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Chapter 3

The Awakening

São Paulo, Brazil
Three weeks after the events in the Arctic

Some men fit the age in which they live, and Freddie Kreidler had fit the eighties to a tee. He was well on his way to making the nineties his decade as well. Freddie was what some might call Eurotrash: rude, arrogant and vain. At least, they might call him that had he actually lived in the old country, and not in a steaming pile of dung like São Paulo. This was one of the many reasons Freddie had despised his father. The stupid bastard had to pick Brazil to hide himself away in, insuring that his son's inheritance came with the stink and heat of the third world instead of the cool elegance of the Old. Berlin, Munich, Paris, Amsterdam; clearly, these were the places he belonged, not here. How easily Freddie could picture himself cruising the clean, lighted avenues of Bonn—with all his friends in tow, hitting only the most exclusive clubs and discos, drinking Champagne all evening and doing cocaine all night. And screwing only the most beautiful of the beautiful people. He could picture the tourists—the fat, lazy Americans and the dull-eyed Brits as they glared his way. 'Look at him,'they would say.'Nothing but Eurotrash.' Ah, if only.

Still, if pressed on the subject, Freddie had to admit life had not been all bad here in São Paulo. In fact, he had managed to carve out quite a nice living for himself. Freddie was known in most every level of society here, and feared in them as well. He was physically imposing: six three, two hundred and thirty pounds, broad-shouldered and muscular. But it wasn't his size that invoked fear. It was his nature. Freddie Kreidler was a killer, as deadly as an asp. He killed his first man in a bar fight over some whore, when he was just sixteen. It was the beginning of his rise to notoriety, though in truth, he always stood out.

Freddie was a nearly pure Aryan, the only thing for which he had to thank his father (well, that and the money, of course). Despite having had a brown-skinned mother (who thankfully died when Freddie was just three, sparing him the embarrassment of knowing her), he possessed deep blue eyes, white/blond hair and perfectly chiseled features. His skin was darker than one would like, but after all, this was South America and he more than passed for European. How proud his father had been! 'Always remember your heritage,' old Otto would preach. 'Your grandfather was Baron Heinrich Von Kreidler, and you are an aristocrat. You're bloodline is pure—your mother was of good, Aryan stock.'

The deluded old fool. So obsessed with his precious racial theories. Freddie had seen pictures of his mother—was the man stupid or blind? True, she wasn't a nigger, but neither was she Aryan. God, how Freddie hated that old man. Otto was fifty-four years old when Freddie was born. When Freddie was just a child, Otto would parade him in front of all his cronies. Expatriates, they liked to call themselves. War criminals, others called them, though only behind their backs. Their money and influence insured no one would challenge them openly. Once a week they would meet, in some little coffeehouse, some out of the way restaurant, huddling together in the back, whispering. Otto would bring Freddie to these meetings to hear the stories of the old days, of the pride and glory that was Germany. The old men would tousle his blond hair, telling him: "You will carry the standard one day Fredrick, you and the other children. The Fourth Reich will be yours to build!"

Freddie would smile obediently, accepting their praise, all the while despising them. Even as a child he knew how stupid they were. It was because of men like these that he was here, instead of his homeland. It was because of their war, a war which brought the whole world down upon their heads. And why did they do it?

To kill some Jews. The stupid, blind fanatics.

So they hated the Jews, what of it? Everyone hates the Jews, it's no reason to start a dammed war. Freddie had learned long ago that one must learn to live with inferior races, it was how the world had always been. Why couldn't they see that? Tolerate them as best you can, kill them only when you must, and profit off them always. This is how one prospers in the real world. Freddie wasn't interested in dreams of glory, he was interested in prospering. By sixteen, his father had begun to lose faith in him. By seventeen, he threatened to disown him entirely. So on his eighteenth birthday, Freddie snuck into the old man's bedroom and smothered him with a pillow. Old Otto had more fight in him than Freddie expected (he was almost proud of him, fighting so hard at seventy two), but it was done quickly. Now the Villa was his, along with five million dollars in Nazi gold bullion. Now it was Freddie's turn to prosper.

He was doing well for himself as a small-time drug dealer, earning a good living by eighteen, but it was time to get out. There were too many entrenched gangs, too much competition. Instead, with Otto's gold to stake him, Freddie went into the gun running business. There were entrenched players in that field as well, but none as strong as the drug gangs. Within six months they were all gone, their leaders dead, their men and merchandise his. By Twenty-four, Freddie was known throughout all Brazil—even the big syndicates in Rio had to respect him. The real turning point came when he discovered Herr Schmidt six years ago. That was when Freddie's rise to the top began in earnest.

