Steve stared at Matt, a wave of guilt crushing him as he remembered standing between Tony and Bucky, forced to choose between his present and his past. He'd picked one over another, and lost them both.
Friendships took time to develop, to nourish, they could not be artificially created. It was no wonder they were always at risk of neglect.
Steve appreciated the olive branch Matt had extended, for two people who didn't have a lot of friends, this new found bond felt genuine. He leaned against the base of the ring. "What's your opinion regarding the Accords?"
"I have a lot of opinions regarding them, but I suspect you're more interested in my legal interpretation?"
Steve shot him an impatient glare for the smartass reply before he realized Matt couldn't see it. "I'd like both."
Matt worked his lower jaw in thought. "To begin with, an accord is not a law or Constitutional Amendment. Not to mention that the United States cannot enact a law to willfully violate the rights of United States citizens."
Steve reflected back to the volumes he read of A History of American Law, Matt's words striking a familiar chord as he processed the direction of his thinking. "Congress can pass a law, but it can still be Unconstitutional."
"The Accords were agreements between foreign countries to have an un-elected panel at the United Nations approve what missions the Avengers could go on." Matt bounced the end of his cane in thought while he spoke. "While I kind of agree that there are significant legal issues with people who have enhanced powers entering foreign countries without any legal authority, violating anyone's civil rights is not a solution to the problem."
"Like due process," Steve replied, following Matt's breadcrumbs.
"That's a major one, not to mention mandatory conscription."
Steve frowned, puzzled. "It's the duty of every male citizen between age eighteen and twenty-six to present themselves for registration."
"Correct and it's within the President's power to draft all male Avengers for military service." Scrunching up his face, Matt looked over in Steve's direction in question. "I'm assuming that the Avengers are similar to the members of the Special Forces who work for agencies like the CIA?"
"The Avengers are autonomous," Steve said with some uncertainly. There were always power struggles going on between the government and secret organization. "Kind of."
"Which I'm sure doesn't exactly make the higher-ups very happy." Matt stood and started pacing in front of Steve, his head tilted slightly upward in deep contemplation. "But even if the Avengers were an official armed body to the United States, you've already served in the Army during WWII." He stopped short in front of Steve. "You can't be re-drafted and neither can any other human male Avenger over the age of twenty-six."
Steve shook his head. "But, we haven't been drafted."
Matt pointed the handle of his cane at him, his face lighting up in excitement as the tone in his voice kicked up a notch. "But mandating any human with enhanced powers to be registered and deployed according to the orders of an un-elected United Nations panel sounds a lot like involuntary servitude, which would violate the 13th Amendment."
Steve's heart rate picked up, matching Matt's enthusiasm, a new hope stirring in his chest at the possible implications. "Some friends of mine, a few Avengers; they were imprisoned and kept on a floating jail in the middle of the ocean." Steve didn't mention the fact that he had broken them out.
Matt's eyebrows arched up in surprise. "Without a trial?"
"None."
And the Secretary of State had been complicit with it.
Anger mixed with a predatory glint flashed across Matt's features; the man had to be feared by prosecutors in a courtroom. "Then they were imprisoned without a right to counsel. Not to mention being confined on a submarine prison would deprive anyone accused of a crime of the writ of habeas corpus, which requires a person in custody to be brought before a Court."
Steve nodded with Matt's argument, his late night readings of law falling into place. "Not to mention the 5th Amendment, which protects people from being deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process."
"At the very least." Matt leaned his cane on the floor, a ghost of a smile across his face. "I think you missed a calling."
"Since I'm currently unemployed, I tend to read a lot." Steve considered Matt, thinking back to his carefully tailored words about interpretations of the law and his own opinion. "So what else have you been thinking about?"
The corner of Matt's lips twitched and he resumed his circuit of pacing in front of the bench. "That big fight at the airport I read about between the Avengers. The side you lead was arguably done out of self-defense, because of the Unconstitutional enforcement of the Accords, and the UN's rush to judgment to have Mr. James Barnes shot on sight instead of arrested."
Hearing about one of the worst days of his life—forced to fight his teammates, his friends for the life of another; for Bucky—be easily stripped down to a basic legal argument made Steve's stomach twist into knots.
"Exactly," Steve said forcing his voice to remain even while the rest of his body trembled.
Matt stood beside Steve, his voice expectant. "And now?"
It was hard to contain the bitterness in Steve's voice when he spoke. "We're both fugitives."
