The Death Of Captain America Page 11

  The steel fingers that had just been squeezing Crossbones’ throat are now poised to crush the larynx of the man who is speaking with the Red Skull’s voice.

  “You’re the one who deserves to be dead.”

  “For what? I give orders, and people die. Joan of Arc did that, and she’s a saint. You’re the one with real blood on your hands, Winter Soldier.”

  “You go to hell.”

  “Then send me there. Do what Captain America could never accomplish. Of course, then you’ll never find out who it was that betrayed him.”

  The steel fingers begin to loosen. A grin spreads across the red mask.

  “Oh, and one more thing…Sputnik.”

  The eyes roll up in Winter Soldier’s head, his muscles relax, and he falls, senseless.

  On the other side of the room, Crossbones drags himself out of the wreckage of the desk, gingerly touching the raw welts on his neck. Sin is still out cold. Crossbones limps to the crumpled figure at the feet of his boss and kicks him hard. There is no response.

  “Damn. How’d you do that?”

  “It’s the old shutdown code implanted by his Soviet handlers. Unfortunately, it only works once.”

  “Why didn’t you use that while he was, you know—”

  “Giving you and Sin a thrashing? I needed to see if he was really willing to kill you. Because if he wasn’t, he would be completely useless to me.”

  NINETEEN

  NO.

  This can’t be happening, can it?

  I’d been feeling crummy for a long time. But that could be chalked up to the circumstances of the past few months, right? I have very good reasons to feel bad, the least of which is my inability to shoot myself and get it over with. Why shouldn’t I have constant headaches and nausea? My rationalization is that I have to make good on what I did by going after the people who used me to do their dirty work, but how do I do that when they can exert control over me whenever they want?

  So here I am standing in my bathroom again. But instead of my pistol, what I have in my hand is a damn white plastic dipstick with two solid bars showing in the results window.

  “Positive.”

  What are you going to do, Sharon Carter?

  Denial is the first phase. A frantic search on the Internet tells me possible reasons for false positives include five types of cancer. Not an alternative that brightens my day.

  Denial gives way to despair, but I’m already in that over my head. I’m already angry, too. Too angry to give in, too angry to let the bad guys win by default, too angry to wallow in self-pity.

  I go for a five-mile run. That helps some. I sit at the bottom of my shower with the water spraying on me until my toes turn to prunes. But nothing shuts my brain off or stops the steady stream of memory. Nothing dampens the pain.

  The baby has to be Steve’s.

  There was nobody else.

  What should have been joy is turned to desolation by unremitting guilt. The more I think about, the worse it gets. Memories come back, clear and bright, when I want them to be fuzzy and indistinct.

  Details.

  The painful memories of details observed up close, taken for granted at the time, but treasured now. Treasured, yet stabbing my conscience with icy daggers. The gold flecks in the blue of his eyes, only visible from inches away. The heat of his breath on the back of my neck when he slept next to me. The scent of the aftershave he insisted on buying at discount drug stores, because it was the one he used to get at the PX during the war. All daggers through my heart.

  And the worst memory of all, from the hospital after the shooting: Steve on the gurney in the ambulance with the EMTs plugging him into IVs and applying pressure bandages to his wounds—the way he looked at me, and said my name, and told me I took his breath away.

  He knew.

  Steve knew what I had done.

  TWENTY

  AFTER the salutation, the letter starts off, “If you are reading this, things have gone worse than either of us could have imagined…”

  The letter sits on Tony Stark’s desk, in his office in the S.H.I.E.L.D. Administration Building. He has read it ten times; each time he reads it, he is more perplexed and more confused. Each time he reads it, his mind races down new avenues of probabilities, cherry-picks the most likely, and extrapolates scenarios. Nothing is clicking into place. No eureka moments. No joy.

