Pepper’s crying still lingered in the office, but Logan had already snubbed out the cigar in his hand.
He stood up, the hem of his flight jacket brushing against the armrest of the sofa.
Most of his usual casual and cynical demeanor had vanished, leaving a trace of a wild wolf’s cold, fierce aura at the corners of his eyes.
“What are you crying for? He’s not even cold yet.” He grabbed the work cap hanging over the back of the chair and pulled it onto his head, his voice low.
“Arrange a private plane to Afghanistan for me, and send me the coordinates where the Military last received a signal. Charge the expenses to Tony’s account. Anyway, if he has nothing else, he certainly has more greenbacks than he knows what to do with.”
Pepper abruptly raised her head, her eye sockets red, yet she still forced a professional composure.
‘The Military has already dispatched three search and rescue teams, but the terrain of the Hindu Kush mountains is too complex, and the signal is completely cut off…’
“By the time the search and rescue teams dig him out, his bones will already be moldy.” Logan snorted, grabbed the tin flask from the corner of the table, unscrewed it, and took a heavy swig of whiskey.
The spicy liquor burned down his throat, completely revivifying his state.
“Trusting them is worse than trusting me. I want to take off in three hours, so don’t hold things up.”
He wasn’t boasting.
His Beast-grade senses were never just for show.
As long as Tony was still breathing, even if he were buried deep within the belly of the mountain, Logan could dig him out by following that trace of living scent.
Three hours later, the private plane landed at a makeshift Military airfield on the border of Afghanistan.
Logan stepped down with a somewhat worn backpack slung over his shoulder, stuffed with three boxes of Cuba cigars, two bottles of twelve-year-old whiskey, and a few blocks of compressed rations.
He didn’t even bring a gun.
To him, his six Adamantium claws were the handiest weapons of all.
Parked by the airfield was a modified dirt bike arranged in advance by Pepper through a local informant.
Although it couldn’t compare to his treasured harley, it was durable enough for mountain roads.
Logan let out a whistle and patted the seat, straddled it, and twisted the throttle.
The roar tore through the dead silence of the border, and the wheels kicked up a sky full of yellow sand as he plunged headfirst into the rolling Hindu Kush mountains.
The deeper they went into the mountains, the more rugged and uneven the road became.
The gravel caused the tires to constantly slip, and the dry, hot wind carrying grit lashed against his face, feeling like it was being scraped by fine knives.
Logan squinted his eyes, not caring in the least, but his nose twitched constantly, filtering through the countless mixed scents in the air.
Diesel, gunpowder smoke, dried sheep dung, the earthy smell of mountain rocks, and an extremely faint trace of aftershave almost crushed by the dust storm.
It was the citrus-scented cologne that Tony frequently used.
This guy—even after being kidnapped, he still retained a bit of perfume scent.
Logan’s mouth twitched, and he twisted the throttle another half a notch with his foot.
Following that vague, elusive scent deeper into the mountain belly for nearly two hours, traces of artificial excavation finally appeared ahead in the mountain col.
Logan killed the engine, pushed the motorcycle into a rock crevice to hide it, and silently crept up to the nearby commanding height with his backpack on his back.
Crouching behind the protruding limestone, he looked up.
A huge cave was excavated halfway up the mountain, with two Soviet-made heavy machine guns mounted at the entrance.
Scattered around were six patrolling guards, each carrying paint-chipped AK-47s, vigilantly scanning the valley with cautious expressions.
Four Military tents were pitched beside the cave, where figures could be vaguely seen swaying.
A rough calculation showed there were at least roughly thirty or forty armed personnel.
It was the Ten Rings Gang!
Logan bit down on his cigar, knowing it well in his heart.
This gang had run rampant in Kandahar on the border of Afghanistan for many years, and the blood on their hands could dye half the valley red.
Kidnapping, extortion, and arms trading—they stopped at nothing.
For Tony to last a month in their hands meant not only that he still had utility value, but also that his life was indeed tough enough.
He wasn’t in a hurry to make a move.
It was two o’clock in the afternoon, the time when the Sun was most fierce.
The guards looked vigilant, but in reality, their mental energy had long been worn down to almost nothing by the blazing heat.
Nightfall was the best cover.
By the time this bunch had lost most of their energy, his counterattack would be a case of resting while the enemy exhausted themselves.
Leaning against the cool rock, he leisurely finished smoking a cigar, took another swig of liquor, and simply closed his eyes to rest and recuperate.
Yet his ears weren’t idle; he heard the footsteps near the cave, the snoring inside the tents, and the guards’ muddled Arabic conversations crystal clearly, quietly sketching out the defense layout of the entire stronghold in his mind.
Where the hidden sentries were, where the ammunition boxes were piled, and which area the hostages were locked in—not a single detail was off.
From deep within the cave came a faint metallic tapping sound, one strike after another, steady and rhythmic, interspersed with the low conversation of two people.
One of the voices carried a hint of tired hoversomeness; it was precisely Tony.
Since he still had the strength to hammer away, it seemed he wasn’t going to die.
Logan let out a sigh of relief inwardly, though the corners of his mouth still turned down in a smirk.
This guy, he couldn’t stay idle no matter where he went. This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
When the sky completely darkened, the temperature in the mountains plummeted by more than ten degrees.
The guards lit two bonfires, sat around them roasting flatbread and chatting, their vigilance dropping to the lowest.
Logan stood up and stretched his finger joints, his knuckles making a series of fine, clicking sounds.
He hid his backpack in a rock crevice, carrying only his flask and half a box of cigars, and crouched down to sneak down silently.
The first target was the hidden sentry on the west side of the cave entrance.
That fellow was hiding behind a rock, listlessly picking the dirt from under his fingernails, completely unaware that the God of Death had already closed in right behind him.
Logan formed his palm into a blade and accurately chopped the back of the opponent’s neck.
Before the person could fall, his other hand was already supporting the head, giving his wrist a gentle twist.
With a soft click, the guard didn’t even groan before collapsing limply.
Logan dragged the corpse and hid it behind a rock, his movements as light as a cat’s.
His Baguazhang footwork stepping on the gravelly ground didn’t produce even a shred of excess noise.
The second, the third…
The six peripheral patrollers were dealt with by him one by one, without alarming the people by the bonfires the entire time.
Until he crept up to the side and rear of the bonfire, when a guard got up to piss nearby and turned his head right into Logan’s eyes.
That fellow froze for a full second, opening his mouth to shout.
Logan’s figure flickered, instantly closing in on him.
His left hand tightly muffled the man’s mouth, while his right hand’s Adamantium claws shot out with a hiss.
A cold flash pierced straight through the opponent’s heart.
Warm blood splattered on the back of his hand, and Logan expressionlessly lowered the corpse down slowly.
But it was still a step too late.
Someone by the bonfire noticed the commotion, shouted out in Arabic, and instantly everyone picked up their guns, the sound of bullets being chambered merging into one.
“Who is out there? Come out!”
Logan clicked his tongue.
‘What a pain.’
He stopped hiding, straightened up, and walked out from the shadows.
The flickering light of the bonfire reflected on his face, half bright and half dark, his gaze as cold as ice.
He spoke, his voice not loud, yet it clearly overpowered the crackling of the bonfire.
‘Can someone tell me whether Tony Stark lives here?’