"Mr. Barnes should still have had his day in court to argue his case, opposed to being locked away without a trial." Tentative, Matt reached out and laid a hand on Steve's shoulder. "We should allow due process to happen, allow the law to work."
Except Bucky wasn't locked away, he was in a far worse place: a prison Steve helped put him inside. He could never wipe away the memory of Buck's resignation to his fate in Wakanda. The only way to keep Bucky safe, to keep the world safe from him, had been to put under again.
"It's not possible." Bucky was a walking time bomb, a killing machine without a control. "My best friend was brainwashed into the perfect assassin by Hydra. That's hard to defend."
Matt kept an even-keel expression upon hearing the last sentence; in fact, it seemed only to make him more determined when he stared in Steve's direction through his glasses. "Don't the Avengers stand for law and justice and not just an active military arm of a government body? Don't you think they should stand up for basic constitutional rights?"
But they were too far gone; the look of pain in Tony's eyes after witnessing the recording of his parents' death, the shock and defeat after Steve thrust his shield into the reactor in the armor of Tony's chest. James Rhodes's spinal injury. Friendships and families utterly torn apart.
"It's too late for that." Steve's voice finally cracked. "The damage has already been done."
"It's never too late to stand up for basic rights, Captain." Matt squeezed Steve's shoulder. "If we don't fight for those, than what's the point?"
"I've spent my entire life defending this country." Steve would die protecting his home. "I've never backed down from a fight, but what if you're saying is true, there won't even be trials for anyone. I won't be able to help people who need it." He licked his lips, his chest aching. "And Bucky will never know freedom."
Matt dropped his hand and looked at Steve in challenge. "How are you helping your friends now? Some of the Avengers are wanted criminals and you've been forced underground." Shoulders taunt, voice rich in moral conviction, Matt didn't let up. "If things can't be done at first through legal means, than begin with the media. If Mr. Barnes is not guilty because of extenuating circumstance then build the case in the forum of public opinion. Leak information about top-secret prison ships and evil brain-washing programs."
"Use the media to gain sympathy for an unsympathetic figure." Steve admired Matt's tenacity, but he wasn't certain of the possible outcome. "Like you did with Frank Castle?"
It was the first time Matt's face darkened. He took a few steps back, the grip around his cane tight enough to break it. "That defense would have worked if it wasn't for my screw-up."
Steve didn't know all the details of that case; he needed to rectify it very soon, because it was still unclear how a person of Matt's moral character could with good conscious take on that case. "And you would have been okay if a mass murderer had gone to psych hospital instead of jail?"
"I believe in fairness in a world that isn't just black and white."
But that was the type of world Steve had been brought up in, one he still clung to.
"You've talked a lot of about your legal opinion, but you've haven't given me your personal one yet."
The air in the room felt tight with tension. After the last few years, he was sick of double talk; Steve wanted honesty and open dialog.
Matt's diaphragm expanded up and down as he took three long breaths, while the fingers around his cane uncurled into a more relaxed grip. "I think government agencies that are allowed to conduct top-secret genetics programs creating god-like super beings and that billionaires who create giant evil robots should have some form of regulations given the impact of their actions. While the Accords are Unconstitutional, there has to be room for compromise."
Compromise was an art form Steve excelled at the least and may have cost him the most.
Looking over at Matt, he studied the lines of his face, at the beginning of a fresh bruise near his temple that'd been hidden by his hair. Steve watched the extreme focus Matt exerted to control his breathing and calm an anger still teaming at the surface of his words, and the physicality of his movement.
"You mentioned during our sparring match about how some people have lived in a make believe world so they long they've forgotten what it's like to be in the dirt with everyone else," Steve recounted. "Is that how you feel about the Avengers?"
Matt jutted out his chin, his voice clipped. "I told you, I was angry and I took it out on you."
It was quite the understatement.
Releasing a long breath, Steve let out a small whistle. "I don't know if you've noticed, but you're always pretty angry. You attack that heavy bag like you're trying to avenge the world."
"Nice change of subject," Matt replied still sounding defensive.
"Not really. We say things in the heat of the moment; usually it's the most unfiltered type of honesty from our brain. It might be raw and embellished but it's there." The more Steve contemplated the sparring match, the angrier he became at the possible ramifications. "You got into the ring with me knowing I was a highly-trained, enhanced solider. I've taken on everything from mutant squid to giant alien armies. I could have seriously injured you."
