2012-09-27 Bombs, Blood, and Bruises

Once Bethany left, Patch went to work: a few words murmured to one of the dice-playing jokers conscripted into his crew found their way to his drug dealing buddy, who passed them on to his boss, and so on, down the criminal ladder until the message reached Piskunov himself.

Five days later, the meeting was set: Friday, midnight, at an office complex that the couple has a stake in, just the four of them. Patch made sure to send word to Bethany by way of a high-priced courier service as soon as things were settled, rather than send some Lowtown criminal to deliver the message.

About an hour before the meeting, he's banging on Bethany's hotel room door, dressed for the occasion in slacks, a tanktop and a leather jacket. No reason to keep the insane criminals waiting.

The girl who answers the door looks - at first glance - nothing like the woman who came to the Princess. She looks as though she's barely out of high school, hair scraped back in a ponytail, no makeup, faded black hoodie and jeans, worn Doc Martins laced up to just below her knee.

"Are we taking my car?" she asks, stepping out of the luxurious hotel room and closing the door behind her. She's probably armed, there's definitely a knife slid into one boot, and there's a slight bulkiness to her torso that suggests she's wearing a high-quality armoured vest.

Patch's brow quirks a little when the door opens, but one gentle sniff is enough to allay whatever suspicions the dressed down Bethany might have engendered. He, too, brought a knife; it's concealed under his leather jacket. Once the door shuts, he slides his hands into his pockets and leads the way to the elevators. "Safer to," he replies with a small nod. "Wouldn't want 'em wonderin' why we're showin' up separate, anyway."

"Car's downstairs." Bethany seems slightly anxious but mostly tired, as though days of waiting have worn on her more than hard work. There's tension in her that was absent when she came to the Princess.

The driver waiting at the car, neatly outfitted in a classic uniform, is a small Asian woman in her middle years. She looks absolutely unassuming but there's a sharp light in her eyes and an edge to her grin when she winks at Logan. Ling McPherson. Of course she's not letting her protege walk into something without backup. There's probably a rocket launcher in the trunk.

Ling holds the door as though she were simply another agent, not acknowledging Bethany beyond a brief nod. The Bentley is venerable but spotless and comfortable inside. It's a smooth ride all the way to the office complex.

Logan, on the other hand, seems at ease. Madripoor is not his home, per se, but it's certainly his turf; despite the dangers lurking around the island's every corner, he is comfortable here.

Cruising across the island in a Bentley on someone else's dime certainly doesn't hurt, either.

When it's finally time - when the car is pulling into the complex's parking lot - he gives Beth a long look to make sure she's ready, then gives her a nod, climbs out and starts heading for the complex doors. "Shouldn't be long," he offers to Ling as he passes by her door. "I got a way with people like this; trust me."

"You'd better have," Ling says dryly. That she trusts him - enough - goes without saying. There's the scrape of a lighter followed by a whiff of tobacco smoke from the open window of the car.

"You'd think I'd be the one smoking and drinking, always getting calls from handsome young men," Bethany says, keeping pace with Logan. "I can't wait to be as young as she is." Her tone is mildly amused. She has a long stride, her ponytail whisks between her shoulder blades as she walks, her thumbs are hooked in her pockets. She looks calm enough but she's taking everything in. When they get to the doors, she lets Logan take the lead.

The double doors out front lead into a lobby which splits off into a number of hallways; some lead to conference rooms, others to rows of private offices. There are two elevators off to the right, between two of the halls.

"You want, I can help you with the first two; when we're done here; got these fancy cigars the other day," he dryly offers after stepping inside. He pauses inside the doorway, scans the hallways, and then settles on one and leads the way down it. There are just a few double doors lining the walls - conference rooms, more than likely. Logan seems to be headed all the way to the one on the end.

"First two's all I'm interested in," Bethany says, laughing quietly. "When we're done here, I'll take you up on that for sure."

In the back of her head, she's counting potential exits, sizing up the window thickness where she can see glass, guessing at how much it would take to kick through this door or that one. She's eager now, not anxious, trying not to bounce as she walks. This part, she can handle far better than waiting.

Logan pushes through the doors at the end of the hall; they lead into a dim conference room that's mostly dominated by a great, wooden table surrounded by cheap office chairs. A few doors line the walls opposite the entrance, presumably leading to other offices, or perhaps private bathrooms, or maybe even supply closets. The Piskunovs are seated on the other side, alone; after giving them a small nod of acknowledgement, he steps aside to let Bethany take a seat across from the spouses.

The room looks fairly harmless. There's nothing immediately out of place. But Beth's pace slows as she approaches the table. She's reaching for the back of the nearest chair to pull it out when she pauses. Somewhere, under the floor, something makes the very slightest sound. A tiny click that almost anyone would miss. Beth inhales sharply, just a little, and her entire body tenses.

"Glad we could--"

That soft, muffled click may as well be a gunshot; Logan snaps his head towards Beth when he catches it, his one eye momentarily wide with shock before the surprise gives way to weary acceptance.

