The Death Of Captain America Page 9

  Bucky sheds his leather jacket on the fire escape as he descends to the alley and slips on his black domino mask. He ramps up the power capacitors in his EMP projector to maximum and fries the control circuits of the steel door so the locking lugs are frozen shut. He’s not going in that way, but he doesn’t want anybody sneaking out the back.

  Walking around to the front of the building is a calculated risk, but it’s the wee hours of the morning in a commercial neighborhood with no nightlife. The building is full of small businesses that supply trimmings, zippers, and buttons to the fashion industry, so the front door is more a barrier to prevent winos from sleeping in the lobby than it is a deterrent to burglary. A hard push with his prosthetic arm is enough to gain entry. The door to the A.I.M. listening post itself is reinforced steel like the alley door. A ther mite charge burns through the lock; one blow from Winter Soldier’s robotic arm sends the door flying inwards, crushing two operatives. Most A.I.M. members are disaffected tech geeks with no muscle tone or fighting skills, so mopping up is relatively easy. The few who are armed don’t know enough to use their weapons from behind cover and suffer the ignominy of having their faces smashed in with the butt stocks of their own plasma-projector rifles. There are no M.O.D.O.C. (Military Organisms Designed Only for Combat) squads at this location, so Winter Soldier hardly breaks a sweat. He walks around the facility kicking the weapons out of reach of the marginally conscious before he approaches the first of the three yellow-clad misanthropes purposely left fully conscious for interrogation. Yanking off the hood reveals a sallow, bearded face, one eye wide with fear. The other eye is squeezed shut under the muzzle of a very big pistol.

  “You’ve got one chance, stupid. Where’s the Red Skull?”

  “I don’t know! I swear—”

  Blood and broken teeth shower the other two potential intelligence sources as Winter Soldier rearranges the facial structure of their reticent cohort with the butt of his pistol. The more defiant of the two gets his kneecap shot off, and the smoking pistol traverses to the A.I.M. operative who has soiled his uniform and can’t control his shaking. Winter Soldier is forced to shout to be heard above the screaming.

  “Your buddies are going to be called ‘Gummy’ and ‘Stumblebum.’ Do you want to be ‘Lefty,’ or is your memory going to suddenly improve?”

  “He wasn’t lying. We haven’t communicated directly with the Red Skull—just with his crazy daughter, and with King Cobra.”

  “Keep talking.”

  “She’s way off her nut, but she’s not stupid. She knows everybody is looking for them, especially after that Wall Street raid. We have no way to initiate contact with her. She calls us.”

  “For what? What job are you doing for her? What’s the intel you’re gathering and passing off to her?”

  “S.H.I.E.L.D. resupply and maintenance stations—the ones on top of skyscrapers. They service the Helicarrier and subcarriers. She wanted the names of the agents at each location and their shift schedules, as well as the schedules for subcarrier supply shuttles. We weren’t told what they wanted it for.”

  Sin had been right not to tell them, but that doesn’t matter. Winter Soldier is certain he now knows what Sin plans to do. But how to find her? If he had twenty agents at his disposal, he could mount a surveillance operation on all the resupply stations. By himself, and unable to man a stakeout 24/7, his odds of being at the right place at the right time are minimally sixty-to-one. He’s better off waiting for her to strike and trying to pick up the trail. He will not be goaded into acting prematurely.

  He is the Winter Soldier.

  He has all the time in the world.

  FORTEEN

  THE Helicarrier’s Central Combat Information Center is a windowless room connected to the Command and Operations Bridge by a short catwalk. There are no light fixtures in this chamber. All the illumination comes from hundreds of monitors, multifunction situational displays, and holographic projectors. This is the central hub where all S.H.I.E.L.D. intelligence data is sorted, processed, and tagged for evaluation. There are backup sites in deep bunkers in widely dispersed locations around the world. But in combat, and during major operations, the CCIC is the main nerve center that feeds strategic and tactical information directly to the Command and Operations Bridge. Helicarrier crew members call it “The Hive,” and they call the intelligence analysts who staff it “drones.”