"You didn't though."
It was a weak response and Steve couldn't believe it came out of the same person who'd just mounted such a strong case a few minutes earlier. "Because I held back, I pulled my punches and that made you even more furious. You told me to stop taking it easy on you. You tried egging me on, knowing if for one second I slipped up; I could have really hurt you."
"Or maybe I just wanted a real challenge."
"I may not be blind Matt, but there's a difference between wanting an opponent to treat you as an equal in the ring and knowingly stepping into a fight you hope you'll lose." Steve felt a pang in his gut as he remembered how ferocious Matt had fought and his unwillingness to back down. "Is that the reason why you're always sporting bruises? Are you so angry that you're doing things to hurt yourself?"
Staring at the floor, Matt shook his head, lips pursed. "You're making a lot of assumptions, none of which are true."
"Then enlighten me. You've known my identity for a couple of months; what else have you been hiding?" Steve had seen Matt in the ring, what he was capable of when backed into a corner. He didn't want to create new barriers. "Look, I'm sorry if it feels like I'm pushing you. All I want to do is help. Please, let me."
Matt's Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed hard, his mouth opened and closed twice before words formed, harsh and full of grit. "There are people who need far more help than me. Hell's Kitchen might not be under attack by monsters or robots, but that doesn't mean her people aren't fighting against threats of poverty and crime that destroy families."
He sucked in a ragged breath, the ache in his voice cutting Steve to the core. "They're crying for help every day and sometimes…sometimes it's…it's deafening."
Steve had never spent much time on the roof of his building until now. He took a deep, cleansing breath of night air. The studio he rented was above a pizza joint, the scent of cheese and fried meat often wafted through the walls at night. Lethargy plagued his muscles, like he'd been hit by an energy-draining weapon. He hadn't slept in almost three days; his brain felt sluggish, but going to bed was far from the agenda.
He leaned against the outside wall of the stairwell, trying to clear his conscious from tonight and the mounting guilt from the last few months, all combining into an oppressive weight of regret. Staring at the sunrise, he clenched his jaw, mortified at himself as his thoughts drifted back to Matt's broken confession hours before.
Matt clutched his cane and stared at the floor, body strung tight with tension.
Steve reached out a hand to touch his shoulder.
Matt side-stepped away, his voice taut and controlled. "It's late, Steve. Maybe we should both call it a night."
"I don't mind sticking around."
"I mind."
Another wave of helplessness hit Steve and it created an inability to say anything else constructive. "Okay, I'll…I'll see ya later." Steve hesitated a moment before walking away.
Steve glanced back to see Matt standing in the shadows, vibrating with pain that Steve didn't know how to treat. Matt's hurt ran too deep to be managed with basic first aid and the hollowness inside Steve threatened to swallow him whole.
He was sick of feeling impotent. Steve had walked away from Tony in the bunker, broken and in pain, just as he walked away in Wakanda, and again with Matt last night. He scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling every year of his body for once. He'd failed so many people; he would not fail another friend.
Steve had saved all the files from his searches in the library onto a flash drive for access later. It was annoying that he couldn't be actively online but at least he still had his laptop.
It didn't take long to compile a list of articles regarding the Frank Castle trial before Steve started sorting them into chronological order. He scanned through exposés, in-depth legal analysis, and dozens of contradictory opinioned articles. Over the course of many weeks people viewed Castle from a deranged blood-thirsty psychopath to a victimized war vet taking the law into his own hands.
Well, not everyone, but some—even a few in law enforcement. "Enough to garner some empathy," he muttered.
And all because of what came out of the trial; Frank Castle's achievements in the military, the murder of his family, hints of cover-ups and evidence tampering. For the most part it seemed Matt's law partner, Foggy Nelson, had been the driving force for the defense, Matt largely absent except for a failed closing argument regarding morality and the murky lines surrounding the definition of a hero. While it seemed as if Matt's closing statement had been branded a failure, most conceded everything fell apart because of Castle's deranged outburst.
Where did a man without friends go during the biggest case of his life? What happened to the passion and conviction for law Steve had witness first hand, arguments that still permeated his brain and created hope and stirred up self doubt at the same time?
Steve chewed on Matt's words, the raw honesty of them. Certainly SHIELD had an army of lawyers on retainer; Tony employed an entire law firm. Why hadn't any of them asked for an injunction, or gone to court, or done a million other legal things to battle something so riddled with glaring issues? Where was their courtroom showdown of the century?
