A/N: Good news! I've completed the first chapter of the sequel to Heading Home! I've missed those characters too much to stay away from them and I feel like Ari and Bucky still have stories left to be told. I'm still highly invested in Victoria's story, so this is going to be my top priority, but I'm heading back to Ari and Bucky when this story is completed. I think I'll do what I did last time and post the first chapter of the new story when I post the last chapter of this story. Cheers! Happy reading.
Natasha explains the plan to me in the car on our way to nab this Jasper Sitwell character. I understand it well enough. I'm not integral to the plan—at least not in the ways that Steve, Natasha, and Sam are—but with no official combat training, this is the best they'll let me do. And it will help rattle Sitwell's nerves, Natasha assures me, and help me get some anger out. Alright, sounds like a plan. I definitely have some aggression I can take out on someone.
Sitwell's meeting is in a triad of beautiful buildings that look more like a set of hotels in the heart of D.C. I don't know the names of the buildings but it's not important than I do. We drop Natasha off behind the building across the street from Sitwell and she vanishes up the fire escape with the sniper rifle in a flash. I look around, afraid someone's seen her—but no, the general population is oblivious. Oh well, better for their sanity, I suppose. Sam slips out in the opposite direction Natasha does, but he goes easy. Cruise control, carefree. Hands in his pockets, grinning, saying, "What's up?" to a blonde lady he passes. I can't tell if it's the role he's playing or if it's just Sam.
Once Steve and I are sure Sam's gotten to his location—we're all wearing ear pieces to communicate (Natasha stole them from the warehouse as well; it seems as if she got a bit sticky fingered there, not that I blame her or anything)—Steve drives the SUV around the corner and we wait, engine on idle. I clamber into the backseat as commanded by Natasha, ready with a pair of handcuffs in my hand.
"Remember," says Steve. "Be flashy. Do stupid stuff. Scare him. Make him think you're deranged."
Shouldn't have to pretend too hard for that one.
We wait in silence. I can feel the tension between us but I ignore it. Now's definitely not the time for a talk. It doesn't take long, only ten minutes, but it kind of feels like eternity. Finally I see Sam and Sitwell walking down the street from behind us and I hiss, "Get ready."
I watch Sam and Sitwell approach. Sam is walking next to Sitwell and has an easy smile on his face. Anyone looking from a distance would just think that two buddies are out for a walk (albeit one buddy looks a bit constipated). But look closer and you see a different picture. Sam is next to Sitwell but is also slightly behind him; he's pressed a blade to Sitwell's back. Sitwell is smiling nervously—something Sam's clearly commanded him to do—but is sweating bullets and looks like he wants to use the bathroom in his pants. Ah, so he's the nervous type. Good. This'll make my job easier.
Sam yanks open the door and shoves Sitwell into the seat next to me. Quick as lightning I grab Sitwell's wrist and cuff him to my own wrist. He stares at me in alarm, clearly not expecting to see a petite young girl in the mix, and I grin widely at him, widening my eyes in a way that can only be described as psycho. "Who the hell are you?" he splutters before noticing Steve in the driver's seat. Then he groans. "Shit." Sam climbs into the back.
"Shit's right," I say, still grinning. The passenger door open and Natasha slips in, turning around to blow a Sitwell a kiss. "Hey Jasper," she says in a sultry voice. She catches sight of me and freezes for a second and I fight the urge to laugh. She didn't tell me to do this part—but I've done it anyway for special effect. I've rubbed my eyes all around with a dark eye pencil that I found in a pocket of the capris (I hope I don't get pink eye but since I've rubbed it all messily all around my eyes and not anywhere actually near my inner rims—coordination was not necessary for this venture—I think I'll be okay) and I jabbed myself lightly in the eyes a few times to make my eyes watery and red. Then I poked a gash on my lip until it began to bleed again, trickling a stream of blood down my chin and smearing it all around. Basically, I look messed up.
"Who's this?" Sitwell demands. "Where are you taking me? Let me out right now!" He's trying to sound brave but his voice is quivering. No one answers him and I lean forward and snap my teeth at him and he jerks back, saying, "My god! What's wrong with you?"
