Chapter 116 : Where They Took Them
Westchester County Airspace, Blackbird – Logan's POV
The jet stayed quiet after we left Xavier's office.
Not peaceful quiet.
Operational quiet.
Different thing entirely.
The Blackbird always felt strange at night. Too dark inside unless somebody deliberately turned the cabin lights up. Reinforced black walls swallowing reflections. Low engine vibration running through the floor beneath my boots. The whole aircraft built like somebody expected missiles more often than passengers.
Tonight it fit the mood too well.
I sat across from Alex in the forward operations section while the Blackbird cut through cloud cover southbound toward New York airspace.
He hadn't looked out the window once since takeoff.
Hadn't asked questions either.
Didn't need to.
Three screens glowed in front of him, casting pale light across sharp angles and exhausted eyes. Traffic cameras. Transit grids. Shipping manifests. Police scanner intercepts. Half a dozen information streams shifting faster than most trained analysts could track without getting lost in the noise.
Alex moved through them without hesitation.
No wasted motion.
No pauses to think dramatically.
Just constant processing.
Finger movements precise. Eyes flicking between screens with disturbing speed. Small adjustments. Cross-references. Route eliminations.
I'd seen intelligence officers work before.
Military analysts.
Black ops handlers.
This felt closer to that than it did to somebody hunting friends who got kidnapped a couple hours earlier.
And that bothered me.
Not because he was calm.
Because he wasn't.
The tension still clung to him.
Not visible in obvious ways. Most people probably would've missed it.
But every now and then his breathing shifted slightly when something crossed one of the monitors. Tiny changes in posture. Jaw tightening. Muscles locking for half a second before settling again.
I'd seen men hold themselves together like that before.
The kid wasn't recovering.
He was narrowing.
Big difference.
A satellite map rotated slowly across one screen while another filled with traffic camera captures pulled from industrial districts outside the city.
Alex stopped moving for exactly two seconds.
Long enough to matter.
"There," he said quietly.
I leaned forward slightly.
One grainy traffic still showed two black transport trucks entering an abandoned industrial corridor north of the river roughly seventy minutes earlier.
No exit footage.
No municipal tracking after that point.
Alex zoomed in.
Old slaughterhouse district.
Closed decades ago.
Most of the complex was supposed to be condemned.
"Jesus," I muttered.
Alex didn't react.
His eyes stayed fixed on the layout while another window opened automatically beside it. Utility usage spikes. Intermittent generator activity. Fuel deliveries routed through shell companies.
Temporary occupation.
Recent.
Organized.
"Purifiers?" I asked.
"Yes."
No hesitation.
"You sure?"
"Yes."
The certainty in his voice wasn't arrogance.
It was calculation already finished.
He expanded another screen. Security subcontractor payroll records. Stolen industrial generators flagged three states over. Burn phones connecting briefly through nearby towers before going dark again.
The pieces fit too cleanly.
"How long you been doing this?" I asked.
Alex's fingers paused briefly above the keyboard.
"Doing what?"
"This."
He finally looked up at me.
Not confused.
Just distant.
"Finding people."
A beat passed.
"Usually I'm making sure people can't find who I don't want them to find."
Then his attention returned to the screens immediately, like the distinction didn't matter.
Didn't elaborate.
Didn't seem interested in elaborating.
The engines hummed louder as the Blackbird adjusted altitude.
Outside the windows, the world was nothing but darkness and scattered city lights far below.
Inside the cabin, Alex looked less like somebody chasing abducted civilians and more like an asset moving toward mission completion.
That comparison sat wrong in my head immediately.
Because Weapon X made men like that.
People who stopped functioning emotionally under pressure and started functioning operationally instead.
Normally you could spot the conditioning.
Military cadence.
Behavioral tells.
Compartmentalization habits.
Alex didn't fit cleanly into any of it.
That was the problem.
He looked self-directed.
Like nobody had built this version of him.
Like pressure and violence had simply carved away everything unnecessary until this was what remained.
The screens shifted again.
Alex isolated the slaughterhouse complex and began mapping likely patrol routes based on thermal inconsistencies and generator placement.
No dramatic speeches.
No visible anger.
Just methodical preparation.
That scared me more than the rage downstairs.
Because rage burns hot.
This kind of cold lasts.
"You ever run infiltration work before?" I asked casually.
"No."
Bullshit.
Maybe not officially.
But nobody moved through surveillance systems like this without experience somewhere.
Alex opened another feed.
Interior thermal sweep hacked from a nearby municipal drone network.
The slaughterhouse appeared in pale outlines and shifting heat signatures.
Multiple armed patrols.
Generator hubs.
Holding areas.
And lower in the structure—
Clustered heat readings.
Too many packed too close together.
Mutants.
Still alive.
I smelled the shift in Alex immediately.
Not relief.
Focus tightening.
His jaw flexed once.
Then settled again.
