The Death Of Captain America Page 8

The on-site security at the firm is heavy due to terrorist threats, corporate espionage, and the anger of American workers over outsourcing. Sin’s father has supplied her with detailed intelligence on the deployment of armed guards and the location of the central alarm system. Before the head of security can activate the red-alert warning, Sin sends him sprawling with a salvo from her .44-magnum pistols.

  “Let’s see what you’ve got, boys!” Sin yells as she guns down another guard.

  King Cobra wraps his elastic legs around the throat of a guard, crushing the life out of him while firing venom projectiles from his wrist-shooters at two others. His resentment of Sin’s leadership is apparent.

  “Be mindful of your tone, Sin. There is only one of us here who has yet to prove himself.”

  Sin calls to Viper as she holsters her guns and uses her thumbs to gouge out eyeballs.

  “You heard the man, Viper. You have to prove yourself by inflicting terror, pain, and agonizing death if you want to be part of this squad.”

  Viper raises his fists and projects contained force fields that pulverize the bones of a security agent, turning his internal organs to mush. His voice is low, and all but expressionless.

  “You are definitely your father’s darling little girl, Sin.”

  Viper’s fists are still smoking as he uses them to pulp and flatten the face of a guard who is begging for his life.

  Red Skull’s daughter is happily kicking out the teeth of a female data administrator while giving Eel the order to fry the servers and mainframes. Eel complies by inducing a flash overload that bypasses the surge-protectors and turns every chip in the facility to smoldering silicon scrap.

  Sin leads her cohorts out through the shattered doors while Viper mops up the survivors. King Cobra has the audacity to ask what the place they just trashed was.

  “All the data from the Chinese, Japanese, and Korean stock markets gets processed here for the morning bell on Wall Street.”

  “So we just crashed the stock market?”

  “Not entirely, but enough to warm the cockles of father’s heart. Nothing like a little anarchy mixed in with your capitalism, right?”

  Viper and Eel find Sin’s joke hilarious. King Cobra asks, “What’s next, Avengers Mansion?”

  Sin’s reply stops the laughter dead.

  “Not quite. We’re going to go kick some S.H.I.E.L.D. butt.”

  ELEVEN

  IN the East Village—on the roof of what used to be called a flophouse but is now termed “transient accommodations”—Bucky Barnes breathes in the night air and escapes from the dingy claustrophobia of his room. He has been modulating his rage and rethinking his strategy. He knows better than to act rashly, and he is a patient man. But he also knows his foes are not resting, and his window for action is closing fast.

  The Red Skull is behind it all. That is the one thing Bucky is sure of. Even though, in Lukin’s employ as the Winter Soldier, he himself shot Red Skull, Bucky knows that the evil mastermind has cheated death before. A single bullet might not have done the trick. Being dead is the best cover there is. Red Skull’s footprint has been evident in too many of the terrible things that have happened, including the killing of Steve Rogers.

  Crossbones, the shooter he turned over to S.H.I.E.L.D. by way of Falcon, is just a puppet being manipulated by some intermediary for the Red Skull’s benefit. The old Roter Totenkopf is too clever to soil his own hands handling thugs and assassins. Winter Soldier is now a ghost ronin, a wraith with no master, and as such has no access to the intelligence channels that might help in his search for Red Skull.

  The cloud cover breaks, and Bucky catches a glimpse of the Helicarrier as it circles in a racetrack pattern over Manhattan, Brooklyn, and Queens. He notices it is flanked by a pair of subcarriers, which function like the destroyer screens on conventional seagoing aircraft carriers. The smaller, faster airships are added security and can intercept any perceived threats to the mother ship.

  He regrets blowing the cover of Fury’s hijacked L.M.D. while searching for the shield. There might have been another way to accomplish that. The fake Nick Fury could have been put to better use affording him access to the Helicarrier. There are two people up there he would like to get his hands on: Tony Stark, of course. The second is Crossbones—who can at least lead him to the intermediary, and then possibly to the Red Skull himself.