Freddie knew Schmidt from childhood. The man was not part of the usual crowd his father moved in, not one of the "Party Faithful" who met to sing the old songs, hatching plans that never came to be. No, Schmidt was different. Schmidt was apart. Apart from the others, apart from everything it seemed to Freddie. The other old Nazi's held him in high esteem. Once, when Freddie was only seven, Schmidt walked past as he and his father were heading to the café. Otto stepped aside, dipping his head. After the man had passed, Otto knelt and whispered, 'That was Herr Schmidt, Fredrick. He is a very great man. You must always show him respect.' It shocked him to hear the tone in Otto's voice; he feared the man. For all his faults, Otto was not a coward, but all the same, he feared Herr Schmidt. Freddie feared Schmidt as well, but what child wouldn't?

Schmidt had clearly been badly injured in the war. His face was hidden, wrapped in bandages. He always wore a wide brimmed hat and dark glasses, and no matter the temperature, he always wore a long overcoat. To Freddie, he seemed less like a man than the shadow of a man, given shape. It was as though a hole had been cut into the air, leaving only a deep black void, and inside that void was Schmidt. But then, children are given to fanciful thoughts, and are easily frightened. When he met Schmidt again, in the summer of eighty-nine, Freddie saw that he was just a man after all. A somewhat small and decrepit man at that.

He was shocked to discover that the mister Schmidt he was meeting that day was THE Schmidt, from his childhood. When Freddie was ten, Schmidt had disappeared, seemingly overnight. Now he had returned, looking to purchase a great many guns; Schmidt knew people who wanted weapons, and Freddie happily met their needs. Business boomed. Schmidt seemed to know every rebel group, every terrorist cell, every right-wing militia and death squad in the whole of South America. He had no ideological motive, it seemed. He dealt with government forces one day, communist insurgents the next. That suited Freddie fine—let these fools kill one another in their endless coups and wars, so long as they paid. His plan was to amass a fortune of five hundred million dollars, then move to the south of France and live a life of luxury. At thirty-five, he was nearly there.

Many time he considered killing Schmidt. By removing the middleman, he could sell direct and increase his profits…but he never did. For one thing, the man's contacts would be hard to replace. But mostly, although it galled Freddie to admit it, he still feared Schmidt. The man had to be in his mid seventies, yet he seemed to possess an endless supply of slow, quiet stamina. Like an old patient spider, dutifully spinning its web, Schmidt kept working. It was unnerving. Sometimes Freddie would swear that the old bastard could read his mind. Schmidt was not like the other old Nazi's, like his father. He was not a fool. This only made Freddie hate him all the more. Today would be, if all went well, the last time he would ever have to see him. Today's sale would be the largest of Freddie's career. He and his new American supplier were meeting with Schmidt to negotiate a sale of ten thousand of the new energy weapons the US had been developing. This would be the first of the new wonder weapons to arrive south of the border. The demand was insatiable. This sale would put Freddie over the five hundred million mark. Ah, America; the biggest and best guns the world had to offer. Everything could be had in America, for a price. Perhaps that was where he should retire, America, not stodgy old Europe. America was his kind of place. Perhaps he would buy himself a movie studio and go into business with all the Hollywood Jews. Oh! How that would torment dear, dead old Otto.

Freddie Kreidler sat at his table in the back of the café Ollesto, sipping his gin and quietly planning his future when his man De'allo walked over.

"Boss, de Yankee is here."

"How many men does he have with him?"

"Only two, boss."

Freddie thought a moment. It was important to show he wasn't worried. This was his town. "Do they know you speak English?" Freddie always sought every edge he could get. Such an advantage could pay dividends.

"No. We only talked Spanish, boss."

"Good. Tell the others to go. It will be just you and me. Send the American over and then fetch the car—but not too quickly."

De'allo did as instructed. A minute later Freddie saw his new American associate, bodyguards in tow, making his way to the table. Freddie got up.

"Williams, my friend, it is good to see you. How was your trip?"

"Fine," Williams said, mopping his brow. The two men shook hands. "It was a long flight. I'm looking forward to the weekend."

"Absolutely," Freddie said, inviting Williams to sit. His two men stayed back a respectable distance. "Think of my Villa as your home. I'm throwing a big party in your honor tonight. Wine, women and song, all for your pleasure. This is a big day for us."