  Deputy Director Maria Hill had ordered the CCIC cleared of all personnel for a private briefing with Director Tony Stark. S.H.I.E.L.D.’s two ranking officers face an array of monitors displaying multiple surveillance-camera shots of the same individual: a freckle-faced, red-haired girl in a S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform gleefully shooting similarly dressed agents with a pair of large-bore automatic pistols.

  “Facial-recognition programs confirm her identity as Sinthea Schmidt, the Red Skull’s daughter,” the deputy director reports. “She calls herself Sin these days.”

  The images on the monitors shift to wider coverage. Sin and her crew on a rampage through a subcarrier—shooting, smashing, strangling, and electrocuting all who stand in their way. Tony Stark is studying the faces of Sin’s colleagues.

  “I recognize King Cobra and Eel, but the third creep is a mystery to me.”

  “After we enhanced the audio, we could hear the others calling him ‘Viper.’”

  “Another one? Madam Hydra’s going to love him.”

  “She shot the first one—maybe we’ll get lucky, and she’ll shoot this one, too.”

  On the screen, the carnage escalates. Sin has worked herself into an ecstatic berserker state. She howls with laughter as she shoots, stomps, and kicks her way through the subcarrier’s corridors.

  “They actually got aboard a subcarrier?” Stark asks, reaching for the remote. “They breached our security that easily?”

  “They stepped on to the subcarrier wearing authentic uniforms and flashing actual security-access cards. They even had holographic-image generators that made their faces look exactly like the agents they were impersonating.”

  “Walk me through it, Maria. Details, please.”

  “The Helicarrier is only assigned a nominal number of prisoner-security specialists since we’re not equipped to handle a lot of detainees on board. When we moved Crossbones to a subcarrier for transfer to the Raft, they had to make a stop at a resupply station to take on the secure-transfer team. That’s where it went wrong.”

  Stark hands Hill the remote, playing Monday-morning quarterback with himself. How stupid had it been to not realize doubling the security on the Helicarrier and at the Raft meant nothing if the resupply station was left vulnerable? But how easy could it be to compromise any S.H.I.E.L.D. facility? He turns to Deputy Director Hill, who has anticipated his question and has already used the remote to bring up forensic-investigation footage of the resupply station on the roof of the Trans-Unilateral Telecom Tower in downtown Jersey City. Dead agents, stripped to their underwear, lay sprawled where they fell. Most had not drawn their weapons.

  A S.H.I.E.L.D. ID card with a photo of a blond man with chiseled features fills the central screen.

  “This man—Agent 776, Patrick Stansfield—turned off the surveillance cams, switched the security-data-transfer lines into a repeating loop, and put the alarm system on standby, then simply opened the door and let them in.”

  Tony Stark catches the illogic of Hill’s statement immediately.

  “All that was inferred by on-site examination after the fact? How is it possible to know all that?”

  “Stansfield had some minor personal issues and had a yellow flag on his file. While that was being sorted out, Internal Security had assigned another agent on the site to surreptitiously record Stansfield on duty with a micro-corneal cam. The cam, which resembles a normal contact lens, went undetected by Sin and her crew.”

  The director of S.H.I.E.L.D. sits down at an empty console and rubs his eyes.

  “And Agent Stansfield was killed along with everybody else at
the station, as were security personnel on the sub-carrier? I was the one who authorized the transfer, and I’m responsible for not spotting the weak link in our security. I’m going to write personal letters to the families of every agent that was killed.”

  The deputy director almost tells Stark it isn’t really his fault but decides this might be read as sycophancy of the worst sort. She also feels strongly against assuaging any sense of guilt the director might have. He should suffer, she thinks. As long as the psychic pain doesn’t impinge on the efficacy of the organization, why not let him feel the full brunt of the hurt. Maria Hill switches back to the surveillance videos from the subcarrier. In the heat of the battle, with alarm Klaxons blaring and emergency lights flashing, Sin shoots the restraints off Crossbones and takes the time to engage in a long tongue-wrestling clinch when they should have been running full-tilt to the escape pods.

