned to his continued discomfort. In the dim light that filtered in from a few cracks in the overhead, he could see that his teammates weren't faring much better than he. Vanhorn was absentmindedly stroking his gun while a grim scent, laced with the stench of sweat and dirt leaked from his body. The same scent was reflected in every other member of the team.

Logan heard a shuffling sound next to him and knew that it was Chancer. Logan could only shake his head as he watched the man sleep peacefully. Of all of them, Chancer could drop off into a peacefully slumber the easiest and quickest. The conditions didn't seem to matter either. Whether it was a bed, transport vehicle, or even a makeshift spot in the trenches, he could be out in less than a minute and often was. It was a talent that had gotten him into trouble several times with Griffith and Baker.

Logan leaned his head back against the cool metal wall, closed his eyes, and tried not to groan at the memory of his time with those two. Griffith hadn't seemed to have a single human trait and had drivenly as coldly as an unfeeling machine. Baker, on the other hand, had been a twisted little psychopath who seemed to feed on the pain and suffering of others. Logan had wondered idly a few times if there job had been to make their lifes such a living hell that they would view death with a degree of welcome.

The scenarios that they had been forced to run had been far from conforting as well. Most involved them being heavily outnumbered and poorly supplied as well. And in more than half of them, everyone had been killed before the objective had been completed. Even the scenerios that they had successfully completed had destroyed over half of the team. The message had been obvious to them all. Most, if not all, of the team was going to die.

The sound of footsteps above him pulled Logan out of his reverie. He heard the sounds of a few voices, muted somewhat by the foot of steel and would between them, going back in forth in rapid Sicilian dialect. The crew of the ship was made up of a group of Sicilians that had all imigrated to the States over ten years ago. They had been dug up for this mission and Logan was highly dubious of them. He didn't question their loyalty, their hatred of Mussolini was greater than his own, it was their competence that raised his eyebrow on occasion. They could speak their own dialect, but George spoke better Italion than they did. Logan shook his head as if to attempt to dislodge his worries. There was no point in worrying about something that he couldn't control.

Logan sensed movement off to his left which resolved itself into Hopps. He was standing now, but with a slight slump as the cargo area of the boat wasn't large enough to accomadate his tall frame. Logan bit back a quick smile. Hopps, Mclenn, and Chancer, the tallest three of them, had been hunched over the entire voyage. It was one of the few times in his life that Logan was grateful for the fact that he was short.

"Mathison, wake up Chancer," Hopps sounded like he was getting ready for one of his little pep-talks. "We need to reveiw our mission objectives."

Logan elbowed Chancer, who gave a small grunt and groggily opened his eyes. Once that Hopps was satisfied that he had everyone's attention he continued "Alright everyone. In a few more hours we will arrive at Monfalcone harbor. We're timed to arrive around nineteen-hundred hours, right when they will be closing down for the night. This is were we rely on the laziness of the average Italion soldier. They can't let our friends unload their shipment of lumber until the boat has been thoroughly searched. Of coarse, searching a boat like this will take a good hour or two. Most of them will be fairly eager to get back home for the night, so they will probably let us dock but not unload."

"That's what we're hoping fer anyway," Logan growled darkly.

Hopps paused for a second to pin him with a glare. "Yes, that's what we're hoping for. Then we just wait until twenty-four hundred hours and then slip out. Logan and Chancer will be on point, Vanhorn and Adams will bring up the rear."

Hopps gave them a look that said they had better listen to what he said next if nothing else. "We want a clean operation at this point. That means a zero body count. No guards disappear, no one gets suspicious." Hopps face then broke into one of his characteristic goofy grins. "You all know that we'll have plenty of opportunities to get our hands dirty later."

Logan snorted. That was an understatement if he ever heard one. They would be getting not only there hands but every other part of their body messy in this operation. Logan looked back up as Hopps continued. "Remember, the rendevoux location is the farmhouse that is aproximately three miles northwest of the city. Once we're all shoreside, we meet up there."

Logan tried not to show that the rheturic was getting on his nerves. They had been over this battle plan five times in the last two days. Every anomoly and contingency had already been taken into account. Every stradegy and technique had been discussed. In short, everything that you could talk about, they had talked about. Hopps, however, like every nervous and slightly underconfident leader, wanted to reasure himself with another recap. Logan had to admit, Hopps was an interesting choice for a field captain. One moment he would be riding them into the ground about not performing up to what he beleived they were capable of and the next moment he would throw his hands in the air in exasperation and say something about how he never wanted to be the field captain anyway and couldn't care less if their guts ended up decorating the fields.

