Lou Scarelli's descent into paranoia and impotent rage had made him a recluse in his own opulent Westmount mansion. He'd fired most of his staff, trusting only a handful of his most thuggish, least intelligent bodyguards – men whose loyalty was bought with diminishing piles of cash and fueled by fear of his increasingly erratic temper. The once-feared crime lord was now a prisoner of his own crumbling empire, seeing assassins in every shadow, betrayal in every silence.
Elias provided Logan with the mansion's location, a rough layout gleaned from old city planning documents Dr. Finch had unearthed, and the approximate number of remaining guards, courtesy of Mickey's furtive observations around the property's perimeter.
"No collateral damage, Logan, if possible," Elias had instructed, a subtle test of control. "The objective is Scarelli. His guards are obstacles, nothing more. Discretion, afterwards, would be appreciated." He didn't want a bloodbath that brought the full weight of the city constabulary down on them, though he knew Logan's methods were unlikely to be surgical.
Logan had just grunted, a sound that conveyed both understanding and utter disinterest in finesse. He'd pulled on a battered leather jacket, checked the fit of his claws by clenching and unclenching his fists, and then simply walked out of the apartment, melting into the rainy Montreal night like a vengeful spirit.
Elias didn't send anyone with him. This was Logan's hunt, his "audition." Thomas MacIntyre was put on standby, a rapid response force should things somehow go catastrophically wrong, but Elias doubted it would be necessary. He trusted in the mirrored power thrumming in his own veins; Logan was a self-contained hurricane of destruction when unleashed. Anya was positioned miles away, observing the mansion's access roads for any unusual police activity or unexpected arrivals – a distant, silent overwatch.
The Scarelli mansion was a grotesque monument to ill-gotten gains, all turrets and wrought iron, surrounded by a high stone wall topped with broken glass. Logan approached it not through the main gate, but over the wall, moving with a silence and agility that was terrifying in a man of his bulk. The rain masked any sound he might have made. His senses, amplified by the wilderness and now piercing the urban cacophony, pinpointed the guards: two at the gate, one patrolling the west perimeter, two more inside, near Scarelli's presumed location in the master suite. Their heartbeats were erratic, a symphony of boredom and jumpiness. He could smell their stale sweat, their cheap cigarettes, and the underlying tang of fear that permeated the entire estate.
The perimeter guard went down first, a single, silent shadow detaching itself from the deeper darkness of the ornamental shrubs. A choked gurgle, then nothing. Logan didn't even break stride.
The two guards in the main foyer were next. They were playing cards, a bottle of cheap whiskey between them, their shotguns leaning against a marble column. They never even saw him. One moment they were arguing over a hand, the next, darkness took them, heralded by the whisper of claws and the sickening thud of bodies hitting the floor. Logan left them where they fell, his movements economical, devoid of wasted effort. This wasn't a berserker rage; this was cold, efficient extermination.
He moved through the opulent, silent mansion like a phantom, his senses guiding him unerringly towards Scarelli. The fear emanating from the upper floors was a beacon. He found Scarelli in his vast, gaudily decorated bedroom, a fat, sweating man in silk pajamas, clutching a pearl-handled revolver, his eyes wide and bloodshot as he stared at the door. A single remaining bodyguard, a mountain of a man whose face was a mask of brutal stupidity, stood between Scarelli and the entrance.
"Who's there?!" Scarelli shrieked, his voice cracking. "Show yourself!"
Logan didn't announce himself. He simply flowed through the doorway, claws extended, a low growl vibrating in his chest.
The bodyguard, startled but loyal to a fault or simply too dumb to run, charged, bellowing, his own meaty fists raised. Logan sidestepped the clumsy attack, and his claws, in a blur of motion too fast for the eye to follow, made three precise, intersecting slashes across the man's chest. The bodyguard stopped, a look of stunned disbelief on his face, before a torrent of blood erupted and he crashed to the expensive an Guttural Persian rug.
Now it was just Logan and Scarelli.
Scarelli whimpered, his hand shaking so violently he could barely aim the revolver. "Who... who sent you? Fitzpatrick? That bastard Thorne?" He fired, wildly. The bullet whizzed past Logan's head, shattering a hideous porcelain figurine on a nearby table.