"Bomb!" he growls as he turns and hurls himself in Beth's direction, seemingly intent on tackling her out of the room, to the ground, in the hopes of taking the brunt of the blast. His three hundred pound frame complicates things a little, but he's willing to gamble on her agreeing that bruises are better than point blank bomb blasts.

"Motherf--"

Bethany not only agrees, but as she sees Logan diving at her, she gets an arm around his neck and adds her powerful kick-off to their momentum. She pulls her knees up and curls in on herself. She doesn't question, she knows her own vulnerability and isn't going to shun shelter when it's offered.

The bomb is an ugly one. What it lacks in strength, it makes up in shrapnel, so one has to wonder if it were meant to kill or maim. Through the blank rush in the ears that follows the blast, the faint sound of doors slamming open and shotguns being racked can be heard. A man is shouting somewhere in panic and fury.

The landing is rough; Logan tries to make it as easy as he can for her, but there's only so much he can do when trying to negotiate three hundred pounds of muscle and metal and--well, Beth.

"You good?" he rasps when the dust settles and it's time to start picking himself up. He can make out each and every one of those shotguns as they're cocked, even if he's having a hard time pin-pointing their holders through the miasma of pulverized drywall and chemical smoke lingering in the air. "Gotta move," he adds--even as he takes his sweet time getting back to his feet.

Might have something to do with all the jagged metal studding his back; kill or maim, whatever the bomb's intention, it's /definitely/ taken the spring out of Logan's step. Most of his shirt and jacket are gone, leaving his knife to dangle out from what's left of his inside pocket.

"Moving." That's all Beth says. The knife from her boot buries in the throat of a man standing over her, she kicks the feet out from under his companion.

They obviously weren't expecting live game because she's on her feet with a shotgun - taken from the man drowning in his own blood - before anyone thinks to actually shoot her. She's got no such hesitation and unloads both barrels at the men standing on the other side of where Logan's getting up. They do find some speed when it comes to getting out of the way.

Back in the room, there's gunfire, and no bullets coming out the door. That's just not right. The smoke hasn't cleared yet to see what's going on.

"Cover me," Logan spits out when he's upright. A hundred little rivers of blood gush down his back, and spurts of the stuff - along with a couple pieces of shrapnel that must not have lodged themselves in that well - go flying when he sets off down the hallway. He doesn't run, exactly, but he still makes it there a good deal quicker than either of the men trying to avoid Bethany's wrath anticipated; before they know it, he's turning into the office one of them retreated into.

Several moments and one mercifully clipped cry of agony later, Logan shoves the poor guy - complete with a knife wedged so deeply into his back that it doesn't wobble when he's moved - across the hall to get tangled up with his buddy, then takes a deep breath, turns out of the office and plunges into the smoky conference room.

Bethany kicks the man whose knee she broke - she has a habit of doing that one - in the head and follows Logan into the smoke. There's a gaping hole in the floor and the smoke thins a few feet into the room to reveal the aftermath of a gun fight. Mrs. Piskunov is face down on the table, or she would be if she had a face left. Messy. Piskunov himself is screaming, in Russian, into the face of one of his thugs who's being held up by two others.

"Who didn't see -that- coming," Bethany mutters as she comes up behind Logan.

Once he's through the veil of smoke, Logan takes a moment to assess things, gently clucking his tongue when he gets visual confirmation that Mrs. Piskunov is no more.

"Dunno," he growls as he sets his eye on Piskunov. Gesturing between the two parties of thugs, he raises his voice to make sure he can hear him as he adds, "But I reckon we're about done here--whaddya think?" Turning his raw, bleeding back to the Russian, he looks to Bethany and continues, "Looks to me like he's havin' a little problem with the help; might be best to let 'em sort it out between themselves," his tone lapsing into something a little more casual.

"Seems like the meeting's gonna have to wait--unless someone can think'a some reason to stay."

"I'd shoot him but he's having a bad enough day." Bethany backs up slowly. "Let's see if he wants to renegotiate later." She looks Logan over, worried. "You look like shit. How about that drink? Or, you know, a doctor. Whatever floats your boat." She'd like to get out of here before they decide she's the cause of all this.

Logan peers over his shoulder to give the quartet a good, hard look at Bethany's suggestion. Shrugging, he starts walking out - at a far slower, more awkward pace than the brisk near-run of earlier - and lowly rasps, "Your call, but if they cap 'im..."

He pauses and squints back at Piskunov again.

"Eh," he decides, looking forward. "Guess we can cross that bridge later." lets out a slow, ragged breath that's punctuate by the quiet *tink!* of a flechette slipping from his back and hitting the ground.

"Drink's fine; just need a little time t' catch my breath," he quietly adds.

"I'll take your word on it." Bethany tries not to breathe too deeply. It's not just the smoke, it's her ribs. The man is -heavy-. She pats Logan on a relatively unwounded part of his arm and nods at the door. "Come on. Ling's gonna be pissed she missed the fun."