It had been a while since he last had a mission in the Motherland. The snow crunched beneath his boots as he moved across the rooftops towards his target's home and swirled in flurries behind him as he leaped the gaps between buildings. He was traveling lightly tonight. Orders were to take out the traitor quickly and without conflict. If all went well, he wouldn't regret leaving without a gun; but he doubted that would be the case.

Ivan Mikhailov was an overly paranoid politician. James had met him on a previous occasion when he had borrowed his services from Department X. The dossier had given him all the details on the man's personal guard; the movements of his servants, family and himself, and the complete layout of his house. But he had to see this for himself. The man undoubtedly suspected his betrayal had been deduced; James was sure he would double his guard.

"Shit."

Even through the snow, he could see Mikhailov's security patrolling the grounds. The information he had been given told him to expect two guards at the front door, one at the back and two who walked the perimeter; James could make out two at the front, two at the back, two at the gate, at least three walking the perimeter and two men on the roof. There was no chance that this would end quietly.

Mikhailov's wife and kids were going out to the ballet tonight, and they would be coming back to a massacre. Karpov wouldn't be happy, but it was the only way the job would get done.

Now, to get himself a gun.

James climbed down from his perch and hopped the target's fence with ease. He waited in the heavily shadowed corner of the garden, waiting for one of the patrolling guards to walk his way. It would only be a matter of time before he was spotted, so he would have to make every second of his anonymity count.

The first guard dropped quickly after James snapped his neck. The assassin slung the man's rifle over his shoulder, secured his pistol under his belt, pocketed several magazines for each gun and took the guard's com before moving to another spot of cover. A knife to the next patrolling guard's throat and another snapped neck took care of the perimeter. The guards on the roof would notice the lack of patrol within minutes; James just had to wait.

"The perimeter had been breached. We have three down."

"Four—damn it—why didn't I see that?"

He fired a clean headshot at the fourth right as the guard turned his way. The back door was the best way to enter the house, and luckily for him, the guards flocked to the sound of gunfire. James kept his back to the wall of the house; he had to keep out of the line of sight of the snipers on the roof that held precedence over his enemies on the ground. He overpowered the guards at the back door quickly, his victims blood speckled on his clothing as he enter the house.

The interior of the house was full of potential forms of punishment. He emptied the knife drawer on his first two victims; bashed his third and fourth over the head with the polished bronze pans that hung above the stove; smashed the next through a glass dining table; finished him off but restricting his breathing with a heel to the throat, as James took out another with a round through the forehead; he dropped the empty magazine from his stolen pistol and loaded it with a new one before heading into the entryway where he was faced with immediate gunfire, which he returned without hesitation; after gathering a few more magazine of ammo on his way up the stairs, James kept this next round restricted to close quarters, hand-to-hand combat; the guards couldn't keep up with the assassin's movements, his every strike executed with deadly accuracy; he finished off the last of his obstacles with a knife between the ribs and kicked down the politicians bedroom door—blood dripping from his fingertips and clinging to his clothes.

It wasn't the least bit surprising to see a prostitute bouncing on the man's cock.

"No..."

He didn't take pleasure in pulling the trigger, splattering the whore's brains across her last client. She was only collateral damage; she was just another hurdle to jump before finishing his mission.

"NO!"

He took his time to destroy the man's face with the but of his stole rifle, his anger mounting with each strike. James wasn't mad at the Ivan; he couldn't have cared less about what the man had done to deserve such a fate. The soldier was mad about the shitstorm he had been sent into, the massacre that he would be leaving behind and deeply buried guilt that was threatening to bubble to the surface as his target's blood spattered on his face.

—

"ARE YOU FULLY AWARE OF WHAT YOU HAVE DONE?!"

He could still his heart pounding in his ears. Still see the look on the man's face as he pulled the trigger. The blood from the small army of guards he had taken out still clung to his face and clothes. He had to keep his hand clenched in a fist to keep it from shaking, had to force himself to take in deep breaths to keep his voice steady when he replied to his handler.

"Did I not complete my mission successfully? Ivan Mikhailov is dead."

"The mess you have created for us? Does that not concern you?"

"If you would've taken into account that Mikhailov was a paranoid bastard, perhaps you would've thought about sending in more than one agent. And you wouldn't have created this mess," the Winter Soldier said cooly.

His handler gaped at him and struggled to say anything further on the subject under his intense glare.

"Am I dismissed?"

The man nodded.

—

The water that swirling down the drain was saturated in red; he hadn't realized how much blood he was covered in until he had stepped into the shower.

"Normally people take off their clothes before getting into the shower, don't they?" Natalia tried to stop her gasp before James heard it but instead, "James?"

"I'll be out in a second, Nat."

His mind felt like it had been slowly falling to piece; from the time he'd left the carnage in his wake to now as he could feel Natalia's eyes looking over his profile, something was wrong, and the only thing he could think to blame was an aching guilt that weighed on his chest.

They weren't due back for another hour...they had done nothing wrong.