"It is…if your buyer comes through."

"Oh, do not worry about Schmidt. He most certainly wants your merchandise." Freddie lit a cigarette, offering one to his guest, who declined. "Tell me Williams, is that a sample you have there?" He pointed to one of the bodyguards, a large black man with a strong box handcuffed to his wrist. Williams motioned him over and quietly removed a futuristic looking gun. He passed it under the table to Freddie, who looked it over admiringly.

"Kirby 2.0. Wonderful! That Stark…he makes all the best stuff." Seeming not to care if anyone in the busy little café was watching, Freddie lifted the gun, checking the sights as if he were about to fire. "Hmm. It's lighter than I thought."

"A lot of the weight is in the clip. Now you do understand, I was only able to get three clips per gun? Next month I'll have truck loads available, but—"

"My friend, it is fine. You've delivered as promised. My buyers will be most pleased. Now I should ask, you did remove all the tracking chips, correct?"

"Of course. Would I be sitting here if I hadn't?"

"True," Freddie said. Just then, De'allo made his way to the table, speaking briefly to Freddie. "My man has just brought the car around. Shall we go?"

Freddie led his entourage out of the cafe. As they reached the exit, Freddie stopped. Something caught his eye. "Boy, let me have a paper."

The cashier complied. There was no question of asking for payment. Freddie scanned the front page, delighted by the news. It was a banner headline, placed over a full-page photo. Williams peered over his shoulder.

"Yes, it just happened this morning—I heard about it on the radio on the flight down. I'm surprised to see it made the morning paper here. First you've heard of it?"

"Yes," Freddie said, smiling. "The very first. I think I shall give this to Herr Schmidt when we see him. This strikes me as something he would be interested in. Let's go see him, shall we?"

The men got into Kreidler's car, a Cadillac Escalade limousine, and began the ninety-minute trip. Freddie was pleased. Not only was this sale going to set him up for life, but as a parting gift, he would get to see Schmidt's reaction as he read today's headlines. Though he was no blubbering ideologue, surely this news would be upsetting to an old National Socialist, as Schmidt most certainly had to be (the sly old bastard never spoke a word concerning his past—no matter how much business he and Freddie had done over the years). This news was sure to get under his skin. How delightful it would be to see him squirm for once. As they neared their destination, Freddie spoke.

"I've warned you about Herr Schmidt's appearance, haven't I? He dislikes being asked about it. You do understand?"

"I'm not interested in the man's medical history," Williams said. "Just his money. This isn't my first rodeo, Kreidler."

"Oh, of course." Williams was a touchy little prick. "I was more concerned about your men."

"They're professionals."

"So good to know. We are almost there."

The Escalade winded up a small mountain road. The tropical heat dwindled as they climbed, the air taking on a light scent of earth and pine. Schmidt's home sat atop the gentle slope of Mount Trujillo, part of the foothills of the Andes Mountains. The paved road soon became gravel, then dirt. Five minutes later, the road stopped entirely; they had arrived. The house was cut into the sheer rock face of the mountain, affording a spectacular view. On a spacious deck jutting out over the mountainside, Herr Schmidt stood waiting. As the men got out of the car, Freddie rolled up the newspaper, conspicuously leaving the headline visible, and put it in his front jacket pocket. The men made their way to the deck.

"Herr Schmidt, I've brought someone who very much want's to meet you." Freddie motioned the American forward. "Mr. Williams, allow me to introduce Herr Schmidt."

Williams stepped forward, trying hard not to stare. Schmidt was a sight. It was hard to decide if the man's appearance was creepy or just plain funny. He looked to be right out of that old movie, The Invisible Man. As Kreidler warned, Schmidt's face was completely wrapped in bandages. He wore a slouched hat with a wide brim, and dark glasses. Not sunglasses—but dark glass lenses, such as a blind man would wear. He had on a long black overcoat, belted stylishly. His boots were hand-tooled leather, and they matched his gloves. Upon his right hand was a ring of gold, set with a great ruby. He had a simple straight cane, which he held but did not lean on. He did not appear to be the old man Kreidler told him of, surely not a man in his late seventies.

"Pleased to meet you, Herr Schmidt. I've heard so much about you." Williams extended his hand. Schmidt did not take it. Instead, he stood and stared.