  There’s no way to know how much Black Widow told them during her debriefing, but it was certainly enough for them to be expecting Winter Soldier to come calling. Bucky has no idea how he’s going to get into the Helicarrier, but he knows what Steve Rogers would have said.

  “There’s always a way.”

  But until he finds a way, he’s going to keep up his search for the Red Skull by any means at his disposal.

  IN the secure holding area on Level Seven of the Helicarrier, Brock Rumlow sits in the interrogation room across the table from Professor Charles Xavier, the founder of the X-Men and the most powerful psi-talent on the planet. The purported assassin of Captain America has not answered a single question. But that is to be expected, since Professor X has not asked any. The only sound in the room for the past half hour has been the rattle of the chain that secures Crossbones’ wrists to the table and an occasional electronic hum from Xavier’s wheelchair. At last, Rumlow breaks the silence.

  “I can feel you in there, rummaging around, you know. In my mind.”

  Xavier waves at the two-way mirror to signal he wants to leave. The locking lugs on the steel door retract as he wheels himself away from the table.

  “That is a sensory illusion. Your memories, hopes, and fears are egregious, but no more so than the usual homicidal sociopath. I’m done here.”

  Crossbones grins and shakes his shackles.

  “Come on, don’t you want to dig into all that stuff I suppressed about my childhood?”

  Professor X rolls to the door. He doesn’t bother to face Crossbones when he replies.

  “If I were a vindictive man, I’d drag the memory your subconscious has totally blocked into the light of day: what your mother’s boyfriend did to you with the socket wrench when you were seven, and what you did to your mother’s kitten in revenge.”

  Tony Stark is waiting for Xavier on the other side of the door.

  “Did you get anything out of him, Charles? He’s been stonewalling us for days.”

  “I probed as deeply as possible, Tony. Someone has erased entire sections of that man’s memory. He doesn’t even know for sure the Red Skull is supposedly alive, let alone what his plans or his whereabouts.”

  Through the two-way mirror, they can both see Brock Rumlow making faces at them. A shadow passes over his face, as if a bad memory has bubbled to the surface.

  “Was it another telepath who did the erasing? Can you tell something like that?”

  “A telepath would have been more selective and removed only what was necessary. This was a brutal excision of whole swaths of memory. He’s lucky he’s not having blackouts. I’m sorry—retrieval by any means is impossible if the neural pathways are no longer there.”

  In the interrogation room, Crossbones beats his forehead against the steel tabletop.

  Xavier touches the two-way glass.

  “You can’t keep him in the Helicarrier brig indefinitely, Tony.”

  Tony Stark thinks for a second that his mind has been read. But he knows the Professor respects his privacy. He averts his eyes from the sight of Crossbones punishing himself.

  “We’re transferring him to the maximum-security level of the Raft.”

  Professor Xavier has always been dubious about special facilities built to contain and control superhuman and mutant criminals. But Crossbones is nothing much more than an extraordinarily strong human with a high pain threshold. The high-security prison off Rykers Island in the East River should be more than enough to contain him. It occurs to Xavier that the vulnerable link in the chain of custody is the means of transfer between the Helicarrier and the Raft
, but he doesn’t voice his opinion.

  THE next day finds Falcon on the roof of the Daily Bugle building in Midtown Manhattan. He has opened a small, secret compartment in the back of the iconic sign’s fifteen-foot-high “B.” At head level, Falcon faces a tiny lens and an even tinier microphone. This is one of eleven communication hubs Nick Fury has hidden in scattered sites around the city. Falcon has had to memorize the locations and the logic behind the rotating access codes. It’s as secure as anything can possibly be, since the signals are encrypted and piggyback on legitimate communications channels, but Falcon and Fury choose their words with the possibility of interception in mind.

  “The main office is going to hell in a handcart, and that new kid decided to turn off his damn phone. We need to get him back on the program, and fast.”

  “He’s a maverick, boss—just like you in your younger days. Could be he’s cooking up a deal of his own?”

  “If he has his way, heads will roll in a few corner offices.”

  “I think we may be glad to see one of those offices vacated.”

  “But the other exec is a good egg in a lousy situation who may be derailed for now but has a chance of getting back on track.”