"How many?" I asked.
"Minimum fourteen."
"You recognize any?"
"Not visually."
The answer came too fast.
He was already planning routes.
Entry points.
Response times.
Kill zones.
I watched his eyes track across the layout with machine-like precision.
No emotional hesitation attached to any of it.
Just movement probabilities and threat assessment.
"You sleep at all tonight?" I asked.
"No."
"You should."
"No."
Still no emotion.
Just fact.
I leaned back slightly in my seat, studying him more carefully.
The kid looked exhausted now that I had time to really see him. Not physically. Something underneath that. Structural fatigue. Like parts of him were staying upright purely because collapse had been postponed for operational reasons.
I knew that state.
Seen soldiers hold themselves together through missions they had no business still functioning during.
Usually ended ugly afterward.
If afterward ever came.
"You keep running this hard," I said quietly, "eventually your body decides for you."
Alex didn't look up from the screens.
"Not tonight."
No hesitation.
No uncertainty.
The answer landed with enough finality that I let the conversation die there.
Because he meant it.
And because part of me was starting to understand something uncomfortable:
The kid had already accepted the possibility he might not walk away from this.
Not suicidal.
Worse.
Committed.
The Blackbird descended lower through cloud cover.
The slaughterhouse district appeared beneath us gradually—dead industrial sprawl wrapped in darkness and rust. Massive concrete structures. Corroded smokestacks. Empty loading yards flooded silver under moonlight.
Even from the air the place felt wrong.
Built for death long before the Purifiers moved in.
Alex shut down the screens immediately.
Every trace wiped clean in seconds.
He stood smoothly.
"All external systems dark in thirty seconds," he said. "Backup generators stay online after the switch. That creates a ninety-two second patrol disruption."
"You already inside their network?"
"Yes."
Again:
not bragging.
Just information.
The jet settled lower behind a ridgeline two miles from the facility.
No lights.
No sound except engines winding down.
The rear ramp opened into freezing night air.
And the smell hit me immediately.
Old blood soaked into concrete decades deep.
Industrial chemicals.
Rot.
Oil.
Fresh sweat.
Fear.
And underneath all of it—
Mutants.
Alive.
Scared.
Drugged.
Alex smelled it too.
His entire posture changed instantly.
Not emotional reaction.
Transition.
Like somebody flipping operational modes internally.
Every loose edge disappeared.
Movement tightened.
Breathing slowed further.
His eyes tracked the terrain once and started cataloguing everything automatically.
Sightlines.
Elevation.
Approach vectors.
Security coverage.
Jesus Christ.
We moved through dead brush overlooking the complex while floodlights swept slowly across cracked loading yards below.
The slaughterhouse sprawled wider than expected. Multiple interconnected buildings. Rusted conveyors hanging overhead like skeletal remains. Reinforced side structures retrofitted with newer security systems that didn't belong there originally.
Purifiers moved through patrol rotations carrying military-grade weapons.
Too organized for random extremists.
Alex crouched beside a collapsed concrete barrier overlooking the outer perimeter.
One hand touched the ground briefly.
Stabilizing.
Centering.
Or maybe just checking vibration patterns.
Hard to tell.
One of the patrol lights swept slowly across the outer yard below us before drifting away again.
Nobody spoke for several seconds.
Cold wind moved through the dead industrial brush around the ridge, carrying rust and chemical runoff with it. The slaughterhouse complex sprawled beneath us in broken concrete layers and corroded steel, old kill-lines and loading corridors repurposed into something worse.
Alex stayed crouched beside the collapsed barrier, completely still.
Not relaxed.
Not tense.
Just… locked in.
Moonlight caught briefly along the side of his face before the next floodlight rotation passed over the yard again.
I watched his eyes track it automatically.
Timing.
Angle.
Coverage.
Then his attention shifted toward the eastern service building.
"Four-man exterior rotation," he said quietly. "Two elevated positions. One mobile pair."
"You hacked their cameras?"
"Some."
Somehow that answer bothered me more than if he'd said yes outright.
He reached into empty air beside him—
—and a katana appeared in his hand without warning.
No flash.
No energy signature.
No visible mechanism.
One second his hand was empty.
The next it wasn't.
Alex didn't react to my stare.
Didn't explain it.
Didn't seem to think explanation was necessary.
The blade stayed low against his leg while he studied the perimeter below.
No extra equipment.
No tactical harness.
That was it.
Which somehow made the whole situation worse instead of better.
Because he was approaching a fortified Purifier holding site carrying:
– a sword,
– and absolute certainty.
"You got a plan?" I asked.
"Yes."
"You gonna share it?"
"Mutants first," he said. "Power second. Communications third."
Still watching the compound.
"They lose internal coordination before they understand they're under attack."
Attack.
Not infiltration.
Not rescue.
Attack.
I studied the patrol routes below again.
Too many armed personnel for a clean extraction if things escalated openly. Even with me there.