  In an alcove in the wall opposite the big bank of monitor screens is a single framed black-and-white photograph. Not a pristine art print, but a creased and faded contact made from a large-format negative. It is a group shot depicting Captain America, Bucky Barnes, Sergeant Nick Fury, and Corporal Dum Dum Dugan standing in front of a bombed-out farmhouse somewhere in Europe during the Second World War. The ruins are still smoking, and there are bullet holes in what are left of the walls. The weapons in their hands are locked open on spent magazines, and their ammo pouches are empty. It is obvious they have been told to smile for the camera. Maybe the picture was intended to sell war bonds. It was important to put a good face on the war back then. But what soldier smiles after a firefight? The Duke of Wellington’s comment on Waterloo was, “The only thing sadder than a battle lost, is a battle won.” Can men such as these be turned from the beliefs for which they had been willing to lay down their lives?

  Tony Stark has reviewed all the media and surveil lance footage, all the phone-cam videos, and all the helmet- and lapel-mounted camera footage from U.S. Marshals, NYPD, Homeland Security and S.H.I.E.L.D. itself. He has read every written report by every witness. He has studied a dozen action assessments written by profilers, psychologists, ballistics experts, and image-manipulation specialists. He has done all he can do, and still he feels like he is missing something.

  “Computer, upload file ‘Fallen Son’ on all screens.”

  A wall of monitors and various holographic projections spring to life, playing out the events on the Federal Courthouse steps the day Captain America died. There are hundreds of different POVs and angles, but not a single frame of Steve Rogers when the fatal three shots were fired seconds after the first shot from the sniper rifle. No satellite imagery, either, because they had all been diverted. The hand of Nick Fury is evident in that one, probably because he had more than one plan to free Cap he didn’t want recorded.

  Sharon Carter is the center of focus in many shots. That stands to reason. She’s photogenic; she was prominently wearing a S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform and therefore easy to track in the crowd. The director watches the playback of Sharon rushing to Cap after the first shot is fired. She was one of the closest witnesses at the moment the three fatal shots were fired, but she claimed she didn’t see anything—

  “Computer, roll back to the sniper shot.”

  In an enhancement of news-camera footage, the dancing red dot of the laser spotter is clearly visible on the back of the marshal ahead of Steve Rogers. Steve yells, “Look out,” and then shoulders the marshal out of the way. The shot rings out. Cap starts to fall, and somebody shouts “sniper.”

  “Computer, roll back before ‘sniper’ audio, go wide and slo-mo.”

  The wall fills with images of the crowd on the courthouse steps moving like they are swimming though molasses. A bearded man wearing a hoodie and dark glasses points across Foley Square. His lips are in synch with the slowed-down audio of “sniper.” The entire crowd turns to look in the direction of the pointing finger, and so do most of the cameras. In the two shots where the camera doesn’t turn, Sharon Carter can be seen as she continues to move toward the falling Steve Rogers until she is obscured by people in the crowd going up the steps to try to get a better view of the building where the sniper’s bullet came from. At no time does Sharon Carter turn to look across the square.

  “Computer, blow up man wearing hoodie and dark glasses.”

  “Invalid request. Subject wears nasal and maxillary prosthetics.”

  Tony Stark sits down hard and stares at the frozen image of Sharon Carter running up the steps toward Ste
ve Rogers, and he lets out a long breath. He buzzes his personal assistant.

  “Anna, that list of Dr. Benjamin’s patients—did that include inactive agents, as well?”

  PART THREE

  LEGACIES

  AND

  CULPABILITIES

  INTERLUDE #9

  THE superhuman containment device in Doctor Faustus’ lab in the Kronas Tower had required six new high-voltage lines to be run up from the basement to power the dampers and suppressors. Workers on adjacent floors experienced extreme lethargy, nausea, and memory loss. Some of these effects could reasonably be attributed to one of the devices being tested in Arnim Zola’s lab down the hall on the same floor. After one senior data analyst died from a pacemaker failure, the floors under and above the secret labs were vacated and sealed. When workers in the building across the street started complaining of headaches and nosebleeds, it was decided to dismantle the device and reassemble it in a highly armored R.A.I.D. facility deep under the city. Additional shielding was added so workers and attendants could see to the physical needs of those confined in the device without experiencing undue discomfort. The reassembly was completed just in time to clamp in the very first detainee.