Had he and the Avengers done such terrible job of defending the public that they'd lost the people's confidence? It was a question that still plagued him.
The Battle for New York and the fight against Ultron that had resulted in civilian casualties, but….
Steve and the people he'd called friends during those altercations had done everything in their power to protect the innocent, to prevent collateral damage that occurred so often in war. And there were no mistaking things; they were at war, against Hydra, against all those seeking to destroy and take over the world.
In battle there were losses.
Rhodey would never walk without aid again; Clint couldn't see his family because he, Steve, Sam, Lang, and Maximoff were all wanted criminals.
They had all volunteered for a cause…but had it been the same one as Steve's?
Steve shook his head. It had been the right thing to do.
Clint used to say that hindsight was twenty-twenty. If the mood of the public began shifting after New York, then the injuries of civilians and police officers resulting from helping Bucky escape had just been too much for the average person to deal with. The very people Steve had sworn to protect.
Bucky deserved to be protected, too. He deserved to be treated fairly under the law. Steve sighed because the voice in his head sounded an awful lot like certain lawyer by day, boxer by night.
Steve scanned the articles on Frank Castle again, noticing a recent one from the other day chronicling his exploits against the recent drug war. The vigilante had killed at least three top lieutenants of one of the gangs and blown up a city garbage truck being used to bring in a major shipment. And there was actually a debate between two news editors if he should be praised for it.
Maybe Matt was right; maybe the path toward freedom was through the media. The ocean consisted of low and high tides, riding the waves of popular opinion, and nothing changed opinion like the news. He just needed to figure out how to use it to his advantage.
And in the process, find out how to break through Matt's protective barriers and help him.
One of the things Steve had forgotten about living alone was needing to go to the grocery store. Because of his need for anonymity he went out late at night, preferably to the corner store with the busted security camera.
Given the fact that the city was embroiled in violent crime, it shouldn't have surprised Steve when heard signs of one in progress. Dressed in civilian clothes and on the FBI's most wanted list couldn't still the instinct to run down the alley and toward the sound of gunshots. Grabbing the lid from a trashcan, he rounded the corner of the next building and right into a street fight.
Several meters at the end of the alley he spotted Daredevil facing off against four men.
Steve was a soldier; he knew to attack only during an opening. He didn't want to get in the way or distract Daredevil; at the moment, Steve would only be a hindrance. He bided his time, poised to help if needed.
A guy in a leather jacket swung a crowbar at Daredevil's head. Daredevil ducked under it, and then from a crouch, delivered a strike to the abdomen of the same man. The punch was devastating, wielding enough power to fracture the lower ribs. Leather Jacket doubled over and fell to the ground, stunned.
"Come on, Spike, kill him!" A thug with a shaved head yelled at his buddy.
Spike was two hundred pounds of muscle and Skinhead was lanky and tatted-up. They stood side-by-side, a serious tactical error. Daredevil swung his baton so hard it knocked both their weapons out of their grip. Both guys screamed, cradling their hands.
A third guy with squat shoulders and a face of a bulldog, tried to sneak up behind the devil while his back was turned. Daredevil grabbed Skinhead by the shoulders and spun him around and smashed his head into the alley wall. Using the momentum from the spin, Daredevil kicked Bulldog in the chest, knocking him to the ground.
Spike stared at the devil, massive body shaking in rage. He pulled out a five inch blade from a holster at his hip. "I'm going to gut you wide open."
And he lunged.
Daredevil kept Skinhead immobile with one arm wrapped around his throat and knocked the knife out of Spike's grip with another swing of his baton. Then he grabbed Spike by the hair and kneed him twice in the face.
Skinhead clawed at Daredevil's arm and he responded by flipping him onto the ground with a twist to his shoulders.
Too bad it wasn't the end to the ruckus.
"You knocked out my teeth!" Spike screamed as blood poured out of his mouth.
Daredevil ignored him and knelt beside Skinhead who tried to get up. The guy had to be hopped up on something. Daredevil ended the thug's attempt to rise with three vicious punches to the face.
Daredevil was brutal and effective. Steve kept his distance, willing to step in if needed, but instinctively knowing it wasn't his fight. He watched Spike help Leather Jacket stagger to his feet and the two were stupid enough to try to jump the devil while he was busy rendering their buddy unconscious.
