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Chapter 7

A Shadow Rises

Falsworth manor, England

Despite staying awake until deep in the night chatting with Steve and Namor, Jacqueline awoke early, eager to start the day. After breakfast with Steve, she would begin preparing for the arrival of her family later in the afternoon. But as Trilby brought the morning paper and tea, she received a surprise.

"Gone, did you say?"

"Yes ma'am. The gentleman was gone before I awoke. He left this on the mantle."

Trilby set the envelope on the serving tray, next to the tea, and left the room. Reaching for her glasses, Jackie opened the letter, and read.

Dear Jackie,

Sorry to run, but something's come up. Nothing serious—just some Avengers business. Hope I didn't put a crimp in your birthday celebration. Tell everyone I said hello, especially Emily. She has your eyes. I'll be in touch soon, I promise. Take care, my darling girl.

Love, S.

She set the note on her nightstand, troubled. Something was wrong here. Steve's duties as Captain America were demanding…yet she didn't believe his excuse. He was hiding something, she felt it yesterday as they visited, hovering below the surface of their light conversation. Steve was never able to hide his feelings from her. It pained her to think how easily she kept secrets from him. Several times yesterday she felt he was about to open up, but the moment always passed. A memory from last night came to her, when Steve and Namor walked in from the garden. At the time she dismissed it, blaming it on the darkness and her failing sight, but she noticed—for a fleeting instant—something about Namor's eyes…

"Tears," she whispered. "Namor was weeping..."

She was sure of it. He had been weeping, and that meant something was indeed wrong. Namor was a man of great passions, his emotions always just below the surface. But tears? Never. He was too prideful for that. There was something very wrong with Steve.

Jacqueline bowed her head. A calmness settled over her, banishing all uncertainty and fear. The decision she had long put off was suddenly upon her, and her choice was clear. Jackie pulled the velvet rope hanging at her bedside. Trilby appeared moments later.

"You called, ma'am?"

"Yes. Telephone my family, tell them the party is off. With all apologies."

Trilby paused a moment before answering. "Very well, but what reason shall I give?"

"I trust you will think of something appropriate. Be sure to tell them I am fine, that I am not ill."

"Then you wish me to lie?"

Jackie glowered at Trilby. "I wish for you to do as I ask—and be quick about it. Call everyone…except for Emily." With some effort, Jackie stood. She drew her nightgown around her and gathered her strength for the task ahead. "I shall need you to drive me to Oxford. I must speak with my granddaughter."

Steve approached the outskirts of London feeling like a heel for running out on Jackie. She would be upset, and his flimsy excuse wouldn't cover it. He'd just have to think of something to tell her. What he couldn't do was share his bad news with her, not after the way things went with Namor. He couldn't handle an emotional scene like that again, especially not with Jackie. Steve caught his reflection in the rear-view mirror.

"You're a coward."

And so he was. He was unaccustomed to lying and to being afraid. It wasn't death he feared; he'd faced that specter too many times for it to have any real hold on him now. But facing the people you love, and telling them you were dying took more courage than he would have believed. It made him feel as if he was quitting, deserting his post, somehow. It was absurd, but that's how it felt all the same. He had to believe that a cure was possible. If life had taught him anything, it was that nothing was impossible—his very existence today was proof of that. He thought of Hank Pym and Reed Richards, the two old friends who were heading the search for a cure. Boys, he thought, I pray you're as smart as we all think you are.

The traffic grew heavy as he entered London. He would have been lost without the Saab's onboard GPS. He used to know this sprawling city well, but that was years ago, and things had changed so much since then. This area bordering the east bank of the River Thames had been mostly factories and warehouses—all of which were destroyed in the Blitz. Today, this was a bright, modern development, full of housing, shops and restaurants. Steve wasn't sure if he didn't prefer it the old way. It was ridiculous, romanticizing a bunch of rundown old factories, many dating back to the Industrial Revolution, but at least they felt like London, somehow. This place, nice as it was, could easily be a suburb of San Francisco, Baltimore, even Moscow for that matter. There was getting to be a 'sameness' to the world that Steve found troubling. Progress didn't always mean improvement.

Up ahead he saw his turn. The house he was looking for sat on a small cul-de-sac, situated on the river's edge. It was a big place, very modern. Not really his taste, but certainly nice. Steve parked and walked up the path.

