The Death Of Captain America Page 17

  —the hood of Black Widow’s S.H.I.E.L.D. flying car.

  Bucky grabs the windshield frame as the car slews 90 degrees with the rear fender scraping sparks off the building façade. Crossbones is poised in the shattered window above, ready to leap into the car.

  Black Widow points her fist back over her shoulder over the trunk and unleashes a full-power 30,000-volt electrostatic bolt from her Widow’s Bite into Crossbones’ chest, toppling him back.

  As the flying car circles to return to the Dirksen Building, Bucky flips into the shotgun seat, pulls off the Captain America mask, and takes a deep breath. He looks at Black Widow; for a moment, he sees a look in her eyes that he hasn’t since their training days in Moscow a lifetime ago. He knows the mood is fragile, but he can’t help himself.

  “Damn, Natasha—you took your sweet time getting here.”

  “D.C. traffic is a bitch.”

  He would laugh if he didn’t hurt so much. She avoids his gaze as she parks the flying car in hover mode outside the broken fourth-floor window.

  Inside, they find Crossbones stretched out on his back with his feet still twitching and the burnt spot on his chest still smoking.

  “Good. He’s alive,” Black Widow says, checking the big man’s pulse. “But he won’t be answering questions for a while.”

  “Nice one, Natasha. I bet lightning shot out of his butt.”

  Bucky picks up a bloody bicuspid from the floor and drops it on the unconscious Eel.

  Viper’s eyes have rolled up inside his head, but he is still grunting rhythmically.

  “The interrogators will have plenty of fodder here before they have to worry about Crossbones,” Bucky says as Black Widow calls in the Evacuation and Sanitation Team on her communicator.

  The shield is where Bucky dropped it when Crossbones shot him. Picking it up, he can sense its iconic power even through his red gloves. This must be what Excalibur felt like in Arthur’s hand. The analogy is a stretch, but it works. When Arthur died, the sword was thrown back into the lake to wait for the next deserving wielder. Bucky runs his fingers along the rim. Am I the one?

  Nobody else is stepping up to the plate.

  Stretching the blue mask back over his face, Bucky— for all it’s worth—becomes Captain America again. Every step he takes toward the stairs reinforces that conviction in his heart. Black Widow is yelling at him to stop, but she won’t follow. She has to be on-site when the E & S crew arrives. Besides, she’s calling the wrong name. She’s calling Bucky.

  THE drug-induced anger that had triggered the riot has faded, only to be replaced by older and uglier instincts: the urge to run with a pack, howl, and break things—the urge to burn.

  This crowd’s first instinct is to ignore the man shouting at them from atop a looted news van. More and more of them start to see the man is wearing what seems to be a Captain America uniform—and, yes, he’s carrying a shield. The noise and hubbub lessens to the extent that a widening circle around him can actually discern his words.

  “You are not solving any problems here. This is not the way to air your grievances so that they will be taken seriously. This is not the time to band together to tear down. This is the time to band together to build up. Go home and take care of each other. Once fear and anger rule our actions—”

  A half-empty water bottle arcs over the throng and bounces off the shield.

  “Shut up, you faker!”

  “You’re not Captain America!”

  “Damn right! He’s dead!”

  The exhortations of the single man on top of the van become meaningless as Kane-Meyer Security reinforcements open fire on the crowd with tear gas and high-pressure water hoses. The melee is swept away in clouds of stinging gas until the plaza is empty except for the litter of broken protest signs and squashed plastic bottles. The man left standing on top of the van has tears running down his face, but he is not sagging in defeat. He is still proud and defiant. When the blacked-out flying car stops, hovering level with the top of the van, he gets in, and the car shoots north.

  Bucky watches numbly as Black Widow climbs to cruising altitude, turns on the passive stealth gear, and sets the navigation system to follow I-95 north to New York. She adjusts the throttle to low cruising. She’s not in a hurry. Bucky relaxes completely and lets his head rest on Natasha’s shoulder. He only means to keep it there for a moment. He doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but he does.