  “You’re more forgiving than I thought, boss.”

  “No, just practical. More like a sergeant in the field than an officer in headquarters. You have to find that maverick and get him back into the herd.”

  “I hear you, but if he’s off the grid—”

  “Keep in touch. I have a couple of options I’m looking into that might flush the kid out of the woodwork.”

  Falcon turns off the unit, reseals the compartment, and turns to see Sharon Carter step out from behind the big air-conditioning condenser, where she has been keeping out of the camera frame. Falcon shrugs.

  “Fury’s just as much in the dark as we are about where Bucky is.”

  “I knew he’d have contacted you first if he had any leads.”

  “It sounds like Nick is setting out bait traps or casting lures, but even a wily old campaigner like him might have a hard time out-double-thinking the Winter Soldier. I have serious doubts—”

  “Where’s this going, Sam?”

  “I’m thinking maybe we should give S.H.I.E.L.D. the heads-up—let Tony Stark know Bucky is gunning for him.”

  A huge flock of pigeons circles the Bugle sign and settles on top of the giant letters. Sharon is distracted as it enters her mind that the birds are the Falcon’s eyes and ears. They all seem to be looking at her. She snaps her attention back to the conversation at hand.

  “Tony already knows. They suspected as soon as Bucky took down Natasha, and they knew for sure after they debriefed her. Winter Soldier doesn’t operate haphazardly. He has a plan, and Steve’s shield is part of that plan.”

  All the pigeons turn to bob their heads in Falcon’s direction.

  “Don’t you think you need to share that insight with Stark?”

  “I’m not communicating with them, Sam. I don’t trust them right now. Lord knows, they’ve got enough resources to work it out from their side of the street. If we want to find Bucky, then we should concentrate on finding the Red Skull. Bucky will wait for the opportunity to go after Stark, but he’s got to have Skull on his hit list, too. In Bucky’s view, Stark may take a lot of blame, but Red Skull had to be the one who set all the wheels in motion.”

  Falcon steps up on the ledge and spreads his wings. The pigeons take off from their perches and swarm around him.

  “Hop on, Sharon. I’ve got some leads on an A.I.M. base. Let’s start shaking the tree. There’s no telling what might fall out of it.”

  Sharon locks her arms around Falcon’s shoulders, and he steps off into blue sky. It’s a straight plummet, a hundred feet down before they catch a thermal to soar through the steel-and-glass canyons of the city.

  “Finding the Red Skull will lead us to Bucky.” Sharon has to shout above the wind. “And we can’t forget it was the Red Skull who had Steve killed. Nothing’s ever simple with that evil maniac. That was just the first act in a bigger scenario. He’s planning something, and he needed Steve out of the way. The bad blood between them goes back too far. If it was just about killing Steve, Skull would have made a long, drawn-out production out of it and rubbed it in his face.”

  “Pretty heavy inductive reasoning there, Sharon. You sure you don’t know something I don’t?”

  The silence from Sharon goes on too long. Falcon can feel her heart pounding. It’s puzzling, but he lets it go. She’s been through hell lately.

  “Okay, so we steer clear of S.H.I.E.L.D. and go after the bad guys, instead. We’ve got us a plan!”

  INTERLUDE #7

  IT’S another routine psychological assessment at the S.H.I.E.L.D. Administration Building. Agent 776 has reported to the session on his lunch break, still in uniform. The psychiatrist’s office is dimly lit and furnished in U.N. General Service Modern with no personal touches whatsoever. Agent 776 is eager to get his fitness rating approved, and he is trying hard to appear sincere and open. Although he knows he must have been talking for the last fifty minutes, he can’t remember a single thing he said. That should alarm him. Somehow, it doesn’t. It seems perfectly fine. Everything is perfectly fine. Perfect.

  “Everything is perfectly fine,” the psychiatrist says in an evenly modulated voice. “And you understand exactly what I am telling you to do, Patrick?”

  “Completely, Doctor. I am to—”

  “You are not to speak of this to anybody, and you are to forget I told you to do so. Isn’t that just perfect, Patrick?”

