His phone buzzes. Graves will be demanding an update. Logan silences the phone, letting her stew.
She’s been useful these past few years. Putting him in places and positions to legally carry out the work he loves. The work that he was made to do. Logan can begrudgingly admit that he needs her. That she does, indeed, hold the leash. But sometimes Graves forgets that the leash is attached to a dog that’s bigger and has sharper teeth than her.
He stands in the center of the room one last time, absorbing the lingering presence of his prey. The woman is merely collateral damage. But her companion? Logan can feel it in his bones. This is someone worth hunting. Someone who might actually present a challenge.
A cold smile crosses his face. The prospect of worthy prey makes the blood in his veins sing. It’s the only time it does.
The phone buzzes again.
He ignores it again.
Logan leaves the room and makes his way to the motel’s office. He enters and begins to catalog every detail with clinical precision. The acrid smell of melted plastic and scorched coffee grounds hangs in the air. The fire had clearly started at the coffee maker.
This piques Logan’s interest.
The motel manager, a balding man with yellowed fingers and a stained shirt, sits behind the reception desk. "We're closed for repairs. Come back next week.” He doesn’t look up from his phone.
"I need to see your security footage," Logan says.
The manager's eyes narrow. "You a cop?" His gaze flicks over Logan's massive frame, dressed simply in jeans and a Henley, his weapon concealed at the small of his back. "You don't look like law."
"I need the footage,” Logan says simply. No emotion. No further explanation.
“Fuck off.”
Logan loves it when they make it easy. His lips curl into a smile that does reach his eyes, genuine pleasure at the coming pain.
With deliberate slowness, Logan pulls his gun from its holster. He gently places it on the counter, barrel pointing at the manager, and leaves his hand resting casually beside it.
The manager's eyes fix on the weapon. His throat works as he swallows. "What are you doing?"
"I want to see the footage." Logan's voice remains conversational, as if discussing the weather.
"You can't do that." The man's voice cracks.
"Do what?" Logan shrugs, enjoying the game.
"I have rights.”
Logan doesn’t move. Doesn’t need to. If anything, he’s quieter. "Do you? If I make you eat a bullet from that gun, what right is going to stop me?"
“There are security cameras all over.”
“Yes. I know. And I want to see them.”
“You’ll go to jail." His hands are shaking.
“Maybe. But you’ll be dead. And do you think anyone will care?”
"You can't just kill me." The manager's voice has shrunk to a whisper.
Logan shakes his head slowly. He’s disappointed that the man isn’t getting it. "That’s what I’m trying to make you see. Yes. I can. Right here. Right now. And nothing can stop me.” Logan looks the man up and down. “You don’t look likewhatever spawned you cared about you. If anything took pity and fucked you, I doubt you were capable of keeping her or treating her right. If you spawned a child, they don’t want anything to do with someone like you. You’ve lived every second of your worthless life wasting it. I can just kill you. And you know who will care?” Logan leans in until they're inches apart, the manager's face now beaded with sweat. "Absolutely no one."
The manager's pupils dilate. Logan can see they’re filled with fear but starting to turn into something even more satisfying. A sharp, jagged self-loathing.
The manager’s Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. "System's in the back," he mumbles, his body deflating to the shape of a question mark.
Logan makes his way to the back without casting another glance at the manager. He finds a dusty monitor sitting atop a cluttered, stained desk, connected to an outdated security system.