Steve was about to shout a warning when Daredevil shot up to his feet and elbowed Leather Jacket in the nose, breaking it by the sound of things.
Staring at the devil, chest heaving, Spike held up his meaty fists in front of his face. He bellowed like an animal before he charged. Daredevil side-stepped him with ease and struck him in the mouth again with a killer uppercut.
If his jaw wasn't broken before, it was now. Spike rolled around on the ground, moaning in agony.
Face bloodied, Leather Jacket swayed on his feet and reached into his pocket for something. Daredevil stared at the motion, mouth turned flat, unimpressed. He leaped up in the air and swung a leg into the side of his head. Leather Jacket dropped to the ground and didn't twitch.
Breathing hard, Daredevil turned around and tossed his baton, the weapon connecting with Bulldog's forehead with a crack. Steve hadn't even noticed the guy had regained awareness until he rolled to his feet and drew his weapon.
All four criminals were unconscious with various injuries. Steve thought about calling 911, but he didn't have a phone. Instead he watched Daredevil pat down and check their pockets seemingly annoyed at not finding something.
Steve had a split second decision to make; he doubted the Devil of Hell's Kitchen cared about turning him in. "Daredevil," he called out.
Daredevil didn't look over at him. "The police are on their way; they'll take care of these guys."
Seconds later, Steve could hear a faint siren in the distance. Impressive. "I just want to talk."
"I don't."
Maybe Daredevil didn't know who he was and that Steve wasn't seeking some fan boy conversation. "Listen, I'm Steve – "
"I know who you are, but I don't really have the time to play tour guide."
Steve wasn't in the mood to deal with a smart ass. "Then don't give me one."
"I wasn't planning on it."
Daredevil took off around the corner and Steve dropped the trashcan lid and chased after him, closing in on him in seconds. He stayed on Daredevil's heels down an alley between two close buildings.
Before Steve could get close enough to grab an arm or shoulder, Daredevil planted a foot on the left side of one building then launched himself upwards. His feet alternated between each brick surface like he was climbing steps. He scaled to the top like it was a piece of playground equipment and disappeared over the roof.
Steve didn't stop to admire the feat and followed close behind. He climbed up the east wall using the cement in between bricks and a drainage gutter for foot and handhelds, thinking he hadn't this kind of a workout in a while.
There was an art to everything in life, studying another person's technique was one of them. Steve had extreme speed and agility on his side and he kept a good pace with the devil.
Daredevil leaped over one air conditioning unit at full tilt, and then another.
There was a speed and fluidly to his movements, suggesting an ease with urban environments and familiarity with the city.
Steve followed suit for hundreds of meters. He vaulted over chimneys, avoided power lines and satellite dishes. There was no straight path from point A to point B. Every impediment was in random places and consisted of various heights and sizes.
It took good form and practice to flow from one obstacle to the next, to the point where there might as well not be any obstacles at all. Daredevil created his own path as he ran with ease.
Making consecutive jumps was a challenge. It took power and skill because it was difficult to maintain momentum between them.
They were ten stories high and Steve followed Daredevil onto a ledge, running down the narrow lane. "Seriously, I only want to talk!"
Daredevil answered him by leaping from the ledge onto the building three stories below. Steve stood there and watched him race and jump across three different rooftops and out of sight.
"Okay…maybe another time," Steve said, wondering exactly where he'd ended up in the city.
Steve was an analyst; learning from every engagement was a necessary part of being a soldier.
Daredevil was highly skilled with impressive reaction speed; he definitely was good at fighting. Steve recognized some jiu-jitsu and taekwondo.
And his punches - that uppercut, the speed of his fast strikes. Those seemed familiar.
Steve paced inside his cramped apartment. A fighter always developed a signature, something unique to the swing or angle to the punch.
That knee to the face was strikingly similar to the time Matt tried to use it against Steve in the ring then thought better about it. Like it was instinct and he tried to hide it. Muay Thai was a combat sport; a boxer could easily adapt to its more aggressive techniques adding elbow and leg strikes.
But who had taught Matt? He didn't even go to the gym during the day. Steve had a thought, but it was a long-shot. A very big long-shot.
He pulled up all the articles on Nelson and Murdock, dating back to the Fisk case. Steve wanted a specific one, a legal analysis that has lead to the indictment. There. Buried in the details. The bad cop who'd turned state's evidence, the one that Nelson and Murdock had represented. The cop had been saved by Daredevil earlier that night.