  “Yes. Perfect.”

  “Then you may report back to your duties at the resupply station. Be ready for the change tomorrow morning.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  TWELVE

  THIRTY-SEVEN floors above the psychiatrist’s office in the executive suite, Agent 352—Lindley R. Hermann, a section leader of the 3rd Emergency Reaction Team—stands at attention before the director’s desk.

  “Sir, I believe the United States needs a Captain America now more than ever. As a combat veteran in top physical shape, with no living relatives, I am volunteering to be considered for the honor. Sir.”

  Unseen by Hermann, his service record, the report on his deep-background check, and his medical file are scrolling on a retinal-bounce display beaming into Tony Stark’s right eye. Stark is dismissive but understanding.

  “Thank you for your devotion to duty, Agent 352. There’s no plan for a new Captain America. The shield and uniform are retired. This matter is not open for future discussion. Is there anything else you wish to speak to me about?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Your offer is appreciated. You are dismissed.”

  The agent executes a smart about-face and exits the office wearing his dignity like a badge.

  Stark waits until he is sure the agent has left the suite entirely before he buzzes his receptionist.

  “Please screen my appointments more closely, Anna. I have a ton of work I have to finish before I report back to the Helicarrier.”

  “Understood, sir. There is one more person waiting to see you. He says he has a letter for you from Steve Rogers. Shall I tell him you’re too busy?”

  “No. Send him in.”

  The middle-aged man who enters Stark’s office is wearing an expensive but conservative gray suit and carrying a monogrammed Moroccan leather briefcase. He does not offer to shake hands but sits down with the case on his lap.

  “How do you do, Director Stark. My name is Maurice Greely, and I am an attorney representing the interests of one Steve Rogers, currently deceased. I must say, you are a difficult man to see. I’ve been trying to get an appointment for a long time—”

  “And what interests are you representing, Mr. Greely?”

  The lawyer snaps open the locks on his briefcase.

  “During what you called your ‘Civil War,’ I was given a letter to deliver to you under certain circum
stances—one of those circumstances being the death of my client. Believe me, I never wanted this kind of burden, so it is with great relief that I pass it on to you.”

  A plain white business envelope is taken from the briefcase, placed on the desk, and moved a nominal three inches in Stark’s direction. “For Tony Stark only” is written in a neat hand on the sealed envelope.

  “All I know is that the envelope contains the last wishes of Captain America. You can verify his handwriting, and he has included things known only to you and him. He said that despite everything that had happened, you were the only one who was capable of doing what needed to be done if he fell.”

  “Why not just amend his will?”

  “I suggested that. But he insisted this was private, and only between him and you. He said you would understand once you had read it.”

  Tony Stark opens the envelope, extracts the letter, and pauses to look at the attorney without unfolding it. Greely does not make a move to leave.

  “My commission is not fulfilled until I witness you reading the contents. Those were my explicit instructions from Mr. Rogers, and—”

  Stark unfolds the letter and reads it. He reads it again, and then a third time. He refolds the letter, reinserts it in the envelope, opens his desk drawer, places it inside, locks the drawer, and drums his fingers on the desktop before he raises his eyes to the lawyer.

  “Thank you, Mr. Greely.”

  Mr. Maurice Greely, Esquire, closes his briefcase and leaves with no further comment.

  Again, Tony Stark waits until the reception area is clear before he buzzes Anna.

  “I need the Black Widow in my office ASAP.”

  THIRTEEN

  THERE is no subtlety to a direct frontal assault. You just bust in the door and take down everything that moves.

  Bucky, in his exhaustive search for Red Skull, had gone through the list of dormant A.I.M. sites and checked them out one by one. On the second day, he got lucky. One of the roving listening posts that had a record of working with King Cobra was back in action and staffed with a full complement of techs and security specialists. The site’s re-manning had been accomplished with unmarked vans, but a rooftop vantage point had allowed Bucky a glimpse of the yellow boiler suits and bucket-shaped yellow cowls of A.I.M. operatives as they debussed from the van directly through an alley door. He knew his targets would be clearly marked.