"Have you indeed? And what was it you heard?" The voice came from a small slit in the front of the wrapping, just wide enough for his mouth. The German accent was strong. Williams stood with his hand dangling in space.

"I…I assure you, Herr Schmidt, it was nothing bad," he managed.

"How unfortunate. I try so hard. I myself have heard nothing whatsoever about you, Mr. Williams." An awkward silence enveloped them, until Freddie stepped forward.

"Herr Schmidt is just having a little sport with you, Williams. Aren't you, Schmidt?" Freddie stared daggers into the old fool. He would not let him ruin this deal. He could swear the man was smiling under those rags. A moment later, Schmidt spoke.

"Freddie is correct, Mr. Williams," he said, finally taking the man's hand. "Did he not warn you about my wicked sense of humor? I am a notorious joker, I'm afraid."

"That's fine," Williams said, finding Schmidt's grip a match for his voice. Cold and flinty. "Maybe we can just get down to business."

"Ah yes, business. You American's, so industrious. I commended you for your dedication. Come this way."

He walked them to a large oak table sitting at the center of the deck. There was a pitcher of ice water waiting along bottles of red and white wine. Schmidt sat down, showing for the first time, perhaps something of his age. He moved slowly, easing himself into the chair.

"Excuse me, gentlemen, these old bones of mine are quite weary. I've spent the last four days in the jungles of Chile, setting up the details of today's purchase. Perhaps you would favor me with a demonstration, Mr. Williams?"

Williams produced the weapon, and proceeded to give a rundown of the gun's capabilities and various features. Schmidt appeared to follow his every word. After the demonstration wrapped up, Schmidt stood.

"I should like to test the weapon."

"Certainly," Williams said, inserting a clip. "To adjust the setting you just—"

"Yes, I believe I have it," Schmidt interrupted. He dialed the gun to the pulse-bolt setting, taking aim at a hanging boulder sixty feet from the deck. There was a slight hum, followed by a flash of light. Instantly, the boulder exploded, sending twenty tons of rock sliding down the mountain, and a shower of dust and fragments raining down at their feet.

"Jesus!" Freddie exclaimed. "That's more bang than an RPG."

Williams puffed with pride. "The Kirby pulse-bolt is 20% more powerful than the biggest rocket grenade currently on the market, the MII included."

"I believe it. What about the recoil? It looked so easy."

"There is no recoil," Schmidt said, disdainfully. "Electromagnetic radiation. Light, in other words. Where is your physics, Freddie?"

Freddie glared at him. How he longed to be rid of this old cretin. Schmidt readjusted the setting on the gun and let out a piercing whistle—though how he managed through all those wrappings, Freddie could not tell.

"Wolf! Come boy," Schmidt called out. An instant later, a large brown and grey German Shepherd came bounding up the stairs. He trotted over to Schmidt, stopping at his feet, and sat dutifully as his master stroked his mane. "Ah, good boy, Wolf," Schmidt said. He walked back several paces, issuing a single command: "Stay." He calmly took aim at the animal. "Let us see how the weapon's stun setting performs."

Williams interrupted. "Schmidt, the setting is too high. On that setting—"

Schmidt fired the gun. A brilliant violet beam of light flashed out, striking the animal. Instantly the dog flew back, pinned against the side of the house. It howled in agony, its head whipping back and forth like a doll in the hand of a child. Its teeth shattered and smoke filled the air, a sickly sweet odor with it. After twenty seconds, Schmidt released the trigger. The dog's carcass collapsed to the deck.

"How marvelous," Schmidt said, eyeing the gun. Freddie, Williams, and the other three men—professional's all—felt their gorge rise at the horrible display. Williams found his voice first.

"I'm...glad you approve, Herr Schmidt. Can I assume we will do business? This weapon is the coming thing, I assure you. In five years, gunpowder and bullets will be as obsolete as the bow and arrow."

"Will they?" Schmidt said, looking up from the gun. "Genghis Khan conquered most of the known world with the bow and arrow. What would such a man accomplish with these, do you wonder?"

"I don't wonder. I'm just a salesman. Now, do you like my product or not?"

"Oh, I believe my customers will be most pleased. Don't you agree my young assoc…" Schmidt stopped. His eye was fixed upon Freddie, having just noticed the newspaper in his pocket. Freddie smiled.

"Is something troubling you, Herr Schmidt? Oh, yes," he said, taking the newspaper from his pocket, while spying Schmidt's trembling hand. This was too rich, Freddie thought, even better than he'd hoped. "I brought this for you. I thought the news might be of interest."