Alex kept talking quietly.
"The eastern maintenance corridor has blind spots every forty-three seconds. Western generator building is running isolated backup loops."
His eyes shifted toward the center structure.
"The holding area's underground."
"You sure?"
"Yes."
Again:
instant certainty.
No hesitation.
No second-guessing.
Like the answer had already finished existing before I asked the question.
A pair of Purifiers crossed between two loading structures below us carrying rifles at low-ready.
Military movement.
Professional spacing.
Not amateurs.
I caught their scent when the wind shifted:
gun oil,
sweat,
cheap detergent,
stale nicotine.
Alex's gaze followed them briefly.
Something about his expression changed.
Not visibly enough for most people to catch.
But I saw it.
His focus narrowed further.
Predatory in a way I recognized immediately.
Weapon X had created people who looked at targets like that.
Not enemies.
Not opponents.
Objectives.
"You planning to leave anybody alive?" I asked.
Alex answered without looking at me.
"Anyone not part of the problem."
The floodlights shifted again.
Alex moved immediately.
No warning.
No dramatic signal.
One second crouched beside the barrier.
The next already descending the slope below us.
Silent.
Too silent.
Even trained operatives usually displaced brush or loose gravel under movement at night.
Alex barely seemed to disturb the terrain at all.
I followed automatically.
The closer we got, the worse the place felt.
Not emotionally.
Physically.
The slaughterhouse had been built massive—industrial-scale processing structures connected by rusting overhead rails and reinforced transport corridors wide enough for cattle movement decades ago.
Death built into architecture.
The Purifiers had simply inherited it.
Alex stopped near the outer perimeter fence and crouched again beside an old electrical junction box half-hidden beneath dead vines.
The katana vanished.
Just gone.
Stored somewhere impossible before it could reflect light.
Then his fingers moved across the rusted control panel with frightening speed.
Deliberate intrusion.
I watched small indicator lights flicker once inside the box.
The perimeter floodlights across the eastern yard dimmed briefly.
Alex checked his watch.
"Thirty-one seconds," he said quietly.
"For what?"
"Camera desync."
Then he moved again.
Fence.
Concrete divider.
Blind corner.
Every transition smooth.
Efficient.
Practiced.
That was the problem.
Nobody should move like this naturally.
We slipped through the eastern maintenance access corridor just as two Purifiers passed overhead along a catwalk above us.
Alex froze instantly beneath shadow.
Perfect positioning.
The patrol never looked down.
One of them laughed quietly about something.
The other adjusted his rifle strap.
Then they kept walking.
Alex waited exactly long enough for their footsteps to fade before continuing deeper into the structure.
No adrenaline spikes.
No visible stress.
Just movement.
I stayed half a pace behind him now instead of beside him.
Not because I trusted him less.
Because I was starting to realize he didn't need guidance inside places like this.
Ahead of us, old industrial corridors stretched deeper underground beneath flickering maintenance lights and exposed pipework sweating condensation into rust-stained concrete.
Generator noise vibrated faintly through the walls.
And beneath that—
voices.
Muted.
Distant.
Captives.
Alex heard them too.
His posture tightened almost invisibly.
Then relaxed again into something colder.
We reached an intersection overlooking one of the lower processing halls.
Three Purifiers.
One seated near a portable monitor station.
Two standing security rotation near the far loading ramp.
Alex stopped in darkness beside the corner.
Watching.
Calculating.
I leaned slightly closer.
"You want left or right?" I asked quietly.
No answer.
For half a second I thought he hadn't heard me.
Then he moved.
Fast enough my eyes lost him briefly.
No warning.
No buildup.
Just sudden absence from the shadows.
The seated guard jerked once—
—and the blade was already through his throat before sound fully formed.
At the same instant Alex pivoted past the falling body.
One hand caught the second Purifier's rifle before it could rise.
The blade flashed once across exposed neck beneath body armor.
Blood sprayed the concrete wall in a dark arc.
The third man turned—mouth already starting to open.
Alex's sword moved once.
Not a swing.
Not fully.
Just a sharp motion through empty air.
Something flashed outward from the blade.
Too fast to track cleanly.
A pale distortion ripping across the processing hall in a straight line barely above waist height.
The Purifier never got the sound out.
His body separated cleanly through the middle before momentum realized anything was wrong. Upper torso twisting sideways away from collapsing legs as blood sprayed across concrete and rusted machinery behind him.
The cut line across the steel railing behind the body appeared a fraction later.
Then silence dropped back into place.
Three bodies.
Less than two seconds.
I stared at the bisected corpse.
Then at Alex.
Efficient.
Automatic.
Emotionally absent.
And in that moment—watching him move calmly through fresh bodies like this was already normal—I understood something ugly with absolute certainty:
This wasn't going to be a rescue mission anymore.
Alex was about to turn the entire slaughterhouse into a graveyard.