Inside the production site, a line of women was forced to manufacture drugs under conditions that would have broken down a machine.
Tarikha had never bothered to give them proper protective gear. The air was hot and heavy with poison, the chemical haze stung the lungs, and harsh sodium lamps flickered overhead without mercy. Everything in that place was designed to grind their bodies down.
The women had inhaled so many toxic compounds that their skin had gone rough and blotched, their limbs had grown thin and weak, and their bodies had withered into a miserable, half-living state. Their expressions were dull and vacant, like they had been emptied out from the inside.
They were prisoners of the factory, trafficked in from all over by the Reyes Group and worked day and night until their lives were used up.
The longest-serving among them had not seen sunlight in three years. There had been others who lasted longer, but once sickness took hold, the managers "cleaned them up" before they became a problem.
A few gunmen stood watch over them, making sure none of the women secretly sampled the finished product. After years inside a drug factory, nearly all of them were addicted anyway.
The rest of the armed men were in the three offices attached to the repair shop. Most wore loud floral shirts. A few were shirtless, their arms and shoulders covered in tattoos.
The rooms were cool with heavy air-conditioning. The gunmen sat around drinking iced whiskey and smoking cigars while playing cards, stacks of cash spread across the table.
Then, boom.
An impossible burst of force tore the office's iron door straight out of its frame. The heavy slab of metal flew across the room and smashed one of the gunmen into the wall.
Logan walked in.
The gunmen jerked in shock, scrambling in panic.
One of them reached for the pistol on the card table, but before he could squeeze the trigger, Logan punched him square in the chest.
Bones cracked with a wet popping sound. The man's sternum caved in, and his internal organs were reduced to pulp.
Logan kept moving.
He drove forward like a wrecking machine, taking men out one by one. In two seconds, more than ten gunmen were dead.
Some of the faster ones managed to draw pistols and rifles and open fire, so Logan snatched up a rifle and answered them in kind.
The office erupted into a storm of gunfire. Bullets ripped through chairs and desks, drilled holes through wood and metal, shattered bottles of whiskey, and scattered fragments of playing cards and dollar bills into the air.
Then, just as suddenly, the shooting stopped.
Only the sounds of broken glass remained, crunching underfoot.
Logan stepped out of the office, idly drinking from a bottle of whiskey he had taken along the way. His shirt had four or five bullet holes in it, but his skin underneath was untouched. No blood. Not a drop.
The more people he killed, the stronger he became. That level of resilience was one of Drex Valen's little gifts.
The gunfire from the first office alerted the others. Men from the neighboring rooms shouted curses and questions in Spanish, trying to figure out who was coming.
Bang.
One gunman quietly slipped a hand toward the pin on a grenade.
A bullet from the upper floor punched through his head before he could do anything.
The grenade rolled onto the floor.
The remaining gunmen rushed out of their office, and before they had even taken a few steps, Logan cut them down.
He hunted them like a wolf in a field full of rabbits, shooting the ones who ran and crushing the ones who tried to close the distance. When one of them lunged at him in a desperate attempt at hand-to-hand combat, Logan swung the rifle like a baseball bat and turned him into red paste.
It did not take long.
Logan, who killed with the same casual ease most men used to eat or breathe, finished off everyone in the building except the terrified women.
He drove them away, then sat on a table, lit a cigar, and kept drinking whiskey.
For an immortal body, it was a very satisfying way to spend the afternoon.
β¦
"Who was it? Was it the Mata Group?"
Filiberto Reyes wore a heavy beard and had a brown complexion. His skull was broad, giving him the look of a lion at rest. Right now, though, there was nothing calm about him. His brows and hair seemed to tremble with his rage, and his face had gone red with blood.
The room itself felt smaller under the weight of his presence. Everyone inside knew exactly what happened to people who angered Filiberto Reyes.
After the worst possible torture, a corpse hanging from a streetlight was practically a standard punishment in the Reyes Group. He had once cut a man into pieces and packed the remains into a refrigerator just to deliver them to an enemy.
"No. We checked the cameras. It was a mutant."
Since Logan had never shown any intention of hiding himself, the Reyes Group had identified their attacker almost immediately.
"A mutant?"
Filiberto paused.
To ordinary people in this universe, mutants were still deeply intimidating. This was a world with only mutants, no superheroes, and no S.H.I.E.L.D. to speak of.
The Mutant Brotherhood, in particular, had become a terrorist name that made the whole world uneasy.
"It probably has nothing to do with the Brotherhood," one of his men said. "Maybe it was someone we crossed before."
"Then hit back harder. Buy mutants from one of those mutant factories and use them against him."
Filiberto's voice boomed like an enraged lion.
For a drug cartel, the worst thing in the world was the appearance of weakness. The moment rivals sensed blood, competitors and allies alike would swarm in like hyenas trying to tear the Reyes Group apart.
"Do not care how much it costs. Bring Francis in. Especially the woman working under him. They're the best at dealing with mutants."
The threat dragged up old memories of humiliation and fear from when he had still been just a robbery man.
Back then, he and his brother Miguel had to hand over two-thirds of everything they stole to their gang boss. Later, they teamed up, killed that boss, and broke away on their own, building the massive Reyes empire from the ground up.
"I understand, boss."
Bolton shrugged, then climbed onto a motorcycle and headed for the outskirts of Mexico City.
It was a classic Harley Street, modified with ape-hanger handlebars. He wove through traffic and blasted past cars with a brazen, arrogant confidence.
The mutant factory was disguised as an ordinary chemical plant not far from the main road out of Mexico City. The Mexican president's weak grip on the country made places like this almost absurdly brazen.
The checkpoint at the outer gate clearly knew Bolton well. They opened the barrier and let him through without a fuss.
Bolton parked the motorcycle, pulled out an ID card, and swiped it through the heavy alloy door.
Inside, everything looked like a normal chemical plant. Thick pipes. Huge reaction vats. Furnaces. Workers moving about to keep up appearances.
He walked through a narrow, damp underground passage and entered the true mutant factory.
"Welcome to hell."
Francis stood waiting for him, file folder in hand, dressed in a white lab coat.
Behind him, the scene really did look like hell. Ice water. Electric chairs. Water torture. Searing irons. Clubs.