He knocked. A moment later, a young man in a faded Manchester United t-shirt opened the door, mopping his forehead with a towel. He was very fit, over six feet and a solid two hundred pounds. His hands were those of a fighter, hard and calloused, with thick, blunted knuckles. To anyone with an eye for such details, this was obviously a man who could handle himself in a tight spot. He looked at Steve, not recognizing him.

"Can I help you?"

"Hello, Joe. I was passing by and thought I'd stop for a quick visit. Is this a good time?"

Joey Chapman's eyes grew wide as he realized his guest's identity. "Yes, its fine Ca…" he trailed off. "Sorry, I'm a bit off kilter. I'm not really sure what to call you."

"I understand. And please, call me Steve."

Joey seemed unsure what to do with this information, as if it were a test to gauge his reaction. "Right," he said. "Steve it is. Come in, please."

Steve followed Joey in. It was spacious inside, lots of chrome and tile, with high ceilings and tall, narrow windows. There were a few enclosed rooms, and a small kitchen and dining area in the back. Everything neat and efficient. The main living area was a fully equipped gymnasium: heavy bags and focus pads for sparring, free weights and a few machines for cardio. Floor mats covered much of the hardwood floor. Several wooden targets lined the far wall, with various throwing knives sunk deep into them. Joey walked over to the couch, almost the only piece of actual furniture there, and moved a stack of newspapers.

"Excuse the mess, bit of a slob I'm afraid," he said. "Can I get you anything? Tea, coffee? Got some pizza in the fridge if you're hungry?"

"Thanks, but no. I can't stay long, I'm catching a flight soon."

"Well. I'd show you around, but this is it actually. The downstairs is just storage space." Joey sat on the edge of a weight bench, holding an Olympic bar, loaded with about four hundred pounds Steve estimated. Very respectable.

"Nice place, Joe. A little Spartan, but nice."

Joey smiled ruefully. "It's a perk. I also get a car and a nice fat expense account. The British government takes good care of their agents," Joey said, laughing. "At least the ones who make the grade. I've been put on disciplinary leave. I imagine the Royal family had a say in that. What do you think, time to keep an eye out for a new flat?"

"That's why I stopped. I figured you might be dealing with some issues after Scotland."

"I see." Joey got up and ran a hand through his short reddish hair. "Well, I appreciate the thought Cap—"

"Steve."

"Okay then." Joey walked over to the heavy bag. "I appreciate the thought, Steve. But I don't need anyone to hold my hand. I bollixed it the other day." He began snapping punches into the canvas bag, making it sway. "Don't bother saying I didn't. I'm a professional. I can deal with the truth—without any pep talks."

Steve stood, and walked over to Joey. "I didn't come to give any pep talk. I came to give it to you straight. You need to get your act together. You screwed up the other day."

Joey turned and looked at Steve, his face red with anger and embarrassment. Steve continued.

"We're in a life or death profession, requiring split second decisions, with little room for error. If you can't get your head right, you have no business being in it. You should have spotted that sniper."

"Hey," Joey shouted, stepping toward Steve, pointing a finger in his face. "The bastard was wearing a refractor suit, in case you don't remember. He was bloody well invisible!"

"Hydra's had that technology for what, a year now? You've been briefed on it. And it's more like camouflage than true invisibility, especially in the dark, where it gives off a slight bluish glow. But you missed it. You were lucky I was there to pull your ass out of the fire."

"That the way it is, then? Is that the opinion of the Great Man himself, that I'm a washout?"

"I don't know. Are you a washout?"

White fury flushed over Joey's face. He lunged, throwing a wild haymaker that Steve batted aside. More punches came, thudding against Steve's arms. Steve looked at Joey.

"You don't want to do this."

Joey pulled back, his expression cold rage. He sprang forward, spinning his leg in a tight crescent, the move blindingly fast. Joey Chapman was a black belt in SAS combat karate; his kicks could splinter oak beams. With an echoing 'whap', the kick landed against Steve's thigh. Steve stepped forward, closing the distance in a flash. He drove his open palm into Joey's chest, knocking him back like a rag doll. Chapman crashed into a rack of barbells and weight plates, falling to the floor amid the clatter of steel. He scrambled to his feet, grabbing an empty dumbbell in his fist, wielding it like a club. Steve's eyes narrowed. For the first time he assumed something of a fighting stance. His voice was utterly calm, but deadly serious.