I widen my eyes and stare at him, my mouth frozen in a wide open laugh like someone who's escaped from an insane asylum. "Don't you recognize me, Jasper?" I gasp. "I was one of HYDRA's experiments gone wrong!" I'm making strange gasping sounds and I suddenly lean closer to his face and Sitwell lets out a yelp and smashes himself against the car door, trying to delicately push me away. "Don't you remember me?" I whimper. "HYDRA tried to create a shark-human hybreed! Unfortunately, I sort of lost my mind in the process." I let out a high-pitched giggle and let out another hitched gasp and dig my nails into his arms so hard I can tell I've drawn blood. Sitwell lets out a yell and I say, "But they got one thing right: I need human blood to survive. I can drain a whole human body in hours." I slowly lick the blood that's trickling down my chin, smearing it all around my mouth and Sitwell lets out a strangled moan. I hear a muffled snort coming from the back where Sam is and I admit—I'm having a hard time believing Sitwell is falling for this garbage. But according to Natasha, he's a very anxiety-prone and worrisome man. And it's true…he's eating this up. Dear god, I think he actually believes I'm going to drink his blood. His forehead is beaded with sweat and his eyes are wide with panic. I don't know whether to laugh or smack him for being so idiotic.
Steve pulls up the abandoned apartment complex fifteen minutes away from Sitwell's meeting spot and I nearly drag Sitwell from the car, bouncing in manic excitement. "Come on!" I shriek at him, wiggling my eyebrows. "We're going to have fun!"
It's amazing, I'm like a 110 pound girl and while Sitwell is no body builder, he must at least be 140 pounds. He can try to overpower me. But his legs seem to have turned to jelly and so I'm easily able to drag him through the building and up the stairs, shouting incoherent nonsense at him, while Steve and Natasha follow leisurely. Sam's vanished. The way Sitwell is resisting and twisting, it's like I'm dragging him to his execution.
"Stop!" Sitwell yells as I yank him up the stairs to the roof. "STOP! Let me go, you little monster!"
"But we're not done playing yet!" I happily shout into his face, grabbing his cheeks and yanking them roughly the way adults do to poor babies except I do it way more viciously. He lets out a shout of pain and I slam my hands outwards, blasting the door leading to the roof open. He watches in shock and cries, "How did you do that?"
"I'm very talented!" I sing while roughly shoving Sitwell into the roof. He stumbles and I stumble slightly with him but next second Steve is next to us and he grabs our arms and yanks them apart. The chain between our cuffs snaps and now I'm the proud new owner of a fabulous handcuff bracelet accessory. I decide I'll keep it on. It helps my street cred, right?
"Tell us about Zola's algorithm and Project Insight," says Steve, grabbing Sitwell by the collar and hold him slightly over the edge of the roof. Sitwell's arms wildly wheel for a moment, trying to grab onto something, and then he suddenly smiles. He's sweaty and afraid, his eyes darting to me—I wink and bare my teeth at him—but a slimy smile has spread across his face. "C'mon, Cap," he scoffs in a condescending tone. "You're just trying to make me think you're going to throw me off the roof. But that's not really your style, is it?"
Steve arches an eyebrow and cocks his head in a Huh, you're right sort of fashion. "You know what?" He steps back and claps Sitwell on the chest twice in a buddy-ish manner. "You're right. It's not." Natasha strides forward and Steve smiles and says, "It's hers." And Natasha shoves Sitwell over the edge of the building. We hear his screams get more distant as Natasha turns to me and raises an eyebrow and says, "You look like a raccoon."
"I know," I say.
"But nice acting," she adds. "I thought he'd nearly cry when you added the blood part."
I give a slight curtsy. Real lady, I am.
We hear a loud rushing sound and suddenly Sam soars over the edge of the building dramatically, holding Sitwell. A very impressive sight. He throws Sitwell onto the roof and then lands, his powerful mechanical wings—my god, they must span feet—snapping shut and folding back into a rectangular shape. He's wearing black goggles and black combat gear and he looks unbelievably cool. I wish I could fly.
