The Death Of Captain America Page 7

  But where’s the real thing? Where is S.H.I.E.L.D. hiding Captain America’s shield?

  NINE

  THREE in the morning, and I choose to shoot myself in the bathroom, sitting on the edge of my tub. Stupid, huh? Who’s going to be the beneficiary of my consideration? My landlord? Lots easier to get blood and brains off tile than shag carpet and wallpaper. The muzzle is under my chin, there’s a round in the chamber, and the hammer is cocked. I’m saying to myself, “Go ahead and squeeze the trigger, Sharon.”

  Obliteration is the way to go. Ceasing to exist neatly solves all the problems and erases the pain. But why can’t I do it? I lower the gun, and I see Doctor Faustus in the mirror over the sink.

  “No, there won’t be an easy way out of this, Agent 13. You can’t pull the trigger any more than you can tell your friends what you’ve done. Or rather, what I made you do.”

  I tell him to shut up. I smash the mirror with the butt of the pistol. Doctor Faustus laughs at me from a hundred shards of mirror, and I scream at him to get out of my head. The upstairs neighbor starts thumping on the floor. He’d have been doing a lot more than thumping if I’d sent a bullet up through my head and into his toilet.

  Cool it, Sharon.

  Yeah, right. Can’t even off myself with any sort of proficiency.

  Stumbling into my dark living room with a cocked-andlocked pistol in my hand, I see somebody coming through the open window from the fire escape. My training kicks in, and I snap the gun up into a two-handed combat grip and start to take up the trigger slack.

  “Freeze, or I’ll shoot.”

  More of that good training. Always give them a warning or you get spit-roasted when you go before the review board for a bad shooting.

  It’s Sam Wilson, in full Falcon regalia. I guess flying in through a fifth-floor window makes more sense than standing on a stoop and pushing a buzzer when you’re wearing red-and-white tights and a mask.

  “Damn, girl,” he says. “It’s just me.”

  “What the hell, Sam—I almost shot you.”

  “I noticed. You okay?”

  “Are you kidding? I’m a wreck. Steve is dead, my career at S.H.I.E.L.D. is over, I have no friends, and I can’t… sleep.”

  Watch it, girl. You almost told him you can’t even kill yourself.

  “No friends? What am I, chopped liver? And you know damn well there are others who would take a bullet for you.”

  Bullet? Bad choice of words, Sam. But I can’t say anything, can I? Best to steer clear of any subject where I might have another slip of the tongue. I’m trying to hold my gun at my side as casually as possible, but Falcon is looking at it and probably wondering why I had it in my hand coming out of the bathroom. I push the de-cocking lever and shove the gun down into my sweats.

  “So. Something heavy must be going down to bring you through my window at this hour. Is it more bad news?”

  “I was worried about you. Is everything copacetic?”

  That’s the code word Fury gave me to activate the black-box jammer. “Copacetic.” Another bad choice of words, but nothing that will raise a red flag at the surveillance analyst’s chowder and marching society. I reach outside the window, pull the loose brick, extract the plastic-wrapped gadget, and turn it on. Falcon waits for the red activation light to come on.

  “I just got the word from Fury. He needs you and me to do a job for him.”

  “Fury always needs somebody to do a job for him.”

  “More personal this time. Winter Soldier went off the grid yesterday. Looks like he’s getting set to kick over the poker table, and we need to keep him cool.”

  I feel a migraine coming on, but this sounds like a good excuse to get out of the apartment and distract me from my own wallowing pit of depression. I tell him fine and duck into my bedroom to change into something I can fight in. I ask Sam to brief me through the open door.

  “Fury says Bucky has been accessing S.H.I.E.L.D. databases to find out where they’re hiding Cap’s shield. The one on display in D.C. is a replica. The real McCoy is here in Manhattan. Not long after the location data was compromised, one of Fury’s weapon caches got pilfered. So Winter Soldier is now below the radar, seriously armed, and out for blood. Every way I figure it, the shield is a means to an end, not the end itself.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Another big load of data that got downloaded was about Tony Stark. Fury thinks Bucky is out to whack the head honcho of S.H.I.E.L.D.”