Logan advanced, slowly, deliberately, his yellow eyes burning into Scarelli's soul. He could smell the man's terror, his imminent demise. It was an old, familiar scent.
"No one 'sent' me, Lou," Logan rasped, the name a mocking echo of the fear Scarelli had once inspired. "Consider this… a professional courtesy. For all the noise you've been makin'."
Scarelli fired again, and again. One bullet grazed Logan's arm, tearing through his leather jacket. He barely flinched. The tiny wound was already knitting itself closed beneath the fabric, the mirrored healing factor a quiet, efficient miracle. Scarelli emptied the revolver, his shots going wide, his blubbering cries filling the room.
Logan was upon him. He didn't bother with the claws for the kill itself. That would be too messy, too much like the animal Scarelli probably thought him to be. Instead, one powerful hand shot out, clamped around Scarelli's throat, and squeezed.
Lou Scarelli, the once-feared tyrant of Montreal's underworld, died not with a bang, but with a strangled, gurgling whimper, his bulging eyes fixed in terror on the implacable, feral face of his executioner.
Logan held him for a moment longer, feeling the life drain out, then contemptuously dropped the heavy corpse to the floor. He wiped his hand on Scarelli's silk sheets, a gesture of profound disdain.
He took a moment, surveyed the carnage. Five dead. Minimal fuss. Objective achieved. A faint, almost imperceptible smell of ozone and brimstone, an aftereffect of his claws being extended, hung in the air, mixing with the coppery tang of blood.
He left the mansion as silently as he had entered, pausing only to retrieve the spent bullet casing from Scarelli's revolver that had his scent on it from the close-range shot. He dropped it into a storm drain blocks away. No direct evidence linking him. Discretion, as the kid had requested.
When Elias received the quiet, non-verbal confirmation from Anya (a specific light pattern in a distant window, meaning "target neutralized, operative clear"), he felt a profound sense of finality. One of the city's major players had been erased from the board, not by intricate manipulation or political maneuvering, but by the raw, direct application of overwhelming, primal force. It was a different kind of power, one he was still learning to understand and wield through his new proxy.
The System updated: [Rival Faction Leader (Lou Scarelli) Neutralized by Associated Asset (Wolverine). Influence (City-Wide): +5.0% (Power Vacuum Created; Competitors Demoralized/Intimidated). Reputation (Global): [Apex Predator (Lethal Efficiency Confirmed)]. Status of Montreal Underworld: Destabilized – Prime for Reorganization under Host Influence].
The message was clear. With Scarelli gone, the path was open for Elias to reshape Montreal's criminal landscape more directly, if he chose. Fitzpatrick would undoubtedly try to fill the vacuum, but he would do so with the chilling knowledge that another, far more dangerous power was now operating in the city – a power that could dispatch a figure like Scarelli with such terrifying ease.
Logan returned to his apartment just before dawn, the scent of rain and something darker clinging to him. He said nothing, just poured himself a large whiskey and sat staring into the darkness, his eyes still holding the embers of the hunt.
Elias visited him later that morning.
"Satisfied?" Logan grunted, not looking at him.
"The objective was achieved," Elias replied evenly. "You were… efficient."
"He was a pig. Squealed like one too," Logan said, a ghost of a feral smile touching his lips. Then it was gone, replaced by the familiar weariness. "So. What now, kid? More trash to take out?"
Elias regarded him. The test had been a success, perhaps too much so. Logan was an undeniably effective weapon, but also a profoundly damaged and dangerous individual. The 15% loyalty was still precarious.
"Now, Logan," Elias said, "we observe the fallout. We let the city adjust to the new… quiet. And perhaps, we find more constructive uses for your unique talents than simple extermination."
He was already thinking bigger. Scarelli was just a stepping stone. The real game, the one that involved Prime Conduits, System upgrades, and the reshaping of history, was just beginning. And James "Logan" Howlett, the Wolverine, was now an indispensable, if terrifyingly unpredictable, piece in that grand design.