Re: [Scene] The Roof of Stella Tower
Hunting came naturally to Logan. A mixture of careful listening, tracking scents and forceful intimidation got him a lead to a Russian crew that were moving girls. At least one of the other victims had been a working girl, Slavic by the appearance of what was left of her.
He stood across the street from the storage facility he'd been lead to, the cherry glow of his cigar highlighting his searching gaze. In a moment he was loping across the road, approaching the door. There was a man there, a heavyset, brawny type, with the cauliflower ears and splayed nose of a boxer. Logan could smell the gun oil, metal and powder of a gun. The man put out a huge hand to stop the approaching citizen. In a flicker of motion that hand was being crumpled in Logan's grip, bones crunching, muscles and joints tearing. The man was yanked forwards, a headbutt snapping his head back and sending him off to a deep and senseless slumber.
After quietly carving out the lock he stepped into the building. It was a prison, it had the stench of one. He'd come across enough. A stash of human beings. The dense walls had hidden much of the sound from without but within he could hear dozens of heartbeats, smell the women that were kept in the place.
Seemed like the boss got the pick of the stock. He rounded the corner to meet a dozen men, escorting out seven girls. Youngest of them didn't look that old at all. Logan cocked his head, eyeing up Yuri Zaitzevovich and his bodyguards. He'd and his inner circle had been in the Okhrana, the Imperial Russian secret police. "Who are you?" Asked the Russian, inclining his bald bullet head. Guns were already slipping from inside coats, the other men moving forwards. Tight quarters. It would get messy.
"Koschei." The answer evoked a moment of confusion and then laughter. Zaitzevovich nodded his head to his right hand man, Bogdan. He took three steps forward, raised a double-barreled sawn-off shotgun and loosed both loads of buckshot into the interloper's chest. The spray of lead pellets tore through his clothes, spattering into the flesh beneath, boring through muscle and bone. Most of the shot went out through his back. He remained standing, the smoke from his cigar escaping from the holes in his chest. Within a moment the rest of the buckshot began to fall to the ground as ruined flesh was replaced.
Looking past the men, to the girls behind them, he spoke in a firm, commanding tone. "Закрой глаза." The women heard the rustle of a coat falling and the hiss of blades being unsheathed and then clicking into place with a curious snikt! Then guns were barking and roaring. Bogdan was unmanned, disemboweled and eviscerated with a single upwards slash, his innards pouring out through the three slits trailing from his groin up to his chest. As his life poured out in a sloppy mess his killer was bounding past him, taking off both a man's legs with horrifying efficiency.
The air was soon rank. With the hot, metallic tangs of gunsmoke and blood, the dark, sour aromas as what was inside of men spilled out in throes of agony. Many screamed as they bled out from catastrophic wounds. In such close quarters it was over disturbingly quickly. Not a man had a chance to empty his gun before those claws found him. Limbs tumbled away from bodies, viscera, blood and marrow flowed across the floor and walls, in arterial sprays and venous spurts, pooling and spattering as he went about his grisly work.
In just a minute he was done. The girls were coated in blood and screaming but unharmed. Zaitzevovich was missing his right hand but otherwise alive, slipping and scrambling in the various fluids that had poured from his bodyguards.