  That’s something I wouldn’t mind doing myself, but I’m keeping my hole cards facedown until I sort out the Doctor Faustus predicament. I pull on a pair of boots, strap a holster over my jumpsuit, load up with spare ammo clips, and I’m ready to go.

  “Are we flying, or taking a cab?”

  TEN

  ONE percent of hunting is the kill. Two percent is the chase. Ninety-seven percent is the stalking—or in some cases, the waiting. In the computer age, much of the stalking is done online and requires extensive hacking skills. A good deal of the Winter Soldier’s formal KGB training was in the computer-science department at the elite Foreign Intelligence Training Institute in Chelobit’evo just outside Moscow, in a building that was supposedly an insane asylum. He had been drilled to anticipate and plan for future needs, so he installed a “backdoor” into their database that he can still access. That access provided him with a password algorithm cracker that enabled him to penetrate both the S.H.I.E.L.D. internal network and Nick Fury’s secret trapdoor into that same system.

  Winter Soldier was able to remotely hijack the Nick Fury L.M.D. already co-opted by Fury himself and use it to forcefully enter a secret S.H.I.E.L.D. laboratory in Long Island City. There had been a confrontation between the robot Fury and two agents that resulted in the destruction and exposure of the L.M.D. and sent both agents to the Helicarrier infirmary’s ICU. Before the L.M.D. went off-line, it confirmed the presence of Captain America’s shield at that facility. Tony Stark reacted by doubling the security at the lab and began formulating plans to move the shield to a more secure location.

  Two blocks from the substation, Winter Soldier observes the activity there through range-finder binoculars. He has removed bricks from the parapet to create a peephole that doesn’t silhouette him against the sky. A black tarp blends his prone body into the tar roof for the benefit of satellite cams. The lenses of his binoculars have been shaded to prevent reflected glare from betraying his location. Tony Stark may be a technical wizard and a smart businessman, but he’s in the minor leagues when it comes to sneaking into places. And you can’t prevent somebody from doing something unless you have a pretty good idea of how to do it yourself.

  Still, Bucky has to hand it to Stark, if he was the one who came up with the plan for moving the shield. There are four armored transport vehicles leaving the loading bay of the lab at the same time. The ruse is meant to give the impression that three of the vehicles are decoys, and the fourth one is carrying the prize. It might have worked if there had been an attempt to camouflage the four departures, but their very openness is the giveaway to the mind of the trained assassin. He makes no move to follow any of the vehicles, but shifts his focus to the roof of the lab where he catches the glints off a dozen pairs of binoculars that are scanning the rooftops or following the vehicles.

  Winter Soldier barely moves one hand to hit the redial button on a throwaway cell phone that calls another throwaway phone on a rooftop four blocks away from the other side of the lab. The other phone’s ringtone triggers a remote that releases a prone black-clad mannequin on casters to roll down the slight incline of the flat tar roof toward the fire stairs. The response is immediate. Scores of Cape-Killers and tactical-support vehicles converge on the mannequin. At the same time, a garage door next to the lab loading bay opens. A single car emerges and drives away at a speed well within the posted limit. The car has the outward appearance of an Aston Martin Vanquish, but the whine of the revving engine is not even close to the throaty roa
r of a 362.2-cubic-inch V12.

  It’s a S.H.I.E.L.D. flying car.

  Egress routes in four directions from the roof had been plotted out well in advance. The Winter Soldier takes the one that will bring him the closest to the where he estimates the car will be within the next five seconds; he swings down from roof-access ladder to fire escape to lamppost and hits the street just as the flying car leaves the asphalt with tires rotating to airborne mode.