  The lights of Philadelphia are passing beneath them when Bucky wakes up to the sound of a cable news station on the dashboard multifunction display monitor. He sees grainy phone-cam footage of himself on the van. The banner at the bottom of the screen reads, “Have you seen the new Cap?” A news anchor with too-perfect hair is reading from a teleprompter: “…multiple reports of a man in what appears to be a Captain America uniform attempting to defuse the riot.” The banner changes to show a telephone number and a request to call in with new information.

  The image shifts to indistinct security-cam imagery that appears to show Kane-Meyer troopers firing on Viper and Eel as Senator Wright is whisked to safety down a flight of fire stairs.

  “Other shocking news from last night’s riot was the attempted abduction of Senator Gordon Wright by super-powered terrorists, and his dramatic rescue by heroic Kane-Meyer Security agents. The Senator has praised those agents for going above and beyond the call of duty to rescue him—”

  Black Widow clicks off the monitor.

  “Thanks, Natasha. That was giving me a headache. Any interrogation updates from S.H.I.E.L.D. yet?”

  “Crossbones is still unconscious in the ICU, and the other two were too small potatoes to be let in on the big picture. King Cobra might’ve actually known something, but he flew Sin out in the same helicopter they came in on. We did get the location of their bolt-hole safe house in New York out of Viper. A forensics team is tearing it apart inch-by-inch right now.”

  Near Newark, the flying car readjusts course to skim right over the Atlantic at wave-top level to avoid air traffic. Manhattan is a glow on the horizon. A red light blinks on the dashboard, indicating the autopilot is engaged. Bucky pulls on a plain gray hoodie to cover his Captain America shirt, stuffing the gloves into the hoodie’s pockets. He turns toward Black Widow but says nothing.

  Bucky wonders whether Natasha is conscious of him looking at her. She turns to face him, with one of those looks that seems to strip away years and overlay old memories. He finds it disconcerting. He breaks the gaze and looks out to sea.

  “And what about Steve’s girl? Have they got any leads yet?”

  “Sharon. Her name is Sharon Carter. Falcon may have found something that will help track her. As soon as Tony makes all the red tape go away, S.H.I.E.L.D. can operate in the open again. How did we say it long ago? Like cooking with gas.”

  “But for now…?”

  “For now, our credibility is still damaged, and all our ops on U.S. soil are under the microscope.”

  “Which means what, Natasha?”

  “It means now that you are front-page news, you and I won’t be seeing as much of each other.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  But it’s not okay. He feels like a fumbling boy, unsure and awkward with a girl to whom he is hesitant to reveal his emotions. He is thinking that he can change this. He has changed harder things.

  “Do you remember it all?” she asks. “Do you remember all our time together when I was young?”

  The Statue of Liberty is visible through the windshield. Bucky can remember seeing it from the deck of a troop ship. His thoughts wander before he answers.

  “I remember every second of it, Natasha Alianovna. You were the one good thing. The one good thing in all of it.”

  The rooftops of Manhattan flash by beneath the flying car. Bucky reaches back for the shield, encased again in its anonymous wrapper. The car slows and hovers over the roof of Bucky’s hotel.

  They are both aware of the awkwardness of the moment. Bucky has his door open already.
All he has to do is step out and walk away. She says, “I have not forgotten either, Zeemneey Soldat.”

  The kiss is brief, but more than friendly.

  “Again.” She breathes.

  And a moment later: “One more time.”

  She is the one who breaks the last kiss and searches the depths of his eyes with their foreheads touching. Pulling his hood over his head, she shoves him out the door with a smile.

  “Until we face the enemy together again.”

  He stands on the roof and watches the car rise and veer off toward the glow behind the clouds that marks the Helicarrier’s location.

  As he trudges down the fire stairs to his dreary room, he reflects that it really is okay—and that sometimes, it’s possible to earn yourself a little peace.