Some of the others had questioned his ability as a field captain during their two months of training. Chancer secretly thought that he would have been the better choose and thought that no one knew what he thought. Vanhorn had struck sparks with him a few times as well, thought that was probably just because of Vanhorn's basic dislike of authority. Of course, Logan also thought, of all of them, he wouldn't have chosen another one of them to be the field captain. Hopps was the only one of them that had the true makings of a leader.

Logan's belief had been confirmed their second week in training. Some German Planes had broken through Allied defenses and had done a bombing raid over their campsite. Several men had been killed and Chancer had even been wounded. One sight had remained in Logan's mind above all others, however. While everyone else ran for cover, Hopps had merely stood, unruffled, in the middle of the field staring at the sky in defiance while the bombs exploded around him. In that moment, Logan had seen the markings of a true leader. One who would lead them, with himself at the forefront, down the very jaws of hell without flinching. It was then that Logan knew that they had picked the right man for the job.

The boat's sudden sway brought Logan's mind back to the present. He glanced around the cargo area again at the men who would probably die by his side in the next forty-eight hours. Their scents were hard, sharp, and determined. There was not even a hint of self-pity that his nose could detect. Logan glanced back down at his black military boots. They could all have been so much more if circumstances had just been different. If they hadn't screwed up and been sent on a suicide mission.

Logan closed his eyes and tried to get some rest. If only things had been different.

Darkness had already fallen by the time they reached Monfalcone harbor. There were still several people out and about. Logan's sensitive ears could pick out the sounds of indistinct chatter. He couldn't understand a word of it however.

"George', ya hear anything," Venuti whispered. George was the only one of them that understood and spoke Italian.

George held up his hand for silence as his brow knitted in concentration. After a moment, he let out a small frutrated sigh. "No, they're speaking the local dialect, Friuli or something. It's not close enough to Italian that I can make out what they're saying."

Hopps grunted but said nothing. They all knew that this was one of the more potentially disasterous points of the mission. A wrong move at this point could end the entire party right then and there. Thus, everyone was riding a little on edge.

The boat jarred as it brushed against the dock and then settled into place. There were footsteps, booted footsteps, heading towards the boat now. No one had to tell them who those footsteps belonged to. The steps finally came to a halt just by the side of the boat.

"Che nave e' questa'? Chi siete?" that was definately the voice of an officer in the military.

"Salve signori, cosa vi possiamo fare?" that was one of their Sicilian friends.

"Da dove venite? Cosa avete portato?"

"Beh, veniama dalla Sicilia.."

"Potrei indovinare quello dalla puzza. Cosa fate qua terroni?"

George suddenly winced and began chanting quietly, "Please, don't react, just ignore it, don't get mad, don't react, please don't call him a polentone..."

After what seemed like an eternity of silence the Sicilian finally replied, "Beh, abbiamo degli ordini. Siamo stati inpiegati di portare un muchio di legno qua a Monfalcone."

"Lasciami vedere quei ordini," came the reply.

Everyone looked expectantly at George. "They want to see his orders. They seem to be believing it so far," came the cautious reply.

Everyone tensed as they listened to the footsteps of one of the Sicilians taking the work orders to the officers. Those orders had been supplied by one of the more expensive contacts that the American government had with the the Mafia. He just hoped that all of the money that they paid for those false papers would be worth it. They were about to find out if they had been set up or if Mussolini had really begun to fall out of favor with the powers that be in Italy.

There were a few more moments of tense silence, then, finally, "Beh, stiamo per chiudere signori. Dovrete aspettare finche domani mattina di scaricare." That was followed by the sound of protesting Sicilian voices. George just slumped back in his seat and closed his eyes, visibly relaxed.

"They believed it," after a moment his eyes opened to give them a look of triumph. "They told our friends that they would have to wait until morning to unload, just as we planned. Right now they're arguing with the officials like any Sicilian would do so as not to look suspicious."

The tension seemed to evaporate out of the room. Logan could literally smell relief poring out of the other nine men. The plan, no matter how crazy it seemed, was working. The seeds of hope started grow a little inside each one of them. After all, they had made it through one critical point with no difficulties what-so-ever. Who was to say that the rest of the mission wouldn't go as smoothly. Maybe they would survive this suicide mission. Logan could almost see the wedding details form in Landen's mind as the man, for the first time, allowed himself to beleive that he would come back to his girl alive. Fate, however, had other plans in mind.