  Bucky has upgraded the capacitors and coils of the EMP generator in his left arm to triple the output. He only has to crank the power halfway to burn out all the flying car’s control circuits and bring it down hard on a row of parked cars. When he pries open the crumpled door of the fake Vanquish, a black-booted foot kicks him hard in the face. He notes the accuracy and power behind the kick. He also notes that it is a very feminine size 6.

  The next series of kicks come in a precise flurry; Winter Soldier blocks with his cyber arm, but he must retreat three steps to do so. The kicker exits the wrecked flying car in a blur of black leather, landing on her feet like the trained ballerina and martial artist she is.

  Black Widow.

  The Winter Soldier had known her as Natalia Romanova. He helped train her for the KGB’s Department X. That had been right after the war, during the worst of the Cold War paranoia. She had gone on to further training in the Red Room, another of Comrade Karpov’s pet programs. The Black Widow was the Soviet’s second most effective assassin until she defected to the West. Now, she faces off against Winter Soldier with Captain America’s shield strapped to her back.

  “Natasha Alianovna.”

  He uses the diminutive and the patronymic, indicating familiarity and affection, but he has not let his guard down. He knew there was a Black Widow working with S.H.I.E.L.D.—but that had been the name of the program, not necessarily an individual.

  “I thought you’d be an old woman by now.”

  She smiles but does not lower her guard, either.

  “You, of all people, should not need to be told about the wonders of Russian biotechnology. Now, why are you after the shield? Who are you working for, Zeemneey Soldat?”

  “I don’t work for anyone anymore, Natasha. I’m here for an old friend.”

  Black Widow is taken aback. Of course. All the clues add up.

  “So it wasn’t just a rumor back then—about who you really were, about how Karpov found you floating in the English Channel.”

  “It was more like a joke that everyone was in on except for me. Not anymore, though. Karpov and Lukin made me over for their own purposes, but now I’m going to be what I was always supposed to be.”

  His words ring true to her, but she knows he was trained by the most devious minds at the Lubyanka on Dzerzhinsky Square. She knows where her own allegiance lies and what her duty is. But she is burdened by memory.

  “Walk away, Soldier,” she says. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  He shifts his stance to lead with his left.

  “That’s funny, I was just about to say the same—”

  She strikes before he finishes the sentence, executing a grand jeté that morphs into a flying kick as she fires electrostatic bolts from her Widow’s Bite bracelets.

  The 30,000-volt charges are grounded out by Winter Soldier’s prosthetic arm as he draws one pistol as a diversion, then kicks her so hard she hits a brick wall ten feet above the sidewalk.

  The most effective assassin of the Soviet era draws his other pistol and opens fire at the second most-effective assassin. Microscopic electrostatic suction cups on Black Widow’s boots and gloves allow her to cling to the wall as bullets bounce off the shield. The man who used to be Captain America’s sidekick stops shooting as soon as he realizes what the jacketed lead is ricocheting from. That moment of hesitation is the only opening Black Widow needs to launch a counterattack—springing off the wall, lashing out with a roundhouse kick that would have resulted in major cranial trauma had it connected.

  Police sirens are wailing, their Doppler effect indicating convergence. 911 lines have been jammed with reports of “shots fired.” Without a doubt, S.H.I.E.L.D. tactical teams and Cape-Killer squads will beat the cops to the scene. Winter Soldier knows he has less than ten seconds to neutralize his opponent, take possession of the shield, and make his escape. In two of those seconds, he flashes back to a time when Natalia Romanova reminded him of what it was to feel human. Another second elapses as he wishes he was on another of Karpov’s missions, and that there was a stasis tank waiting for him to wipe away his memories. One more second to repress sentiment and strengthen resolve before he feints with his right, and then connects hard with his left.

  Winter Soldier unstraps the shield from her back and makes his escape before her unconscious body hits the pavement. Four seconds later, the first Cape-Killers arrive on the scene.

  TWO blocks away on a warehouse rooftop, Sharon Carter and Falcon watch the police arrive. The cops get shunted aside as S.H.I.E.L.D. situation-management teams spirit away Black Widow and sanitize the site.