  The man spread-eagled on the cruciform containment device is James Buchanan Barnes—once known as “Bucky,” later known in the rarified upper strata of intelligence agencies as the “Winter Soldier.” He is writhing with psychic agony as selected images of the assassination of Captain America are fed into his brain through electrodes attached to his head.

  Doctor Faustus enters the containment room to observe his captive subject in greater detail. He is fascinated by the grimaces and gnashing teeth that are outward manifestations of the pain within. He inches closer, the better to appreciate the twitches and spasms. The subject’s eye lids are fluttering so rapidly that Faustus readjusts his monocle and leans in even closer. The monocle drops from the doctor’s face as the Winter Soldier’s eyes open wide. Faustus instinctively jerks his head back as Bucky’s teeth snap together at the space vacated by the doctor’s nose.

  “You’re awake…”

  “Maybe not. Come closer again and find out.”

  Faustus assumes a semblance of composure.

  “I think not.”

  “Then you’re smarter than you look, whoever you are.”

  “I am Doctor Faustus, and I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you. Indeed, I have heard so much about you over the years, I feel like I already know you.”

  Winter Soldier leans forward, straining at the containment device. His eyes narrow dangerously.

  “Know me? You don’t know jack, fatso.”

  “I will, Bucky. Very soon I will know you better than you know yourself.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  CAN’T wear my black-and-white S.H.I.E.L.D. utility uniform anymore, so I slip into an all-white jumpsuit. It’s tight but stretchy and allows complete freedom of movement—thank God for sports bras. On my feet go sensible boots with grippy soles and good ankle support. I’m going for practicality and comfort over style and camouflage. With the number of surveillance cams and sensors in the city, I’m not hiding from anybody once I commit myself out there. After I finish strapping on my personal sidearm, I’m ready. I’m a minimal-makeup person, but I like my hair to be sort-of presentable, so that’s where I make my mistake—by going into the bathroom and looking in the mirror.

  The bearded man with the monocle is in the reflection—standing behind me, peering past my ear, his hand on my shoulder. But there is no hand on my shoulder.

  “Ah, that is better, Agent 13. Ready for action? Ready to go to work again?”

  It’s like a steel door slamming shut in my brain. There is a part of my consciousness running around in tight circles screaming, “Don’t listen to him!” The part of me that lies beyond the steel door obeys like an automaton. It’s like that feeling you get when you find yourself saying something you know will result in bad consequences, but you say it anyway—magnified a thousand times.

  When I try to resist the soothing voice whispering in my ear, the world goes into a spin, and I nearly black out. When I do exactly as the voice tells me, a tremendous sense of calm and well-being envelops me. Faustus’s technique is extremely Pavlovian, and it works.

  I am walking into my living room when I hear the flutter of wings outside my window. A flash of red and white appears on my fire escape, joined by a lithe figure all in black. I duck back into my bedroom before their eyes can adjust to the comparative dimness. Somehow, I know what the voice in my head is going to tell me to do. I don’t like it, but I can’t disobey.

  “Hey, Sharon, you up yet?”

  Falcon. I love the guy, but why does he always have to come through my window like Peter Pan?

  “How do you know she’s even here?”

  I know that voice. It’s Black Widow. What’s she doing here with Sam?

  “She was in a bad way when I dropped her off here last night. I don’t think she’d have gone out. Hey, Sharon, it’s Sam. I’ve got Natasha with me. Are you all right?”

  I slide open my closet door and enter the combination on the safe that’s hidden behind the shoe rack. I have to partition this action in my mind, not let it leak to the other side of the steel door.

  “I’ll be out in a minute, Sam. I’m still getting dressed. Just make yourselves comfortable.”

  Feathers rustle. Of course, Redwing is there with Falcon. Perched on Sam’s wrist and preening, no doubt.

  “Turns out Black Widow is searching for Bucky just like we are, Sharon—and she’s got some issues vis-à-vis Maria Hill, too.”