The Sicilians' protests were slowly fading, when one of them made a fatal error. "Non era cosi quando Io fece il mio servizio militare. Durante quei giorni, se un nave arrivaste anche dopo che fincantiere fu chiuso, avremmo dovuto cercarla lo stesso. Non avremmo supportare pigroni come tu. Avremmo..." The Sicilian cut off suddenly as he realized his mistake. George suddenly went ridged and a scent of fear and tension washed out from him.

George swore softly to himself. "We are in serious trouble."

"Why? What happened?" Hopps hissed.

George turned and looked at them, his eyes now filled with disbelief and terror. "He used tu form."

"What?!" that came from Venuti.

"It's the familiar form used between friends and family, Sicilians use it almost without thinking," George hurried to explain. "The thing is, Mussilini passed some crazy law that made it illegal to use anything but the respect form, voi. Its one of those laws that no one obeys unless they think they might get caught. But no one that has been living in Italy for the past four years would ever make the mistake of giving it to a soldier."

"Unless, they have been living outside of Italy while the law was in effect, and thus weren't use to it yet," Logan continued the thought as everything began to click. "And why would some one like that want to come up to Northern Italy on orders from the Italian government?"

"Exactly," George replied. He took a deep breath before saying, "Hopps, our cover is blown."

Hopps scent seemed to firm decisively. "Then we are going to carve an exit out of here." He turned to look at Logan and Chancer. "You two are still the point men. That means that you secure the door so the rest of us can get through. Once everyone is through, close up and follow in behind." He now stared at Landen and Mclenn. "You two will have to provide cover fire for us once we get on deck. Wait for Chancer and Mathison to fall in and then join up with us. If anyone gets seperated, remember the rendevous point."

Everyone nodded and began to prepare for the coming confrontation. Logan unharnessed his wrifle and took up position beside the door with Chancer. This whole operation was suddenly becoming a whole lot messier than any of them had expected. Logan settled down as he listened to the sounds of booted feet now covering the entire ship. The Sicilians were protesting agian, probably denying involvement with them as fast as their tongues could wag. The booted footsteps were coming closer now. He could smell the soldiers to whom they belonged. They were full of anticipation and bloodlust.They were almost at the hatch now. Logan glanced over at Chancer, who nodded in return.

In one quick motion, Logan threw open the cargo bay door, slamming it into the soldier that happened to be on the other side. In a flash, he and Chancer were through the door, both unleashing a spray of bullets. Several soldiers fell to the ground as the bullets tore thought their chests and heads. The remaining ones retreated back up the stairs while others still took cover behind the stacks of lumber that had been placed in the ship as part of its disguise.

Logan and Chancer both quickly took position behind lumber stacks as they continued to fire at the four or five remaining soldiers. Logan managed to spare a quick gesture to Hopps, signaling for them to go ahead and head for the deck. Hopps complied and soon the other eight, with Mclenn and Landen in the lead, were racing for the stairs, while he and Chancer provided cover fire.

There was a small explosion in front of him, sending wood chips flying past his face. One made a nasty gash above his right cheek. Logan shifted his grip on his gun so he could bring one hand to cover his face. The Italian soldiers were pinned, but they needed to get out of here before their enemies had time to regroup.

"Chancer!" Logan yelled over the din of gunfire. "Go, I'll cover, then close in!"

Chancer nodded and was off. Logan raised his gun to take a few more shots at the remaining soldiers, then he was off as well. Bullets zipped around him as he raced for the stair well. He felt a hot stab of pain as one of the shots grazed his arm. He didn't have to look to know that blood was already oozing from the gash. The stair were in front of him now and he just needed to make it a few more feet. A little pain wasn't going to stop him now.

On the deck he found Mclenn, Landen, and Chancer providing cover fire as the other six teammates managed to race off onto the docks. The bodies of their Sicilian allies littered the deck along with the bodies of German and Italian soldiers. He could hear more gunfire in the distance, and assumed that they were encountering resistance as well. Logan quickly joined the fray, taking out a soldier that had been aiming for Hopps head as he retreated. Logan heard more shots and turned to see another dozen soldiers in a dead run for the ship.

"Mclenn!" He called to the closest teammate. "We aren't going to be able to get out the way Hopps and the others got out!" Logan indicated the newly arriving troups with a gesture of his hand.