"Let…me see it, please."

Freddie handed over the newspaper. Schmidt read in silent amazement. A breeze came, picking up the smell of burnt flesh, wafting it across the deck, the smell rich and nauseating.

"Look," Williams said, "I want an answer. Do you want these weapons, or not?"

Freddie looked to his partner, who appeared lost in another world. He hadn't expected the news to hit him so hard. He would have to steer the old fool back to the matter at hand. "Herr Schmidt?"

Schmidt did not answer. Instead, he did something Freddie had never heard him do before, not once in all the years he had known him. He began to laugh. It was a quiet laugh at first, but it grew, rising into a deep, hearty bellow. It felt unclean. To Freddie, the laugh seemed to come from some hollow cavern, where an echo might live for centuries. He suddenly felt six years old again, seeing Schmidt for the very first time. Slowly, Schmidt looked up, and spoke.

"He has come back. Yes, I can feel it now, in the very air. He has come back to me. I would almost say that I can't believe it…and yet, somehow, I knew. I knew this day would come. I have always known." Schmidt set the paper down on the table, running his gloved hand across it. The Portuguese headline read:

United States Rejoices:
The Return of Captain America!

Below the headline was a full-page photo of the Captain, standing on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, addressing the media.

The scene held for several long seconds, until Williams spoke. His words were halting, and tinged with fear.

"Are you saying you know the man?"

"Know him?" Schmidt said, turning abruptly. There was a volume and a power to his voice now that almost hurt the ears. "Did Cain know Able? Or Caesar Brutus? Oh yes…I know him. You asked me a question of business a moment ago, Mr. Williams. Ask me again."

Williams stared at the man. "I...I asked if you wanted the guns or not."

"Yes," Schmidt answered, gleefully. "I will take them all, Mr. Williams. I shall take your weapons as I shall take any and all things upon which I fix my eye. Then, I shall take this world…and shake it to its foundations! I will bring him to me, and I will welcome him, as only a brother can."

Casually, but with great speed, Schmidt raised his gun. In four quick bursts, he killed all the men except for Freddie, who was scrambling to free his pistol from its shoulder holster. He was too slow. Schmidt dialed his weapon down to the lowest setting and fired point-blank into Freddie's chest. He crumpled to the deck, unconscious.

After what felt like a pass of hours, Freddie slowly regained his senses. He found himself stretched out flat on the deck. Then he remembered. He frantically felt for his gun.

"It is not there, Freddie."

It was Schmidt. He was standing a few feet away, his back to him.

"I've taken it. Along with the Beretta you keep in that ankle holster. I've taken all your weapons. Except for your knife." Freddie looked around. There it was, lying just in front of him. "I've heard that you are good with a blade. I shall give you a chance to prove it."

Freddie reached for the knife, but stopped. "Schmidt," he cried out, "Why are you doing this? I am your partner!"

"No longer, I'm afraid. My plans have changed, Freddie, and they do not include you. Come now boy, you've always wanted to kill me. This is your chance."

"I never wanted to kill you…"

"Ach. Do not lie, it is unbecoming. Your father once commanded an entire Army group. One hundred thousand of the most ferocious soldiers that the world has ever known once answered to his beck and call. Don't dishonor his memory by being a coward now."

Freddie snarled and grabbed the knife. He was good with a blade. He'd killed two men in knife fights alone. He would kill Schmidt now. He would flay the old man alive and cut those dammed bandages from his face and spit in his eye! He was Frederick Kreidler, this was his town—and he was the king here. Freddie jumped to his feet. Schmidt turned to face him, and at that moment, all the strength drained from Freddie's body. Schmidt had already removed his bandages himself. Freddie's mouth hung slack, in horror at what he saw. For the first time, he beheld Herr Schmidt's naked face. Only it was not a face at all. It was a skull.

A Red Skull.

It was not a face that looked like a skull, nor a mask of some sort. It was a skull, deep crimson, the shade of blood stained granite. The skull seemed to hover somehow, suspended above his shoulders. The place where Schmidt's neck should have been was empty, save for a bony protrusion that might have been his spine, which was also red. Even his teeth, so sharp and viciously straight, were red, but unlike his hard, gritty skull, the teeth were smooth and luxurious, red like ripe shining cherries. The only thing not red was the sockets where his eyes should have been. They were black. They looked to Freddie like they were holes, cut out of the very air, leaving only a void. And inside that void, was Schmidt.