"Don't do this Joe. Don't make a mistake you'll only come to regret. I came here today as your friend."

Joey stood, breathing hard. With a grunt, he spun, throwing the bar into a mirror on the far wall, shattering it. He took a moment to regain his composure.

"You're right," he said quietly. "I missed the bastard. Because of my stupidity, the Prince almost lost his life. I am a washout."

Steve walked over to a shelf and grabbed a fresh towel, handing it to the younger man. "I've got something to tell you, and you need to listen up because I don't have time to repeat myself. For the record, I never called you a washout. Those were your words. If you want my opinion, I think you have everything it takes—you're strong, smart, skilled…not to mention you kick like a Missouri mule," Steve said, rubbing his thigh. "But that doesn't matter. What matters is what you think. Do you know why you missed that sniper?"

Joey shook his head. "I don't know," he muttered. "I just got sloppy."

"No. I was there, remember? You missed him because you didn't even look for him. You ignored the first rule of guerrilla warfare, always scan the field for potential ambush sites. Instead, you charged in blind, in a mad rush to be first. This was a rescue mission, not a contest."

"Easy to say when you're the winner."

"I didn't win anything. The team won."

Joey shook his head, looking haggard. "You really have no idea, do you? How hard it is, standing in your shadow? I saw how the men looked at you, like God himself just arrived—and why not? You're the best."

"I'll let you in on a little secret," Steve said, walking to the mini-fridge against the wall. He grabbed two bottles of water, tossing one to Chapman. "Nobody is the best. The best is a myth."

Joey laughed. "That's news to me. The way you took out ten Hydra agents to my one, the way you crossed that platform, under heavy crossfire, in the blink of an eye? Hell, I can't even think that fast, let alone move that fast. When we took their command center, I must have looked the right bloody fool, trying to set an explosive charge on that door. What a waste of time…you just kicked it in, didn't you? Two-inch plate steel and you crumpled it like tin. You don't call that being the best?"

Steve smiled.

"Off the top of my head I can name a dozen men capable of shattering six inch plate steel. A couple of women too. Does that make them the best? I know others who can move faster than the eye can follow, like lightening. Are they the best? What about the ones who can fly, or project energy from their hands? My point is, we all bring a different set of skills to the table—different strengths, different weaknesses. So don't get caught up trying to be 'the best', whatever that even is. Just work to be the best that you can be. That's all any of us can do."

"Be the best you can be?" Joey said, with a weary grin. "Bit corny, isn't it?"

"Maybe, but its good advice. If you go on chasing impossible standards, you'll only fail. That's what makes you press out there, and that's what leads to mistakes."

Steve checked his watch and set his water down. "I have to be going, Joe. I won't lie, your window of opportunity is getting very narrow. Your C.O. wanted to suspend you from active duty indefinitely, not just a month. He wanted to revoke your status as a free agent."

"You've spoken with General Stonewell?"

Steve nodded. "Stony's an old friend and he asked for my opinion. I told him I thought you were the man for the job. I asked him to hold off, to give you another opportunity to prove yourself as Union Jack. You've got that chance. Now it's up to you."

"I…I didn't know that. Look, not to be an ungrateful little prat, but why? Why put yourself out for me this way? I'm not even sure if I believe in me. Why do you?"

Steve grew quiet. Joey began to think he wasn't going to answer, but eventually he did. There was a melancholy to his voice as he spoke.

"In the early days of the war, before my country was even in it, I was here in Britain hunting a Nazi spy who'd stolen vital US defense secrets. He was here in England doing the same. You could follow his path by the bodies in his wake. After a month on his trail, I finally had him cornered in Scotland, ironically, not far from where we were the other day. I moved in for the kill, only it turned out I was the pigeon that day. He got the drop on me, shot me point blank in the chest. If it hadn't been for my tunic and my healing ability, I would have died on the spot. He then took the butt of his pistol and beat me to a pulp, dumping me in the ocean. I got to shore, somehow, and watched a U-Boat took him safely back to Germany. That spy was a Nazi colonel named Johann Schmidt. Otherwise known as the Red Skull."

Chapman listened, fascinated. He had known Cap for three years, but for the first time he was seeing him as a flesh and blood man, not some invincible icon. Cap continued.