  “The kid doesn’t waste any time, does he, Sharon?”

  “That kid is older than your grandfather, Sam. You got any idea what plan ‘B’ is?”

  “You feel like talking to S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

  “Not in the slightest.”

  “Then we have to start tracking him on our own. Right now.”

  BLACK Widow wakes up in the MRI suite of the Helicarrier infirmary with Tony Stark standing over her. He’s telling her that she has a concussion, but she wishes he would stop talking so she can remember the dream that is already fading away. It was a remembrance more than just a dream, enhanced and romanticized with all the bad parts edited out. The Winter Soldier sneaking in through her bedroom window all those years ago, the night before she was sent away to marry the test pilot Shostakov. She remembers the first kiss and the last, because they were the sweetest and the most bitter; all the kisses in between are fragments of lost feelings she can never recover. She can barely conceal the resentment in her reply to Stark.

  “You knew he was out there. You knew Winter Soldier was out there, and you knew who he really was. And you didn’t think I needed to be briefed about that?”

  “Until he told me, nobody but Steve Rogers believed that Bucky was still alive—and he wanted it kept quiet, so I respected that.”

  Stark reaches out to Black Widow, but she flinches.

  “I also wasn’t aware that you two had a history.”

  She knows where her loyalties lie, but she also knows that what’s personal is personal. And the director of S.H.I.E.L.D. has no valid reason for knowing the secrets of her heart. She prevaricates by stating the unadorned facts.

  “We trained together for a few weeks, then I never spoke to him again.”

  But she did not forget.

  Stark crosses his arms, which is a convenient way of doing something with his hands after she has rebuffed his attempt at human contact.

  “I think Winter Soldier is working for Nick Fury. All the S.H.I.E.L.D. files on Winter Soldier went missing at the same time Fury did his disappearing act,” Stark says.

  The bruises on her face are beginning to discolor, which makes it harder for Stark to read her expressions.

  “He told me he’s not working for anybody, and I believe him. He wanted Captain America’s shield because he doesn’t trust you with it.”

  “He told you that? About the shield?”

  “He didn’t have to. I could see it in his eyes. It was personal.”

  “How well did you get to know him in those few weeks you trained together? Is that why you lost? You couldn’t go all out against…an old friend?”

  Yes, that is the truth of it, but she can’t reveal that.

  “No, it’s not like that. I know how he thinks. We were weapons forged by the same smith. We were both used in the same way.”

  Her memory dredges up the images from the awful night she followed up an informant’s tip to break into the KGB
weapons warehouse in Chelobit’evo near the asylum. It was there, in a dark corner behind racks of rocket launchers and crates of flamethrowers, that she found the most dangerous weapon in the warehouse. She had wiped away the condensation on the coffin-sized glass cylinder and seen him suspended in bubbling liquid, with pulsing tubes inserted in his nostrils and veins. Dormant: not dead but not quite alive either. The Winter Soldier between assignments.

  Stark is not to be put off.

  “If you know him so well, what do you think he’ll do next?” “He blames you for the death of Captain America.”

  “He’ll have to get in line for that one, Natasha.”

  “He is capable of cutting to the head of the line. He is capable of defeating the best security S.H.I.E.L.D. can put up.”

  She slips off the exam table and pushes back her wild red hair.

  “He’s coming after you, Tony Stark.”

  INTERLUDE #6

  SIN has dressed for the occasion in what she considers her fighting outfit: a red bustier, matching thigh-high boots and black tights and gloves. The occasion is a raid on a Wall Street data-processing firm that is the nerve center of the Asian stock market. The crew she has assembled for this incursion includes King Cobra, Eel, and a newcomer called Viper. Sin has collectively dubbed them the “Serpent Squad”—but in her own mind, she thinks of them as the “Slime Society.”

  This is not a stealth operation but a brutal break-in during (late) working hours with guns blazing, venom spitting, and electrical bolts zapping. It is also a test of sorts to determine whether the Serpent Squad is worthy of serving the Red Skull.