Sitwell is shaking from head to toe now and his skin is an ashen color, different from his normal brown color. Speaking of which, isn't it odd that he's in HYDRA? HYDRA is a Nazi group and I've always assumed that Nazis are all about that totally gross white pride. So what's Sitwell doing, being allowed to join their little group? Or do they not care about his skin color as long as he can help them with their evil plans?
Steve grabs Sitwell by the collar and yanks him up, shaking him violently. "Now tell us about the algorithm and Project Insight!" he snarls and in that moment, he's pretty scary. Very un-Steve Rogers like. "Or we might have our little monster friend here have a moment with you." He points to me and I grin at Sitwell and waggle my tongue at him.
Him calling me a monster stings for a sharp moment but I realize he's said it just to put on a show. Still—it's never fun to hear that you're a monster.
Sitwell looks ready to vomit at this point. "Alright, alright!" he yells in a panic. "I'll tell you! Just keep that—keep that freak away from me!"
"That's not very nice," I snarl, moving forward towards him, winking at Natasha. She grabs me in a faux-grip and pretends to hold me back and Sitwell is so scared by now that he doesn't even realize Natasha and I are doing a terrible job of faking it and are close to laughing.
"Zola's algorithm—Zola's algorithm predicts the future!" Sitwell shouts, throwing me a crazed look as if he's afraid I'll lunge at him and rip his throat out. I feel a slight power high on being able to scare him so badly. "Project Insight isn't going to just eliminate threats that exist now, you fools—it'll eliminate anyone who could ever be a threat!"
"That's impossible," Steve starts.
"No, it's not!" Sitwell spits. "Think, you idiot! SAT scores, grades, IQ, genetics, aptitude—all of these things can be huge predictors for who will grow up to become a threat to HYDRA! Zola's algorithm uses hundreds of variables to predict who will grow up to be a thorn in HYDRA's side. So Project Insight will take them all out now, thousands and thousands of people…" Sitwell licks his lips and then a horrified expression crosses his face. "Oh my god," he says hoarsely. "Pierce is going to kill me…"
I drop the act, rubbing the eye pencil away from my eyes (though I probably just smear it more) and wiping my chin. "Yeah, he probably is, you loser," I say. "But that's your problem."
"But—but you—" he stammers, looking at me.
I place my hands on my hips. "Am a pretty good actress. That's all."
"But—but your powers—"
"Oh, right, those are real," I say, smiling sweetly at him.
"And now," says Natasha, "we're going to head out to the Triskelion to stop Project Insight and you, Sitwell, are coming with us."
We've all bundled into the car and we're heading north on the freeway as fast as we can. Sam's driving, Steve is in the shotgun seat, Natasha and I are both seated next to the window with a quivery, cowardly Sitwell playing the jelly to our bread. I watch him nervously dart his eyes around and twitch his fingers and I am so disgusted. He's pathetic.
"I'm so disgusted," I tell him. "You're pathetic."
He inhales sharply but doesn't respond. Good. I might just lose my temper and actually kill him if he does. I'm itching to bury my fist into his cowardly face. This is the second SHIELD agent I've come across who's actually HYDRA and his betrayal makes me want to slam dunk his face into the concrete. How many other agents do I know are HYDRA? Lansky? Gutierrez? What about 13? She helped us when Fury died, but who knows, she could be playing some long con. And I'm new to SHIELD. I can't even imagine how these betrayals feel to Natasha, who's been working for SHIELD for ages probably. It must suck to suddenly not know who in your life you can trust and who you can't.
"We need to come up with a plan to stop Project Insight," says Steve as we drive. "Can we contact Agent Hill?"
Agent Hill. Rings a bell. I cast my mind about and, oh yes, I remember her now. The thin woman with the high cheekbones that Fury was going to send me off too. But she's in New York city. How is she going to help us from there?