"Physically, I recovered quickly. But mentally? It was my first defeat, it shook my confidence. That was when a man, whom I came to respect very much, talked with me. He got me back on my feet and back in the fight. It was Sir Richard Falsworth. I asked how I could repay him, but he said there was no need—in our line of work, we back one another up. He told me someday I might find myself in a position to help someone as he helped me. That's why I'm here. To repay that old debt."

Joey felt an electric charge run up his spine, making the hairs on his neck stand on end. He had to remind himself to breathe as Steve continued.

"Sir Richard was a good man, as was his son, Brian. You're a good man too. You remember that the next time you wear those colors…and you do them proud."

It took a moment before Joey found his voice. "I'm sorry for being an ass," he said, offering his hand. "Thank you, Cap."

"No need for thanks," Cap said, taking his hand. "That's what we do in our line, we back each other up. And I told you, it's Steve."

Joey smiled. "That'll take some getting used to. Can I ask…is that your real name?"

Steve laughed. "It is. Hey, if you can't trust a friend with a secret, who can you trust?"

Joey slapped his hand across Steve's back and walked him to the door. When they got there, Steve paused for a moment, as if mulling something over in his mind.

"I'm having some friends over next Friday, a little standing poker game we have. You play?"

"Yeah, a little," Chapman answered modestly.

Steve reached for his wallet, pulling out a business card. "There's always an open chair. It's a friendly game—no one goes home too busted. If it sounds good to you, call this number. He'll arrange your transportation to the mansion."

Joey stood in the doorway, watching Steve drive off. He reread the card, shaking his head in wonder:

Avengers Mansion Security Team
Col. John Jameson, pilot (U.S.A.F., retired)
1-88Avengers (1-881-825-3267)

flighcrew

Thirty minutes later, Steve boarded the Quinjet, the Avengers private transport, and settled into his seat, feeling better than he had in weeks. He felt as if he'd just rinsed his mouth of a foul taste. Self-pity was a sickening brew and he had been drinking from that cup far too long. This afternoon was a reminder of what was truly important in life; purpose. There was work yet to do. He'd lost sight of that recently, but Joe had helped him see it again. Whatever tomorrow had in store, there was still today. It wasn't death Steve feared at all. It was losing his sense of purpose he dreaded, that was the truer death, a death of the spirit. His guiding principles had always been duty, honor, and above all, purpose. As long as he still had them, he had reason to hope.

He came to a decision: it was time to open up about his illness. He bungled things with Jackie, badly, a mistake he didn't intend to repeat. It was time to come forward and be honest—with his friends and the public. He was determined to guard his privacy, but Captain America was a public figure, and Steve couldn't deny the America people the truth. He would simply have to find a way to balance his personal needs against his public duty. There would be a lot on his to-do list once he got home.

In the stand beside his seat, Steve found a copy of the morning edition of the Daily Bugle. He scanned the front page, surprised to see that news of Scotland had already leaked. He grew more concerned as he read: there were nine other Hydra offensives carried out that same day, all over the globe—a coordinated campaign. The intelligentsia believed Hydra wasn't capable of such a thing. SHIELD, Interpol, NATO, CIA—all insisted Hydra's command structure collapsed two years ago, alongside the man who created the organization…

The Red Skull.

Steve was there two years ago, when the world thought that the threat of the Skull had finally perished from the face of the earth—a lovely fiction, but one he could not believe in. Experience taught him to trust nothing where the Skull was concerned, death least of all. Cap and the Falcon led the strike against the Hydra fortress that day, high in the Ural mountain range. As Falcon and the SHIELD agents engaged the Hydra troops, Captain America met the Red Skull in personal combat. Sometimes it felt to Steve that he had been battling the Skull all his life. Perhaps he had.

The battle raged, violent and deadly, a near thing, as it always was. Several times the Skull nearly gained the upper hand. But the tide turned; the Hydra forces, routed, were in disarray, falling back in retreat. A series of explosions rocked the fortress, and the platform where Cap and the Skull fought buckled and tore loose from the main structure. At the last instant Cap leapt free. Grasping a piece of shattered railing, he pulled himself to safety, and saw what the others saw: the Skull, trapped on the platform, plummeting down the mountain chasm, flailing amidst the flames and twisted steel, spitting out his hate upon the world even as he fell to his death. Cap saw it…but he didn't believe it.

Steve set the paper aside—and his thoughts of the Skull. He buzzed the cockpit.

"Thanks for hightailing it so quickly, John. Hope I didn't mess you up having you come a day early."