  INTERLUDE #15

  “YOUR daughter has a compound fracture of the left clavicle. The bone was protruding through the skin. We’ve reset it, sutured everything back up, and put her in an immobilizing cast. The head injury is another matter. She may experience cognitive difficulties.”

  The doctor is aware of the oddness of explaining cranial injuries to a man who wears a skull on the outside of his head, but he would not think of saying anything out loud. Not to the Red Skull.

  “I probably won’t be able to tell the difference.”

  It is difficult to tell whether the Red Skull is joking. There are photographs of Hitler and Stalin laughing. There are none of the Red Skull.

  “Tell me this: Will she be able to function? Will she be able to perform simple tasks? Like walking down into a basement and shooting somebody in the back of the head?”

  The doctor gulps before answering: “I don’t see why not.”

  “Inform me if her situation changes.”

  Red Skull asks one last question before walking out the door: “You don’t have any qualms about terminating futile cases, do you?”

  “No, sir. Not at all.”

  Sin’s eyes are closed. She has not shown any outward signs that she has overheard anything that has been said. She is smarter than that. The apple does not fall far from the tree.

  Her father is aware that everything he has said has registered on Sin’s consciousness, but he doesn’t care. What else would she expect from him? He thinks she should count herself lucky that he had handed her over to Mother Night for a ruthlessly pragmatic upbringing instead of wringing her neck.

  Red Skull steps out of the medical bay to find King Cobra waiting in the hallway. He seems intent on smiling, showing sympathy, and appearing obeisant at the same time.

  “I hope your daughter’s prognosis is favorable. I took it upon myself to prioritize getting her to medical treatment, and left dealing with the new Captain America to Crossbones and the—”

  “Don’t call him that.”

  “I’m sorry—?”

  “He’s not the new Captain America. He’s the old Bucky playing dress-up with his dead mentor’s suit.”

  King Cobra attempts to follow the Red Skull down the corridor inside the secret complex in upstate New York but is stopped at a blast door by a pair of R.A.I.D. security guards.

  “Restricted area, Cobra,” Red Skull says over his shoulder. “And Sin’s prognosis is good. If it wasn’t, there would have been the distinct possibility of two wet patches of concrete in the basement down among the bric-a-brac and failed projects.”

  With the blast doors shut behind him, Red Skull strolls down the steel-reinforced-concrete corridor that is as bomb-proof as the old German U-boat pens at Saint-Nazaire. He stops to peek into Arnim Zola’s lab and backs out when he sees the dead water bugs littering the floor. Whatever emanates from Zola’s devices is not conducive to living tissue.

  Another set of blast doors protects Red Skull’s private suite at the end of the corridor. Fully occupying a settee intended for two, Doctor Faustus is cycling through all the cable news channels on the big wall monitor. Senator Wright’s florid face fills the screen on every channel.

  Tamping down his fury at the invasion of his private space, Red Skull enunciates evenly, “How did you get in here?”

  Faustus is sipping a passable Saint-Émilion as he munches on wasabi peas.

  “When you moved operations from Kronas Tower and the compromised R.A.I.D. facility in Manhattan, you transferred the security codes, and my old card still works. Have my privileges been revoked?”

  The Red Skull makes a mental note to have the codes upgraded as soon as time permits. He nods at the monitor screen: “What does our pet politico have to say?”

  “He’s announced his split from his old party, the formation of the Third Wing Party, and his candidacy for president. All three at the same time guaranteed him prime coverage. Very good peas, these, Herr Skull.”

  “Tangy, nicht war? Is he at least sticking to the script?”

  “Very much so. Although his rhetoric is recycled and his delivery a bit hackneyed, it’s what the electorate wants to hear and see. His press releases are getting good traction, as well.”

  Red Skull peruses the security-cam footage of the Senator’s rescue from the “terrorists” on the screen.

  “Such a simple plan: to stage a fake terrorist kidnapping of the senator and have him rescued by Kane-Meyer troopers; how easily it went awry because of one self-righteous meddler. I’ve noticed all the stations replay that doctored video constantly. I am amazed the fakery wasn’t caught.”