Mclenn nodded as he brought down another Italian. "Then we take the back door!" Mclenn took another couple of shots then made a running dive over the boat rail into the water. Landen only hesitated for a few seconds before following suite.

Logan looked over at Chancer, who was trying desperately to keep half a dozen soldiers pinned down on the fore-deck. "Let's move it Chancer!" he called out to the other man. Chancer took the hint and after one last burst from his gun, both men were running for the ship's rail. The enemy was really opening it up now as hot lead and death whirled around and past them.

They were only a few feet from the rail when the innevitable happened. Chancer was right in front of him, thus, Logan had a front-row view as three bullets simultanously struck his back and proceeded to tear out the front of his chest. Chancer stumbled, then fell to one knee, his blood foaming out of his own mouth. He looked down dumbly at his own ruined body, not quite comprehending that he was dead. His wrifle fell from his now numb fingers as his body finished slumping to the deck floor.

Logan didn't have the time to stay and mourn his team-mate's demise. With a running sprint, he dove over the edge of the rail and into the frigid waters below.

Logan padded quietly through the underbrush, making little if any noise. There wasn't any moon that night and the entire stretch of woodland was plunged into an almost impenetrable darkness. Logan continued to make his way along cautiously, knowing that at that moment there were more than a dozen men in close proximity that were searching for him. He could hear and smell enemy soldiers scouring the entire area. A couple had come fairly close to finding him a few times. He had stayed calm and, more importantly, still and thus, hadn't been detected, as of yet.

Logan crouched and held his position once again as he heard rustling sounds up in front of him. He tested the air to try to catch their scent, but unfortunately they were downwind of him and he couldn't really catch anything. Moving as quietly as he possibly could, Logan inched his way forward, slowly closing in on the sound. It was here, in the woods, that Logan truly felt in his element. He could sense the movement of then insects and animal life around him. He instinctively could feel his way through thick underbrush avoiding all of the dry leaves and twigs that would crack or snap, giving away his postion.

He heard the noise again, slightly off to his left this time, and moved into a position were he could catch the scent of his prey. He sniffed the air, straining his senses as far as he could to pick up every possible fragrance of the surrounding woods. An impish grin crossed his face as he recognized the two men that he had been tracking. Still moving with the silent ease of a predator, Logan moved forward into a small clearing to find Mclenn and Landen.

Landen wirled around with his wrifle raised as soon as he became aware of someone else in the clearing. Mclenn tensed but remained crouched on the ground.

"Easy easy, Landen. Its just me," Logan said soothingly.

Landen relaxed and lowered his gun as he recognized the intruder. The sweet smell of relief was coming off the man in waves. "Mathison, you made it. We though that you and Chancer... Well, you're here now, is Chancer with you?"

Logan shook his head sadly. "Chancer didn't make it off the boat."

From the ground were he was crouched, Mclenn swore softly. "Should have known it would have been Chancer who was the first to go. He always wanted to be first at everything else." Mclenn still hadn't made any move to rise and Logan was beginnning to wonder if the other man was injured.

"What happened to you Mclenn?"

Mclenn let out a soft sigh. "Stepped on a weak spot on a log, or something. It caved in and I can't get my foot free from it." Logan walked over to where the man was crouched to have a closer look. Mclenn's foot was jammed tightly in the crack of an old rotted log. It was going to take a few seconds to get it loose.

While Logan worked, Landen filled him in on what had happened to them in the past hour. After they had escaped from the ship they had quickly found each other again on the shore, just North of the city. Ever since then they had been dodging soldiers and trying to make their way to the rendevous point with Hopps and the others, which was pretty much what Logan had been doing as well. About ten minutes ago they had wandered into this clearing and Mclenn had made a wrong step that had led to his current predicament.

"Let's just hope that the others have fared a little bit better than we have," Logan grunted as he continued to work at pulling free Mclenn's foot. He almost had it, he just needed Mclenn to stay still for another couple of seconds.

"Do you think they made it?" Landen's scent and tone projected concern.

"We have to go on the assumption that they did. Otherwise, we're all that's left of the team. And I really don't want to take the citadel with just the three of us."

Fear entered Landen's scent at that prospect. "I don't even want to think about..."

Landen was interupted by the sounds of shuffling off to his left. This time Logan was in perfect position to catch there scent and nearly winced as his nose confirmed his fears. Turning to Landen he said, "Go quickly, me and Mclenn will catch up with you in a couple of minutes."