  “This is unconscionable,” Stark says as he averts his eyes. “Crossbones was our only link to the plot that killed Steve Rogers, and we let him get spirited away from under our noses.”

  “There’s more, Director Stark.”

  “Oh?”

  “There were supposed to be a dozen more agents on duty for the transfer and hand-off. They all went off the grid right before the raid. No GPS signals, no commo responses, nothing missing from their living quarters. They just vanished.”

  Stark slumps at the console momentarily, then sits up alert and angry.

  “We’ve got a mole—or a major penetration, at the very least. I want every field unit reprioritized to hunt down Sin and Crossbones. I want the entire Intelligence section vetted by Internal Security, and vice versa. After that, both sections are going to run deep-background investigations on the dead and missing agents, and account for every second of Agent Stansfield’s activities for the past year.”

  “I’ll upload all that to the file dump as soon as possible. Is there anything else you need, sir?”

  “One other thing. I got in a preliminary field report from Black Widow, who I assigned to track down Winter Soldier. Also got in a whole file of NYPD incident reports that were tagged because our analysts think Widow was involved. It seems she’s been rousting the dive bars and fleabag hotels Bucky has been known to frequent. Lacerations, soft-tissue damage, fractures, and concussions were listed in the police write-ups. But nobody wanted to file a complaint, and everybody involved developed convenient cases of amnesia about the appearance of the perp. Black Widow’s report lists all the bars mentioned in the police write-ups.”

  Maria Hill carefully assesses her options in replying. She has definite opinions about Natalia Romanova, but will voicing them come off as being spiteful? She has ambitions, which have been sidelined by Tony Stark supplanting her as director. She also has a duty to give the director an honest assessment.

  “You sent a former Russian spy and assassin to hunt down another former Russian spy and assassin. The techniques and methodologies they employ are neither subtle nor gentle. What did you expect?”

  Stark gives a verbal command to the computer controlling the displays, and a digital copy of the report appears on the main screen.

  “As you said before, Maria—there’s more. She gives a detailed account of her inquiries into the underground-mercenary circuit, illegal-weapons suppliers, itinerant-intelligence purveyors, snitches, and the usual hard guys with something to sell. She came up with zilch. I also get the impression she’s holding something back.”

  Deputy Director Hill is inwardly amazed at how little this man seems to understand about women. But her face does not betray her when she answers.

  “Women always hold back something about men they’ve been involved with.”

  “She said they only trained together. And she told me Bucky blamed me for Cap’s death, and that he was planning to come after me for that. Isn’t that a major betrayal of his trust?”

  “I doubt she used the adverb ‘only.’ That changes the meaning completely. And sometimes a small betrayal is the blind that covers a bigger one.”

  The words are out of her mouth before she has time to regret what she has said. But there is no retracting them. She has to let them lie on the table like little white worms.

  “Thank you, Maria. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

  INTERLUDE #8

  THIS isn’t what we agreed upon, Skull. Our pact was highly specific in its details.”

  “So was the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact between Hitler and Stalin, and we know how that one turned out, do we not?”

  “Yes, with the death of your master and the rise of the Rodina, the Motherland.”

  “You call that rising, do you, Lukin? Five decades of expending resources in a losing arms race and exporting revolution to countries still mired in tribalism, and you still can’t get a decent Schnitzel in Moscow.”

  “And how is your glorious Thousand Year Reich faring, then?”

  “Who cares about the Reich? I am bigger than fascism now. I am my own force.”

  “No. You are an ignorant sadist, Johann. And you are taking far too much time out there because you are distracted by personal vendettas. You are losing track of the goal we agreed to work toward together. Don’t make me fight you for dominance. This is my territory, and I will crush you if I have to.”

  “You will do nothing of the sort, Lukin.”

  “You don’t want to put that to the test.”

  “There is no test. I know that what you stand to gain from this…alliance is too great for you to throw away. I know this because I have seen your most private and hidden thoughts.”