"Come Freddie. Surely you are not frightened of an old man?" said a voice that sounded like Schmidt's, but which echoed from that hideous leering skull. Freddie screamed and stumbled forward, slashing with his knife. Schmidt easily sidestepped him, bringing his own blade down as he did, gashing Freddie deeply from scalp to chin. Freddie whirled, trying to sink his knife into Schmidt's heart (as if such a thing existed), but again, he was too slow. Schmidt caught his wrist in a grip of steely, demonic strength, shattering it. Freddie dropped the knife. Deftly, Schmidt caught it in mid air, quickly plunging it to the hilt into Freddie's thigh. His screams of agony echoed off the mountainside. Quickly, Schmidt circled behind, wrapping his arm around Freddie's throat, holding him upright.

"Ach, you are too slow, Freddie. Too weak."

With a stroke, Schmidt sliced through Freddie's hamstrings, crippling him. Letting him fall, Schmidt calmly walked to the table, and set his knife down. He again looked at the newspaper Freddie had brought him, speaking to it.

"Ah, my brother. These children today, so soft and pampered. They know nothing of real strength. Not like you and I, who were forged in the crucible of war—the only thing which gives man meaning. I…almost despaired these past years. I almost gave up. I busied myself as best I could, but there was no passion in my work. No meaning. But today?" Schmidt lifted what was once his head and breathed deeply, as if tasting fresh air for the first time in ages. "Today, I am reborn."

Schmidt walked back to his former partner, who was trying to drag himself off the deck. He knelt down.

"Freddie..."

A small groan of pain and fear escaped Freddie's throat. He kept his head down and continued to drag himself away, but his will to resist was ebbing from his ruined body. Finally, he looked up...and saw his fate.

"Freddie, you should have killed me when you had the chance," Schmidt said, with something like pity. "You should have killed me yesterday, when I was old."

Schmidt grabbed a hank of Freddie's perfect Aryan hair and dragged him to the edge of the deck, leaving a trail of blood and gore. He lifted Freddie's thrashing body up overhead, as a man might lift his child.

"Today I am young again. Say hello to your father for me, Freddie."

Schmidt tossed Freddie over the railing, ribbons of blood trailing in the wake. It was a twelve hundred foot drop to the forest below, and Freddie screamed all the way. Not because of the fall, but because of the yawning black void of those eyes. Freddie Kreidler died as he had lived: violently and stupidly.

An hour later, the man who was once Schmidt was still sitting at his table, sipping his wine and enjoying the morning paper. How keen the wine tasted now! How sweet the air was. Exactly how he was able to taste the wine without a tongue, he did not know, nor smell the air with no nostrils. It did not matter. It was enough that he did. Once, long ago, he had been just a man, like any other. Well, perhaps not like any other. Johann Schmidt had been a killer of consummate skill. A soldier, a spy and an assassin. A man of brilliance and cunning. He was ruthless and he was strong and men feared him. But now he was something more. He did not need answers as to why. It was enough that he was. He gazed at the newspaper and spoke aloud, in a voice no longer old.

"I never truly believed you were dead, Steven. You and I were meant for greater things. Do you think me dead? Or do you feel my presence, as surely as I do yours? I shall ask you, when next we meet. Soon, my brother. Soon."

He finally set the paper down. Lighting a cigar, he inhaled until the ash was glowing red, and pressed it into the image of Captain America. When the paper kindled, he walked to the door of his house, and tossed in the burning scraps. The carpet and drapes quickly went up in flames. He strolled to the garage and started up his SUV. He reached into the glove compartment and removed the bandages. Soon, he was Schmidt again. He would still need that cover, for a time. He started down the mountain while his house blazed behind him, never to return. It mattered not; there was nothing there he needed. He would drive to the docks in Boreal, where Williams had delivered the weapons and he would kill his men. The weapons were his now, they would not go to the various rebel groups he had negotiated with. He had need of them. They were not the only weapons he had stockpiled over the years. He now had enough weapons and material to supply an army. He had contacts around the globe, thousands—millions, who would answer his call when the time came. He had over four billion dollars sequestered in banks around the world, and hundreds of millions in gold, platinum and silver. He had all this and more. And he had a world to conquer.

He thought of his brother, and he smiled. Captain America had indeed returned, and today, the world rejoiced. Tomorrow, it would weep. Because the Red Skull had just awoke.