"But..."

"Go, now," Logan hissed.

Landen hesitated a few more seconds then began moving rapidly through the brush. In a few moments, he had disappearred from Logan's line of vision. With Landen gone, he hurriedly turned back to freeing Mclenn's trapped foot. He only needed a few more seconds.

"You go as well," Mclenn whispered. "There's no sense in both of us dying here."

"Just shut up and stay still for another five seconds," Logan growled in return. He could hear the soldiers slowly closing in on their position.

"Go!" Mclenn said a little bit more emphatically. When Logan didn't respond he grabbed the shorter man and shoved him away.

"What are you doing, Mclenn? I've almost got you loose."

"Go!" Mclenn repeated as he shoved at Logan again.

Logan was rapidly growing more frustrated and those soldiers were getting closer. "Mclenn, you're not leaving me any other choice here."

"Well, then get out of here before..." the rest of Mclenn's words were cut off as Logan's fist connected solidly with Mclenn's jaw. Mclenn fell back on the ground, slightly dazed. Logan immidiately went back to work on Mclenn's foot and in another three seconds had him free. Mclenn was still seeing stars, Logan threw the heavier man over his shoulders and took off in a dead run.

As they ran into the night Logan thought he heard Mclenn wisper, "Logan, I owe you for this."

Part 6

Denver, Colorado
Present

Mr. White slumbered peacefully, confident in his eighth floor penthouse appartment. It was not really his home, a man of his position could never afford to tie himself down in one place as a permenent base of operations. It did, however, have a security system to rival that of the white house. Motion sensors, heat detector, lazer sensors, each armed with a nasty little surprise for any would-be intruder, covered the entire building in a protective cocoon. This system was, in turn, complemented by one of the most highly trained platoon of professional soldiers that money could buy. It was the kind of lodgings where one could rest easy, knowing that he would never be disturbed by unforeseen circumstances.

"Time ta' wake up sleepin' beauty," White tensed both at the sound of the voice and feel of a cold metal barrel being pressed into his head above his right ear. White slowly opened his eyes to regard an odd gathering of men and women standing in a semi-circle around his bed. The light was dim, thus, he couldn't really make out much beyond their darkened silhouettes. There were three of them, four if you counted the one that was out of his line of vision but was making his presence known none-the-less with the continued pressure of the cool metal on his head.

"Who are you? What do you want?" he managed to say calmly. He had been in tough spots like this before and not showing panic always contributed somewhat to preventing complete disaster. His visitors had the definite edge right now. He would only be able to reclaim it for himself once again if he was able to at least but forth the demeanor of controlled calm.

The man standing directly in front of his bead chuckled darkly. "I don' t'ink dat you be de one ta' be askin' questions right now." It was probably White's imagination, but he could almost swear that he had seen a glimmer of red light in the other man's eyes while he spoke. "Ya' be a hard man ta' find Mr. White. I had ta' look up some of my ol' friends an' call in a bunch of favors ta' locate ya'."

"Look," White made a brief attempt to sit up and felt the pressure of the gun barrel increase on the side of his head. "If it's money you came for, the safe is behind the Rembrant in the hall study. There is aproximately eighty-five-thousand in..."

There was no mistaking the wicked red flare of energy from the strangers eyes this time. "I did't go ta da' trouble of bustin' into ya' little fortress here for a pitiful eighty-t'ousand."

"If that is not sufficient, then there is some exceptional jewelry in the top drawer of my dresser over there by the wall."

"Shutup and listen," came the booming reply from the man holding the gun to his head. "We didn't come here for money." A slow sick suspicion was beginning to wash through Mr. White as to who these people might be. That supision was confirmed when the figure at the foot of his bed stepped forward. A few rays of moonlight filtered through the skylight to catch and illuminate his features breifly.

It took every ounce of self-control that White possessed to prevent his face from giving off any expression other than ignorant confusion. He recognized this man. It was Logan's companion from the bar. The fact that he had been able to track him here could only mean that Logan had not been bluffing when he claimed that this man knew him. But, if this man knew him, that would mean... White cut off the thought savagely before it could fully form. "Who are you?" he tried his best to make his voice sound confused.

The demon-eyed man was ignoring him however as he turned back towards the female figure in the shadows. "Well, what's de verdict?"

The figure responded in a low sultry voice tinged with an english accent. "He recognized you even though he is to hide the fact. He knows you as the man that was at the bar with Logan, the night of Logan's capture." The voice paused before continuing in a more grim tone, "He is our man."