  “Damn you, Red Skull—”

  “Yes, that is a given. And what could you have possibly been thinking? That I was asleep in here all this time?”

  FIFTEEN

  HE’S sitting in a bar. But it isn’t a blue-collar neighborhood watering hole, dive bar, or biker hangout like the usual haunts of James “Bucky” Barnes. This is another all-male establishment but definitely catering to an upscale clientele more likely to order cosmopolitans than boilermakers. Changing his patterns was simply good tradecraft after he caught the first whiff of Black Widow on his trail. Forsaking the SROs of the Lower East Side in favor of trendy-but-pricey hostelries along the West Side Highway was also part of the evasion agenda. He has slipped the bartender a sizeable tip and let it be known that he’s not looking for trouble, he’s not a cop, and he just wants to be left alone to sip his imported Pilsner and watch the cable news.

  When the news item finally comes on the TV, it is afforded less airtime than the spectacular public meltdown of a popular former child star. The report is based on a leak from an “anonymous inside source,” and is couched in euphemisms and vague assumptions. The gist of it being that Brock Rumlow—a.k.a. Crossbones, the only suspect in custody for the murder of Captain America—has apparently escaped with the aid of unnamed accomplices. S.H.I.E.L.D. has not released an official statement, which leads news analysts to believe there were casualties whose families have yet to be notified. Unconfirmed rumor has it that the escape occurred during the transfer of the prisoner from the Helicarrier to the Raft. The reaction from the bar patrons is unanimous. “They should have let that creep take a walk off the Helicarrier flight deck.” The bartender turns to comment on the news report to the brooding hunk in the leather jacket. But he’s gone, and there’s a pile of cash next to the empty glass on the beer mat.

  His initial outrage percolates away as Winter Soldier makes his way across the rooftops heading uptown. Anger clouds judgment, and he needs all his faculties if he wants to get his revenge. The analytical part of his brain is parsing the input, rearranging the known facts, overlaying them with probabilities, and readjusting the curve. The known facts are: The Red Skull has all the best motives for breaking Crossbones out; the Red Skull’s daughter, Sin, acquired data on S.H.I.E.L.D. resupply stations from A.I.M.; the resupply stations service the subcarriers, which are the most secure means of transferring a prisoner. Therefore, th
e most likely scenario is that Sin—acting on her father’s orders—orchestrated a raid on a subcarrier to free Crossbones, and that the murderer of Captain America is now free to do more of Red Skull’s bidding. The one sure lead Winter Soldier had for locating Red Skull is now gone, and the only option remaining is one that requires him to go where he never wished to go again: Kronas Tower in Midtown Manhattan.

  The lair of Aleksander Lukin.

  The train of Bucky’s logic starts with his most treasured memory of recent times: the last time he fought side-by-side with Captain America, in London during the lead-up to the Civil War between the superhumans. The Red Skull had unleashed an upgraded version of his giant “Deathbot,” which Captain America and Bucky had first encountered during the Second World War. It had been a classic tag-team maneuver with Cap providing the distraction that enabled Bucky to throw an explosive charge into a hole in the robot’s armor. One of the buildings destroyed in the Deathbot’s rampage had been the London headquarters of the Kronas Corporation. In retrospect, that was revealed to have been a brilliant sacrificial gambit that obscured the cold fact that the Deathbot had been constructed in a tunnel system owned by Lukin’s company. The nagging question remains: Would Aleksander Lukin have put aside his abiding hatred for Red Skull to collude with him toward a mutual goal?

  Bucky is on his way to find out by whatever means is at hand. Penetrating the security at Kronas Tower would be nearly impossible for anybody other than Winter Soldier. As the deadly instrument of Lukin’s will, he had enjoyed complete access to the most secret and secure corners of the skyscraper. He had come and gone through hidden stairs and passageways, traveled vertically up and down internal air shafts, and crept through subterranean ducts from adjoining buildings. The passwords and security codes change daily, but he was privy to the algorithms that created them.