"No problem, Cap," Colonel Jameson answered. "You interested in getting any fly-time?"

"Not today, pal. I'm feeling a little bushed, think I'll get some shut eye," Steve said, suddenly feeling exhausted.

"All right, Cap. We have the wind at our back, figure we'll be home in four, maybe four and a half hours. Happy dreams," Jameson replied. Steve did not hear those last words. He was already asleep. He would not awake until the Quinjet touched down.

Hydra Base Alpha-1

On a small island three hundred miles west of Africa, Elvin Gibb was experiencing a moment of transcendent joy. Everything he had striven towards these past dozen years was about to come to fruition. His tireless work, the countless sacrifices, his total, unwavering devotion…all of it about to crystallize in a moment of utter triumph. Triumph for himself, triumph for the cause. For a moment, he thought he might weep. He looked about, surreptitiously. There was no one near his workstation. Quickly, he slid the documents back into the envelope. Taking a moment to gather his composure, Elvin stood, clutching the envelope tightly.

"Blake, man the station. I'm expecting a contact from our Washington bureau. I should be back in time to take it, but if not, call me."

"Yes sir."

Elvin looked about in satisfaction. He was chief officer for all incoming intelligence for the eastern seaboard of the United States. He had a staff of fifty, and two dozen field agents under him. It was a lofty position—a lifetime away from the dusty back roads of West Virginia, and the angry and confused young man who once painted swastikas on highway signs and smashed windows in the dark of night, imagining he was accomplishing something. How far he had come. How far he had yet to go. After this day, he would rise to the inner circle of power, he was sure of it. The Great One would reward him for his diligent work; it was his destiny, and Elvin Gibb headed off to meet it.

As he approached the command center, Elvin's superior officer moved to intercept him.

"Where are you headed, Gibb?"

"I have important information, Commander. I need to see…him."

This brought an indignant laugh. "First, no one sees him unannounced. Second, if you have intel, bring it to me. Follow your chain of command, section chief."

"I don't think so," Elvin said, holding up the envelope. "You're not taking credit for my work this time, Thorpe. I put these facts together, I connected the dots. This wasn't part of my assigned duties. I took the initiative…and I expect the reward."

"You insubordinate little worm. I'm going to run you out of Hydra, Gibb. Tomorrow morning you'll be back in Dirtwater USA, passing out handbills at white power rallies."

Elvin's thin white lips curled with anger. The Appalachia, which he had worked so hard to remove from his accent, began to creep back. "I'll be head of global intelligence tomorrow morning. And you'll be bringing my coffee."

The two men stood nose to nose. Thorpe was about to call for security when a voice came over the intercom speaker above the door.

"What's the problem here? State your names."

Thorpe went to speak, but Elvin interrupted him. "My name is Gibb," he said, facing the camera. "Section Chief for sector 1-A. I have important news. I must speak with our Leader, immediately."

The two men began arguing, but stopped as the automatic doors swung open.

"Chief Gibb, report to the security desk. Alone."

Elvin crossed the threshold, taking exquisite pleasure from the look of surprise on Thorpe's face. Gibb had to pass three security checkpoints. Each time, he held his ground, refusing to divulge his information, insisting that he deliver it personally. Finally, he was led to the elevators, which took him to the upper levels of the well-hidden jungle base. He was met by a woman he had seen many times in the compound. Gibb had never spoken with her—few in Hydra had, but her influence reached to all quarters of the organization. Her features were a striking blend of Asian and European, though exactly what her ancestry was, no one knew. Her long black hair, like skeins of silk, hung across the left side of her face, attempting to conceal a knot of scars, accentuating her severe beauty. Her green leather bodysuit and matching lipstick gave her an appearance to match her name. She was Viper, the Second in Command of Hydra.

"Hello, Mr. Gibb. I'm told you have news. Something of importance to our Supreme Commander?"

"That's correct."

"For your sake, I hope so. Follow me."

She led him into a dimly lit room. There was no carpeting on the granite floor. The walls were mahogany and the leather upholstered furniture was ox-blood red. There was a massive desk of carved teak and polished marble in the center of the room. In the darkness, it took Elvin a moment to see the figure seated there. When he did, his breath caught in his throat. Before him sat a man most of the world believed to be dead, a man Elvin had pledged his life to, a man who had taken the mantle of leadership from the hand of Adolf Hitler himself...the Red Skull. Gibb addressed him, in awe.

