Marvel: Empire of Power

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.