White knew that his eyes must have been bulging out of his head. The woman had known what he was thinking! He was going to have to keep his thoughts in control or he could quickly find himself in a very compromising situation.

The fourth figure, which had been silent until this moment, finally spoke. "Two nights ago you accosted one of our teammates." The voice was cold and hard, not unlike that of an overzelous principal that had just caught some boys smoking in the bathroom. "We want to know were he is now, what your interests in him are, and what the address of the closest hospital is, because you will need it if anything has happened to Logan."

Mr. White just stared at them with his mouth gaping freely now. His mind was desperately racing to catch up. At the same time, he was also trying to keep his mind as clear as possible as the shadowy woman could apparently read his thoughts. His thoughts continued to fly in a disorganized jumble as tried to decide what to do next.

Demon eyes was still staring at him with that grin. It was obvious that he was thouroughly enjoying this confrontation, almost as if it were some sort of payback. "Tell us were our short little friend be an' meebee ya' don' loose too many vital organs."

Considering the given set of circumstances, White did the most rational thing. He lied. "I don't know where he is."

Demon eyes' grin slowly faded into a grim expression. "Don' even need de resident telepat' ta' tell me t'at one ain't true." His strange red on black eyes were now practically glowing with an unearthly power. He nodded to the man standing behind White.

White felt the pressure of the gun muzzle leave his head for a brief moment before a large strong hand siezed him firmly around the neck. White was then dragged unceremoniously to the center of his bedroom. The large black man that now held him in his iron grip drew a wicked looking sidearm and shoved it right against his nose. "Listen," the man boomed, " we're only going to ask nicely one more time. Then we are going to let that lady over there run loose in your head until we find what we want. Is that understood?"

White nodded his head as much as possible. The other three figures had all begun to gather around him once again. His mind was still racing desperately. Then, inspiration hit him. He let his thoughts wonder to the computer console next to his desk.

"He's thinking about something on the computer," the woman declared.

The man that sounded like a principal stepped towards him, giving Mr. White his first clear view of the man. Once again, he bit down his surprise at the sight. He looked normal enough, except for a large metal visor that he wore over his eyes. What kind of people had he gotten himself invoved with this time?

"What's on the computer?" it was a demand more than a question.

With the gun pressing harder and harder against his nose, the incentive to talk was growing. "It's a local database. It has files of my transactions, overhead cost, etc."

"Sounds like a good place ta' start lookin', homme," in two quick strides, demon eyes was seated at the console, booting up the computer. After a few seconds he turned around to pin him with a glare from those unholy eyes of his. "The password. Now."

Those glowing red eyes were trying to dig holes through his head again and, strangely enough, White suddenly felt and incredibly strong desire to tell this man anything that he wanted to know. With raw discipline he crushed the urge down and glared back at those demon eyes defiantly. Those eyes studied him briefly, then seemed to reach a decision, though not without some level of dissappointment. "Scan 'im."

"I don't need to," the shadowy woman replied in a wrather clipped tone. "He is projecting the password loud enough that I could hear it if I was asleep." She stepped over to the computer and the soft light from the humming monitor afforded him his first look at her. White nearly did a double-take. The voice had had a definate English precision and inflection to it, but this woman was obviously oreintal. More-over, her hair was a deep shade of purple and she had a large red tattoo that passed over her left eye.

"I really t'ink we should scan him before we do anyt'ing," demon eyes was saying.

"If we can get into his system there is no need to," the visored man replied. "We can simply download the nessassary files via our computer uplink."

"Still would be a better idea ta' scan t'e guys brain real quick."

The Visored man met demon eyes stare without even flinching. "We don't go violating other people's minds when there is a viable alternative." There was no doubt to White as to who commanded this little group.

The two men glared at each other for a few more seconds before demon eyes finally backed down. After he moved away from the computer, the oriental/British woman placed herself in front of the keyboard and typed in the eight letter password.

White tried to not let his relief enter his mind too much as his sensitive ears caught the quiet whir of five force beam projectors locking on their targets. Demon eyes, however, must have heard the noise that no one should have even known about.

"Down!" The scene seemed to go into slow motion as he made a diving tackle at the visored man and the woman. Before either one could even fully register his cry they both found themselves flat on their backs as twin bolts of energy sizzled above their heads.