And many of the files Nelson and Murdock had used in their investigation into Wilson Fisk had been given to them by Daredevil.
"When did a law firm investigate crime lords?"
Steve stared at all the saved file on his hard drive. Did Daredevil use Nelson and Murdock as his contacts? How much interaction did he have with them?
Did Daredevil teach Matt some of his moves?
Matt was a blind lawyer who took on hard-luck clients while sporting a huge chip on his shoulder. Anger issues, childhood trauma, a proud man confronted with a society that labeled everyone who was different. Maybe teaming up with a vigilante appealed to someone like Matt, helping him deal with all the pain he felt from a city he'd loved so deeply.
It wouldn't be the first time someone like Daredevil took on a pupil and it would definitely explain some of Matt's minor injuries. But was Steve jumping to conclusions?
And if he wasn't, then Steve wanted a word with the Devil's of Hell's Kitchen.
Steve got some sleep before another round of sirens brought him back onto the streets the following night, three fire trucks and a dozen police cars headed toward a giant warehouse blaze on the west-end of town.
He hurried down the street, stopping at a red light, searching out the best route to take.
"Heard The Punisher blew up where those animals have been cooking all the crack on the street." A guy with grey, thinning hair and glasses took a drag from his cigarette. "Hope he blew away some of those dealers along with everything."
"How do you know it was The Punisher?" Steve asked.
"Buddy of mine called me and said he saw him walk out of building right before it went boom."
"And you're okay with what he does?" Steve kept the question carefully casual.
The guy shrugged. "He gets shit done that the cops can't."
"Even if he's dangerous?"
"Life's dangerous, buddy," the grey-haired guy huffed, taking a last drag on his cigarette. "I could walk outside and get hit by a car. The Punisher kills the bad guys and that's good enough for me."
Steve watched the guy crush his cigarette on the sidewalk with his boot and stride away. Steve picked up the butt and threw it in the thrash can when he noticed a missing person's poster taped to the side of the can. 'Gina' was a fifteen year old girl with strawberry-blonde hair and a giant smile with the tiniest gap between her teeth. Last seen going to a friend's house three blocks away.
Steve had to tempter the flare of anger in his chest at all the injustice in the world.
It was the reason why you used to put on the uniform every day.
Another set of sirens wailed close by, this time the police cars were going in the opposite direction of the fire. Pulling the hoodie up around his face, Steve started jogging in the same direction as the police.
His shield and body armor were buried underground in a spot away from the city in a specially-crafted box Thor had given him for his birthday. Even The Hulk would have a hard time breaking it open without the had gone through a lot of trouble of getting it back for him, even if Steve had thought he didn't deserve it , but he had it, and Steve didn't trust keeping it close by in case he was ever arrested.
As he walked toward the scene of a shooting, Steve began wondering how much longer he could allow it to remain hidden.
Standing by a bus stop, he watched the police cordon off the area around a body bag in the middle of the street. Glancing around, he noticed another missing poster for Gina plastered on the inside of the bus shelter away from the crime scene.
"That's my granddaughter," a soft voice said next to him.
Steve turned toward an older woman who was only tall enough to reach his shoulders. Her sweater was covered in worn-out fuzzies, and she carried a bag of posters while holding a roll of tape. "If you see her, there's a phone number you can call." She pointed at the info at the bottom of the poster to emphasize things.
"I'll keep an eye out for her." He glanced back at the poster, memorizing her facial features. "What was she wearing last?"
"I don't know," she said, biting at her already chewed and broken nails. "Her mother doesn't remember. She's too busy trying to steal my pain medication out my bathroom to care."
"I'm sorry to hear that." Several moments of silence passed and he cleared his throat. "I'm Steve, by the way."
"I'm Julia," she said, falling silent before looking up at him in the eyes. "It's a disease you know. Drugs. Starts with pills the doctor gives you then just eats you away."
The way she spoke was incongruously candid, given the situation.
"It's a terrible illness," he said. If Gina came from a broken home, maybe she'd tried to find her own way out. "Is it possible she went to a friend's house?"
"That's what the police said, but they're wrong. She wouldn't run away, not without telling me," Julia said with a fiery conviction that Steve believed. "She calls me every Thursday night after Jeopardy. She's never missed a call, not even on her junior prom night."