"This is the greatest honor of my life."

"Undoubtedly," The Skull replied, looking up from the report he had been reading. He was clothed luxuriously. Over a cashmere shirt, he wore a jacket, black as ink, woven of fine Egyptian cotton. On his right hand, he wore a ring of ruby and pure gold. He exuded an air of patience...to a point. And menace as bottomless as the sea. Gibb stared, unable to find his words. Viper broke the silence.

"Chief Gibb, the demands on the Supreme Leader's time are great. Perhaps you should deliver your pressing news, and you might visit at some other time?"

"Yes, of course," Elvin said. He opened the envelope. "Two weeks ago, I noticed some puzzling information crossing my desk, from our various field agents across the globe. I began to see a pattern, so I looked into the matter further…and made a glorious discovery."

With immense pride, Elvin laid the documents before the Skull's gloved hands.

"Herr Skull, it is my pleasure to tell you that your great enemy, the traitor to his race and servant of the international Zionists, Captain America…is dying."

The Red Skull stopped reading and looked up. If it could be said that he had a face at all, then that face registered a look of disbelief and shock.

"I've confirmed it with our agents in American intelligence," Elvin said. "He's contracted some unknown disease. According to his own doctors, Captain America has but weeks to live. Your greatness endures."

The Skull sat reading the documents in silence. After a time, he got up and walked to a large window overlooking the jungle canopy. For a long while, he stood there, staring. Elvin became uneasy.

"My Lord, I thought you'd be pleased."

The Skull turned.

"Did you?" He walked towards Elvin, who took an involuntary step back. "That was your first mistake—thinking. Who gave you permission to think?"

"I…I don't understand."

"Yes, clearly you do not. I shall explain. You are a functionary, mister Gibb. I employ you to perform a function, to gather intelligence, to collate and pass it on to those above you. I do not ask you to think. Yet here you stand, thinking, daring to presume that you might know my mind!"

Sweat poured from Elvin in rivulets and his knees went weak. Slowly, Viper began backing away. The Skull came closer, his approach like the sudden chill of midnight. Had Elvin's mind not been numb with terror, he might have found this curious, for the Skull's bony face had only grown redder, like bricks fresh from the kiln.

"Decades before you were born, I battled my brother for the fate of this world. He is a god, his only equal being me. And you, a worm not fit to lick his boot heels, you come before me, smiling with stupid satisfaction, daring to take glee in his doom? His life is mine to take!"

Elvin did not even have time to gasp. In a blur of motion, the Red Skull's right hand shot out, clutching Gibb's throat. Elvin's eyes bulged, then rolled back into his head. Like razors through warm butter, the Skull's talon-like fingers cut through the flesh and fat of Elvin's neck, slicing his windpipe. Blood spurted from severed arteries. Within seconds, the Skulls hand closed around his spine, crushing it.

"My brother will die by my hand—fate has decreed it. Disease? Illness? I will not allow it! The universe will not allow it!"

"I do not think he can hear you, my love. Not anymore."

The Skull looked over to where Viper stood, and then looked at the bloody meat in his hand. He opened his fist. The body fell to the floor, its head held on by strands of flesh as pools of blood spread over the floor. Elvin Gibb had found his destiny.

"Come," Viper said. She led the Skull to his private bathroom, all gleaming marble and granite. They stepped into the shower stall. The water streamed hot, raising clouds of steam. She pealed off his clothing, starting with his gloves and shirt. They fell to the floor, saturated with blood, turning the water at their feet red. Viper took his hand and rinsed it, sucking his skeletal fingers into her mouth one by one. An invisible field of energy surrounded his bones, when he wished there to be, and it caused Viper's mouth to tingle. Not even the heat of the shower could quell the cold radiating from his touch. It was excruciating, and it never failed to thrill her; the very touch of dread, tasting of frozen tears. She ran her hands down his body as a translucent shape became visible, outlined by the steam and water. It shrouded his bones, a ghostly echo of humanity long vanished. Viper striped off her clothing, putting his hands on her, in her. She pressed her mouth to his grinning smile, and moaned as he took her.

When he was sated, Viper led the Skull to his chamber, drying and dressing him. He lit a cigarette as she knelt to tie his boots.

"I must know if that fool's information was correct," he said.

"I will attend to it."