The black man, however, was not as fortunate. A beam of energy lanced into his head at the base of his skull. With a barely audible grunt, the man fell to one knee and released his grip around White's neck. The man shound have been dead now, but this was all the invitation that White needed. His hand whipped out like a snake to knock the gun out of the man's hand. His knee flashed out and connected solidly with the man's ribs.

"Bishop!" the visored man cried as he rose to his feet.

Time had returned to normal now and demon eyes and his two companions were already up and running in his direction agian. White wasted no time. In one fluid movement he disengaged himself from the black man and dove over his bed just as a beam of red energy cut a swath through his pillows. The defensive force beam projectors launched a second volley, causing his attackers to scatter once again.

White cursed silently to himself as he crawled across the floor of his penthouse, carefully keeping his bed between him and his assailents. First Logan and now this. He vowed that from this point on he was only dealing with people that actually died when you did something lethal to them. After what seemed like an eternity, White finally reached his dresser. Frantically, he reached out and yanked open the bottom drawer. Inside was contained a small high-powered handgun and one of his communications microphones.

He would have to move fast now. He could already sense the three remaining figures regrouping and redirecting their attacts at the force beam projectors. Hopefully all the money he invested in those things would actually pay off. All they had to do was buy him a couple of minutes.

White flicked on the receiver, "All units! Ship the books! Ship the books!" The sound of a small explosion made him whip his head back around in time to see one of the force beam projectors go up in smoke and flame. Whoever these people were, they were good. Their attacks were coordinated and organized. Now there were only four force beams left. He couldn't waste anymore time if he wanted to get out of this one alive.

White flipped off the safety on his hand gun as he moved to a crouched position. After waiting for a few moment, an opportunity presented itself. The demon-eyed stranger was moving towards the large black man, who was still on the gound. The other two intruders were concentrating completely on disabling the remaining force beems. Without another moment of hesitation, White was up and running for the double glass doors that led to the balcony. The visored man noticed him as he was fleeing and began to move to intercept him. White raised his gun and fired off four shots, which sent the visored man diving to the ground. A beam of energy lanced out of the man's visor and struck the glass doors directly over White's head, shattering them. White simply ducked his head, covering it with both hands and door into the broken remains of the door.

The already damaged doors collapsed under his sudden impact, allowing him to spill out onto the balcony. The balcony was still wet from recent rains, something he hadn't counted on, thus his body slid across the slick marble until he slammed forcefully against the balcony wall. The breath was knocked of of him, shards of glass were digging into his arms and legs, but fortunately he had managed to keep his head protected. All aspects considered, this was not one of his better days.

The sound of more explosions from inside his penthouse alerted him that another force beam projector had been destroyed. Only three remained now. White managed to pull himself back to his feet desperately hoping that they would be enough. White checked his watch quickly. It had been just under a minute since he had issued the evacuation order, and the extraction unit's best time thus far was two minutes and twenty-five seconds. White silently hoped that tonight they would set a new record.

Metal screamed and protested as another force beam met a firery demise. These intruders were removing them more quickly now. White seriously doubted that he had another minute and twenty-five seconds. He turned from the balcony wall and ran to the fire-escape and immidiately began to climb. He had only made it one story when he heard the last two force beam projectors explode almost simultaneusly. A second later he heard running footsteps as his pursuers gave chase once again.

"Up there!" White heard one of them call as they arrived on the balcony. White didn't even bother looking back. He just kept moving as fast as his legs would carry him. Once again he cursed himself for underestimating his enemy. This time it could prove more costly than it every had before. He should have known that there was more to this Operation Falconmount then he had been led to believe.

White's head whipped around as the sound of helicopter blades signalled his salvation. He glanced down at his watch, which indicated that only an additional fifty-eight seconds had passed. White smiled grimly. They had chosen a good night to set a new record.

White glanced briefly at his pursuers to better gage their distance from him. The closest one was demon eyes and he was closing fast, his red eyes blazing. If White was not who he was, he would have found those eyes intimidating. He turned bact to see a ladder extend from the helicopter as it approached the building. White squeezed of the remaining round at demon eyes to buy him some more time, then discarded the weapon. The ladder was close enough to the building for an attempt. It was now or never.

He stepped onto the railing and lauched himself at the ladder, just as demon eyes reached his landing. White felt a surge of triumph as his fingers closed around the bottom rung. With its cargo now collected, the helicopter wasted no time what-so-ever in making its exit. As they flew away from the building White's eyes met briefly with the red and black ones of his pursuer. White allowed a smug smile to cross his face and mouthed the words, I win, as he disappeared into the night.