Steve studied the poster again. It didn't display a leader of a terrorist cell or a wanted assassin; it was the face of a young girl, someone with her whole life in front of her.
Every night Steve listened to the sound of sirens. Emergency workers sent to save the suffering and dying, police officers trying to prevent a crime and often arriving too late. It was an endless cycle of violence and misery that made people like Matt Murdock punch a heavy bag in the middle of the night and cry in empathy for his home.
But this missing girl, Steve could act; he could do something to find her.
Julia gazed at the face of her granddaughter and her face clouded over in despair. Steve touched her shoulder. "I'll help you look, I promise."
"I got Mr. Hernandez from the laundry mat and Mrs. Flores who lives down the street to put up posters."
Steve smiled and squeezed her arm. "I'm sure between the four of us; we'll cover a lot of ground."
"And don't forget the Daredevil," she said, patting his arm in return.
"You spoke to him?"
"I saw him on top of the roof of Mrs. Andrews' building last night. I called out to him, said if anyone could find my Gina, he could." Julia shook head in exasperation. "He could have broken an ankle leaping off the roof like that." Then her face brightened in hope. "But he took my posters, promised he'd help."
Steve made a point of grabbing several of them. "I think you've got a good team on your side."
The odds of finding a missing girl went down significantly after the first twenty-four hours, let alone five days. But if Steve couldn't spend an evening searching for her than his shield should stayed buried. He put up a few posters as he walked, hanging them at eye level and using enough tape it make it annoying to remove.
The air grew cold with a strong wind and moisture prickled at his cheeks. For a moment Steve thought it might rain, then he realized he was nearing the docks along the Hudson River. It was hard not to smell the polluted river from here. Tugging the strings of his hoodie, he picked up speed, wanting to do a quick circuit around the warehouse, when he saw a black SUV park down a side street.
The vehicle was nondescript and did nothing to warrant scrutiny, yet something in his gut told him to observe it. He watched out of the corner of his eye while tacking another poster to a utility pole as three men unloaded from the vehicle, each one carrying a large duffle bag.
All three were broad-shouldered, built, and dressed in dark clothes. Steve would bet most of Tony's fortune that those bags concealed weapons. He stepped inside the bus shelter, knowing they wouldn't be able to see him between the darkness and the alcove.
The lead guy screamed military, sporting black BDUs, and corralling everyone into a circle. "We'll wait for the signal," Steve heard from his position, thanks to his serum-enhanced hearing as the man spoke in low, hushed tones, "then outflank the target while he's busy with the other boys. Hayes, use suppression fire. Runco and I will take out the target."
His subordinates looked like pros, alert and calm. Hayes wore glasses and had shorn blonde hair. Runco was older, in his mid-fifties with a grey ponytail.
Steve searched for an inconspicuous spot to walk toward to continue observing the group when the sound of AK27s and M16s erupted the night. He snapped his head toward the sounds coming from the other side of the warehouse near the docks.
"That's our cue," the Leader said. The others removed assault weapons from their duffels and inserted clips of ammo. "Hit the bastard hard and hit him fast."
Steve marched over to the black-painted metal bus bench and broke away one of the slats. He'd sworn an oath to protect people and he would damn well do it.
Steve strode forward, his voice loud and commanding. "You have five seconds to drop your weapons and leave."
All three men turned around, their expressions bewildered.
Steve started counting. "Five, four, three…."
The first two guys raised their weapons and Steve tossed the metal slat at them. The piece of metal struck Hayes' wrist and ricocheted into Runco's arm, both rifles clattering to the ground.
Steve rocketed at them. He struck Hayes in the face with a right hook-left cross and laid him out.
Fingers dug into his shoulder as someone tried to grab Steve from behind. He snatched the person's wrist and turned around, twisting the arm at a ninety-degree angle until it snapped.
Runco dropped to his knees with a shout, cradling his broken arm. Steve pivoted on his feet to go after the last guy, only to find a M4 aimed at his chest. As soon as the Leader's eyes zeroed in on Steve's face, they went wide in recognition.
Steve took advantage of the moment and grabbed the end of the barrel, yanking it out of the man's possession. Then he cracked him in the side of the head with the rifle butt.
The gunfire by the docks grew heavier and more sporadic; it sounded like all-out war. Steve needed intel before he moved away from this group. Hayes was the only one still conscious and Steve grabbed him by the shirt collar, lifting him to his feet.
"What's your mission? What am I'm running into?"