"Make it your top priority. I must know."

Viper rose. She kissed his cheek, rough and cold, and turned to leave. As she opened the door, the Skull's low voice called out.

"My dear. Have you forgotten something?"

Viper turned to look, her expression uncomprehending and innocent.

"My ring," the Skull said. He raised his right hand, displaying his empty finger. Viper walked back to him.

"I am sorry, my love," She purred. She reached into her pocket, producing the ruby ring. "In the heat of your embrace I must have…"

The words froze in Vipers throat. With his left hand, the Skull reached out, caressing her cheek. Lovingly, he cupped her chin and, slowly began to squeeze.

"Place the ring upon my finger."

With a trembling hand, Viper slid the golden ring on to his fourth finger. Despite the pain of his grip, and the fear in her own heart, she met the Skull's eyeless gaze, refusing to waver. Her pride was strong, and it pleased the Skull.

"Good," he said, releasing her. "Your strength and your discipline are your most comely attributes, my dear. Indeed, they are almost a match for your lust for power. See that they do not overcome your better judgment. My embrace, dear girl, is ice. Take care, lest you discover just how cold it can be. Go."

. . .

Without a word, Viper left the room. She rubbed the raw divots in her face and smiled. Let him rage. The Skull's anger was like the storm; it came and it went. She had learned to ride the waves. Being his woman brought her prestige and influence. Viper had been a force to reckon with even before combining her own organization with Hydra a decade ago. She had earned the reputation of being one of the world's most feared terrorists. Soon she would be much more. She stood poised to become the empress of the world, and she had many plans about how to wield the power soon to be hers. Gingerly, she stepped around the bloody carnage the Skull had left in his office and reached for the phone on his desk.

"Send in a cleaning crew."

Within seconds, the crew was there, performing their duties with practiced precision. A body bag was laid out.

"Be sure to take it out the back exit."

"Yes Madam Viper."

Just then, a ringing came from the pocket of Elvin Gibb. Viper knelt and answered his communicator.

"I'm sorry Mr. Blake, but Chief Gibb cannot come to the phone. He has been… dismissed. I am promoting you to his position—congratulations, Section Chief Blake. I will be down shortly with a special assignment. Viper out."

Viper left the office, which was perfectly in order again, showing no trace of the slaughter.

. . .

In his private quarters, the Red Skull sat brooding. How could this be? His brother, taken from him at the moment of his greatest triumph…not even God could be so cruel, surely. Yet, it felt true. He had a sense of these things. This news changed everything. How could he proceed with his plans now? How could he possibly take joy in his conquest if Rogers were not there to witness it? This could not be. It would not be. He reached for his communicator.

"Ernst, bring my car around."

Minutes later the Skull was heading to the far side of the island, to the research and development complex. Like the command center, R&D was well camouflaged, the bulk of the massive structure buried underground. The car drove through the open bay doors and the Skull hopped on to a waiting tram, which speeded off to the main lab. He passed through the sterilizing field and stepped inside, looking about with pride at the work his people had done. This had been the most expensive project of his career, all but tapping out his resources. It was as it should be; an all-or-nothing throw of the dice. He thought of his old acquaintance, Field Marshal Erwin Rommel. The man had been too concerned with honor and rules to have achieved true greatness, but what a solider he was! Rommel understood what so few ever did, that to win all, one must be willing to lose all. It was an axiom the Red Skull lived by. Soon, the mightiest army history had ever seen would be his, and this world would finally come to heel at its master's call.

His head scientist approached, a brilliant man without whom this project would not have been possible. He was an odd man, of the sort the Skull understood well—a man of unblinking ambition, and blank morality. The Skull turned to him.

"Greetings, Doctor Lerner. How goes your work?"

"Everything is proceeding on schedule, Mr. Schmidt."

"Yes, well…I am afraid that is about to change. We must accelerate our timetable. You must be finished by the end of the month."

Lerner looked at the Skull through his thick glass lenses. "That's impossible," he said, simply. The Skull put his hand on Lerner's shoulder.

"I do not believe in impossible, doctor. There are only those things which have not yet been accomplished, waiting on a man of vision to do them. Tell your staff there will be a bonus of one million dollars per-person if they succeed. I do not need to tell you what they shall receive should they fail."

The Skull headed out of the lab. "It is all or nothing, doctor," he shouted. "Take heart! Fate favors the bold!"