  “Nothing to catch, since it’s not doctored. We duplicated the stairwell, got two actors to play Eel and Viper, and made the Senator reenact it with the actual Kane-Meyer troopers. The two actors had fatal accidents.”

  “Brilliant, Faustus. And everybody is parroting the Senator’s contention that Kane-Meyer saved the major American cities from burning to the ground.”

  Doctor Faustus turns up the volume with the remote. “This is the master stroke, though.”

  Stock footage of oil fields with seesawing pumps appears on the screen. The newscaster’s voice projects bias in the form of reverent awe: “…And just yesterday, Senator Wright negotiated a deal with Kronas Energy to lower the price of oil back to pre-crisis levels, this on the heels of brokering the settlement that halted the foreclosure of thousands of homes across the country.”

  Red Skull picks up the remote, turns off the TV, and— taking the bottle from the sideboard—refills Doctor Faustus’ glass. Faustus inhales the bouquet, not minding that he alone is drinking.

  “Having your own minions publicly attack the senator should dispel any notions that he is actually our man, or that the Red Skull is running Kronas from behind the scenes.”

  “I suppose Lukin deserves some of the credit.” The Skull settles in behind his desk. “Admittedly, the germ of the plan was his, although I find it tiresome that he complains about the means to the end. Who cares how we get to the result as long as we get there, and America lies in shambles.”

  A moment later, his own excitement at his impending victory propels Red Skull out of his seat to pace and rant. “And soon, our man Wright can campaign for the presidency as the savior of American prosperity—the shining knight who pulled the country from the brink of ruin and made the streets safe for old ladies and little kids. Slowly, the sheep will accept that hiring wolves to protect them is the only way, and they will come to understand that a police state is the only answer to the chaos of democracy.”

  It takes an exertion of considerable will for Faustus to suppress a yawn. He pretends there’s cork on his tongue while Red Skull continues his harangue.

  “Soon, Kane-Meyer Security will be a jackbooted, baton-wielding presence in every major city in this nation. My hand will wrap around the throat of the entire United States of America—”

  “You mean our hands, I believe, Herr Skull?”

  Dangerous seconds tick by while the Red Skull examines the possible reasons for Faustus’ remark, their implications and extrapolated outcomes. He opts to change the subject. “Don’t you have something else to do? A woman who
has concealed her pregnancy from you, perhaps?”

  The questions are rhetorical; to underscore that point, the Red Skull turns the TV back on and opens the blast door—indicating the meeting is over, and the guest is required to leave.

  However, the opening doors reveal Arnim Zola, who glides into the room with his psychotronic ESP box swiveling to take in the wall monitor on which the footage of the new Captain America is being replayed. “An appropriate visual example of Jungian synchronicity at work. Yes. I am here to report that preliminary tests are positive and conclusive: Our new subject is perfectly viable, and resuscitation can proceed according to our revamped schedule.”

  Red Skull turns a triumphant sneer on Faustus, waving a hand in derision at the image on the screen.

  “Very soon, it won’t be just this stripling imposter wearing the flag. A Captain America with a much more authentic pedigree will emerge to inspire the pliable patriotic urges of the American people, and it will be a Captain America wholly under our control.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  I MAY not have another chance.

  There’s a big fuss in the medical bay over Red Skull’s daughter. And Zola’s lab, or at least the periphery of it, is a hub of activity. Red Skull is more full of himself than ever. He sees his triumph within reach. And when people feel overconfident, they get careless. I hope his hubris strangles him.

  Doctor Faustus is managing a political campaign while running a public-relations blitz, both of which are full-time jobs. He doesn’t have a lot of time to spend inside my head making sure I toe the line. I’m also getting better at compartmentalizing and setting up barriers between the original “me” and the Sharon Carter under Faustus’ control.

  The prospect of motherhood is the most powerful motivator there is. My need to save my child—Steve’s child— from these ruthless maniacs is what is driving me into the halls to search for a way out.