Hayes laughed in Steve's face. "A blood bath with The Punisher."
Steve ran full-tilt around the warehouse, pinpointing the sounds of each weapon to anticipate the approximate position of the shooters, and by the sounds of things the number of attackers had dropped from more than a dozen to maybe six since the battle had first started.
Steve came around the side of the of the four-story warehouse and onto a large loading zone. He scanned the area.
Two shooters lay flat on top of a blue shipping container and two others stood behind a giant crane for cover. All four fired at a figure who was using the underbelly of a flat-bed truck for cover.
"Daredevil," Steve muttered, surprised.
Not who he had expected. He needed to re-evaluate the situation and alter tactics.
Eight bad guys were in various states of unconsciousness in the twenty meters between the crane and the three-ton truck. Two bad guys stood in front of the radiator grill of the flat-bed, shooting hundreds of rounds of under the truck. But wherever they fired, Daredevil was six steps ahead of them. He bounced around like a human pinball, from the left side, to on top of the flat bed, onto the right side.
Daredevil used one of the tires to launch himself three feet high and onto the hood. He swung his billy club, the weapon splitting into two pieces from a steel cable, and bashed one of the attackers in the face. Then he did a forward flip off the hood, over the other gunman's head, and landed behind him, cracking across the back of the head with the club.
Bullets sliced through the air, missing where Daredevil had stood seconds before. He used his club as a grappling hook, the end wrapping around the lattice boom of the crane that reached over twenty meters high, then Daredevil swung above the gunmen who were using the crane for cover.
Steve knew the devil had his end of things under control, so he set his sights on the two remaining shooters on the blue shipping crate, who continued to rain down heavy fire.
He raced toward the container and took a running leap, landing on top of it.
The fist shooter stared up at him like gaping fish. "What the hell?"
"Just evening up the odds," Steve said.
It took one punch to render the man unable to get back up again. His buddy took exception to Steve's actions and swung his M6 forward at Steve's head. Steve ducked under the rifle, grabbed the shooter by the shoulders and swung him off the container.
Heart pounding, Steve searched the loading zone for Daredevil, and found him walking away at a fast clip, the two remaining bad guys from the crane moaning on the ground.
"Wait!" Steve shouted at the devil's back, his voice bouncing off the metal surfaces of the loading zone and landing back at his feet.
Steve jumped down and gave chase to the retreating Daredevil. It only took a few seconds to catch up to him passed the shipping containers and over toward the docks by the water's edge. Steve was mindful of his proximity, and kept enough space between them. "I told you, I just want to talk."
It was the first time he had a chance to study the red body armor, noting the detailed craftsmanship that spoke of skilled design. Not to mention the wear and tear from regular use. Steve searched for any other nuances, noting the exposed skin of Daredevil's jaw and recognizing an odd familiarity.
"Fine," Steve relented, when Daredevil didn't reply. "How about a few questions. Like what the hell happened here?"
"It was an ambush." The vigilante's voice was low, rough.
Steve tried to keep his irritation at bay. "Yeah, I figured that. But why?"
Daredevil didn't slow down, but there was a definite weariness to his movements, like he maybe was a bit banged-up from taking on a dozen armed hit men. Alone. "I don't know, but they weren't after me. They were after Frank Castle."
"The Punisher." Steve still needed a few more details. "And you just happened to show up instead?"
"I was after something else. It was a case of wrong place, wrong time."
No, that wasn't the whole picture.
"Will you stop?" Steve was tired of playing cat and mouse. "You can jump buildings and leap rooftops, but the only thing around here is a river. And I guarantee I can out-run you on a flat surface."
Daredevil paused, releasing a heavy breath and slowly turned around, keeping his distance. The two men stood unmoving, the waves of the Hudson slapping the edge of the pier having a calming effect after so much adrenaline.
"Look. Why not come back with me?" Steve nodded toward the warehouse still in the distance. "Like I said, I only want to talk and it looks like maybe you could use a break."
"I said I didn't want to—"
Daredevil suddenly cocked his head and then lunged toward Steve, the vigilante's body jerking as a bullet tore through him, knocking him backward into the water below.
Everything seemed to move as if in slow motion, though Steve knew in reality it lasted only a thousandth of a second.
"Damn it," Steve cursed.
The Avenger in Steve wanted to go after the sniper, but the soldier in him simply couldn't leave a man to die. He jumped into the river, the cold water stealing his breath.