Betsy Braddock was trying her best to keep her temper in check as she tended to the injuried of a teammate who wanted no medical attention and was thus being less than cooperative. "Bishop, hold still so I can make sure that you haven't sustained a concussion."

"I assure you that I am fine, Psylocke," came the unhappy reply. "I was able to absorb off most of the energy from the force beam, so it did no serious damage."

"Listen, Bishop, if it had been anyone else, they probably would be dead by now, with their brains decorating the interior of this penthouse. But even with your mutant ability, this is still a serious wound and needs to be dealt with properly."

She could tell that Bishop was about to protest further when Gambit cut in from where he was seated in front of the computer. "Relax Bets, de pup's head be t'ick enough an' I can understand his desire for people not ta' go messin' wit' his head when he don't want t'em ta'."

Betsy scowled at Gambit's stab at her univited probe into his head. The two of them had never been what you could call best of friends, but ever since that particular incident, he had shown open animosity despite her attempts at friendship. She had even admitted to him that what she had done had probably been wrong. Why couldn't he just get over it?

Gambit's word, however, did have a positive effect on Bishop at least. The man actually began cooperating, probably in an attempt to show that he was nothing like Gambit. Betsy caught Gambit's eye quickly and he flashed her a quick grin. Betsy just shook her head. The man took a perverse pleasure in finding and pushing people's buttons. She had to admit, though, he was good at it.

Cyclops returned back into the room after making a sweep of the hall. He turned to Gambit who was taking a deep pull from a lighted cigarette. "Have you found anything?"

Gambit shook his head as he snuffed the cigarette. "Non, de password t'at he gave us was some kinda' security failsafe. It was supposed ta' look like it was de real t'ing while it activated some secret security systems t'en deleted all de files."

Psylocke watched as Cyclops deflated a little at the news. "And we fell for it."

"Tol' ya' t'at we should have done a mind scan," Gambit's voice was filled with an "I told you so" tone that grated on Betsy's nerves.

"What we should have done," Betsy responded acidly, "was keep quiet about what our powers were. You tipped our hand by letting this Mr. White know that I was a telepath. You of all people should know better than that."

She saw Gambit's features darken as his eyes blazed dangerously. Cyclops quickly moved to stop an arguement. "Listen people, pointing fingers and assigning blame isn't going to get us anywhere. Let's concentrate on the the answer now instead of the problem." After a tense moment of silence Cyclops continued. "Gambit, do you think that you could locate this Mr. White, or one of his associates again?"

Gambit's eyes still blazed, but he was took the hint to change the subject. "Non, by now White's gone underground ta' one of his safehouses."

"How is that different from what he had here?" Cyclops asked curiously.

"Here, he wanted ta' be found, by employers dat is," Gambit explained. "While he was here he was in contact wit' a lot o' different people who knew how to contact and find him if t'ey wanted him ta' do a job. Now, if he follows his standard motifs, he'll break contact wit' everyone and hide out till de heat dies down."

"And how long is that?"

"'Bout six mont's,"

Cyclops grunted in frustration at the response and began pacing the room once again. It was't necessary for any of them to say that they couldn't afford to wait six months. Betsy's mind raced desperately, trying to remember all of the impressions that she had gathered from the man's mind that might have been some sort of an indication of Logan's current location.

"Cyclops," as she spoke everyone in the room focased on her, "there may be one other option available to us. Just before White made his escape onto the Helicopter I sensed something from him. Just a phrased actuall, but I believe that it was in conjunction with Logan. It was something called, Operation Falconmount."

She felt Bishop stiffen as the words left her mouth. "Operation Falconmount, are you certain Psylocke?" He was staring at her intently now.

"What be t'is operation Falconmount?" Gambit queried.

"It was, will be a government funded project to create supersoldiers as a line of defense against mutants." Bishop looked somewhat bewildered as he explained. "In my time the project failed as it was destroyed by the Eastern Mutant Coalition. The thing that I don't understand, is that the project shouldn't exist for another twenty to twenty-five years."

"What else do you know about this Operation Falconmount?" Cyclops was worried now and trying to hide it. It was something that you couldn't hide from a telepath however.

"Not much I'm afraid. Most information on the project was destroyed."

An uneasy silence rested over the settled over the room before Gambit finally broke it. "Well, if it be a government project, t'ere's only one place we can go ta' get de info t'at we want."

[next part]

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