  The weapon I take out of the safe needs thirty seconds to cycle up to full power. It won’t work until the ready light comes on. I don’t want to be doing this. Sam is my friend. Dizziness begins to overpower me. I want to tell them to run, but thinking this almost makes me pass out.

  “Stand up and smile, Sharon. You can do this.”

  I lean against the wall to steady myself. I can hear myself speaking, but I’m not conscious of forming the words.

  “Oh, Sam. You’re the only person I know who uses vis-à-vis in normal conversation.”

  As I walk out into the living room, I hear the faint chirp of a S.H.I.E.L.D. communicator. Natasha answers her unit. She’s got an invisible earpiece.

  “What’s up, Tony? I’m with the principals right now—”

  “He knows! He’s telling her! You have to act now!”

  I raise the weapon and fire twice.

  “That was easier than you thought, wasn’t it? Don’t you feel better now?”

  “Yes. No. God, I want to die.”

  “No, that will not do, Sharon. Come to me. I can resolve these difficulties for you. Everything will be much better. As long as we do as we are told. It’s time to join the revolution, my dear.”

  EXCERPT FROM STEVE ROGERS’ LETTER TO TONY STARK

  …I’m trusting you to do two things:

  Don’t let Bucky drift off into anger and confusion. He has a chance at a new life—help him find his way. Save him for me.

  As for Captain America, the part of it that’s bigger than me—that has always been bigger than me—don’t let it die, Tony.

  America needs a Captain America, maybe now more than ever. Don’t let that dream die.

  Yours,

  Steve Rogers

  TWENTY-TWO

  SOMETIMES you are fully aware you are having a dream, but the wonder of it—or even the sheer terror of it—is so entrancing, you will yourself to keep dreaming and not wake up.

  James Buchanan Barnes is having one of those dreams. The years he spent as Winter Soldier have been stripped away, and he is a teenage Bucky again. The blue-and-red uniform feels comfortably familiar on his skin. He is on a mission deep within the Third Reich’s “Fortress Europe” with his best friend, Captain America. They are trudging across a smoking gray landscape of urban rubble that at times looks like St. Lo on D-day, London during the Blit
z, and the World Trade Center site after 9/11.

  In the dark sky, two fighter planes with swastikas on their tails bank to begin a strafing run. Cap and Bucky dive for cover as streams of bullets plow parallel furrows in the debris-strewn cobbles. In the lee of a shattered church wall, they observe the planes turn to set up for another pass. There are bombs attached to the belly racks. The next attack will be more deadly than a hail of lead.

  Captain America points to an opening in the church floor where stairs lead down into darkness. Do they descend to vaulted catacombs? Is this the gate to Hades? Or the beginning of a fantastical trip down the rabbit hole?

  Bucky takes the lead, plunging into the unknown. He’s the one carrying the Tommy gun, after all. The dark coalesces into a mine tunnel with rough-hewn timbers. Voices up ahead argue in German. Two soldiers in field gray with coal-scuttle helmets and stamped-metal submachine guns. Silent signals pass between the two heroes. A brief scuffle in the dark, and two Wermacht troopers lie in twisted heaps. The mine walls have somehow morphed to an open leaden sky. Artillery flashes on the horizon. Red tracer rounds flit across a blasted terrain. Bucky follows the glowing bullet stream to a mud-filled crater where a German machine gun stutters prolonged bursts of full-metal death. Captain America leaps into the crater in a red-white-and-blue blur, hammering the machine-gun crew with his shield.

  Bucky watches in horror as his friend and mentor lifts the heavy belt-fed weapon from its tripod and turns it on the troops advancing through the haze. Troops wearing olive drab, carrying M1 Garand rifles.

  American troops.

  “Steve! What are you doing? Those are our guys!”

  The face that turns to answer Bucky is distorted with unfamiliar hatred.

  “Make way for the master race.”

  The muzzle of the machine gun turns toward Bucky, and the tracer rounds seem to float like expanding red balloons before the searing pain of their impact unleashes a scream that goes on and on.