"Aren't we cutting it a little close here?" Natasha demands. "These helicarriers take off in less than 24 hours—"
Suddenly someone rips the car door next to me off its hinges and I can't help but let out a scream as a silver metal arm shoots into the car. But it grabs Sitwell, not me, and yanks him out, throwing him into oncoming traffic where he is promptly crushed by a semi truck. Everyone is shouting and panicking and Natasha grabs me around the waist and lunges forward, twisting into Steve's lap as bullets slam through the roof where we were just sitting minutes ago. Sam swerves wildly, trying to throw the man off but more bullets slam through the roof all around us as we wildly twist in the seat. It's horribly awkward—Steve's in the seat, trying and failing to get his shield out because Natasha and I are in the way. Natasha is laying in his lap, reaching her arm down frantically to grope for something and with her other arm she's gripping me around my waist as I just try to avoid getting shot.
Sam slams on the brakes as hard as he can and we screech to a stop, almost flipping over, to try and throw him off and we all watch in horror and shock as he catapults off of our car and goes flying like twenty feet in front of our car—but flips midair and lands on his toes like a lithe jungle cat, using his metal arm to slow himself down. Sparks fly from where his metal fingertips scrape against the ground. We're sitting there, staring at him as he stands up slowly and begins walking towards us—my god, this is like a familiar nightmare—and suddenly a car smashes into us from being so hard we slam forward and spin wildly. The Winter Soldier leaps back onto our car, hitting the roof with his whole body so hard every window shatters in unison and then Sam gets his wits back about him and slams on the accelerator, weaving through cars desperately at breakneck speed.
"Who the hell is this?" Sam roars, swerving like a madman to try and throw him off.
"It's the Winter Soldier!" I scream through the noise of the highway rushing past us.
SMASH. Unbelievably, his metal arm comes ripping through the roof—all of us let out yells and screams of shock—and wrenches the steering wheel out of the car.
No, I absolutely am not making this up. You're sitting there staring at me and thinking I'm on drugs, right? But no, I'm being 100% serious. He rips the whole steering wheel clean out of the car. This man is beyond insane.
At this point Sam can't control the car. We're going eighty miles per hour and we're headed straight for the wall of the bridge. We're going to crash and die. Lovely. At least I smell good, just as I predicted.
"Sam, get on me, NOW!" Steve yells.
Sam throws himself to the right, landing on me—I wrap my arms around him best as I can—and then we fall out of the car as the car flips and goes smashing past us, rolling down the road on its side. We hit the ground and skid for a few feet (it appears all four of us are piled onto Steve's now-broken-off car door like some sort of Olympic gold medalists for extreme group sledding) but then Sam falls off and then I fall off next. I hit the ground hard—holy road burn!—and roll on my sides, the skin on my arms getting all scraped up. Finally I roll to a stop and dizzily stagger to my feet. My heart's pounding, body is sweating, and I can feel the power shrieking in me like a tornado. I bare my teeth in the direction of a black SUV that screeches to a stop a hundred feet away—clearly HYDRA—and clench my fists. They won't take me back unless it's to carry my cold, dead body to Pierce to tell him how they failed at retrieving me.
Sam's gotten to his feet and so have Natasha and Steve, all standing a few feet away from me. The Winter Soldier walks toward us, mask in place, and he points a—what is that? What is that?
It's a bazooka gun. Oh my god. This can't be real life—
He points it straight at Steve and shoots. Steve only has time to whip his shield in front of his face before a rocket slams into him so hard he shoots off the bridge like some sort of comet. I hear an almighty crash, explosion, and then screams from down below. Before any of us have time to regroup, HYDRA strike agents are rushing at us, pointing guns at us, and then we're all on the move. Sam rolls behind a car next to him and I lunge to the left, following Natasha. We both throw ourselves over the edge of a car, her grabbing my arm and yanking me, and then she clips something to my belt as fast as a whip and says, "Run and hold on!"
Before I can say, "Come again?" she's charging across the bridge and I'm following, ducking low as bullets whiz over our heads. She leaps over the edge of the bridge, yanking me along with her, and before I know it, we're both falling over the edge of the building, a piece of rope floating above us—
"WE'RE GOING TO CRASH!" I scream just as the rope snaps taught and we swing wildly a foot above ground. Natasha unclips us and we hit the ground running, though I stumble a bit. We run under the bridge towards the other side when suddenly I see a shadow of a man with a gun on the ground on the side we're running towards. I grab Natasha and silently yank her back just as she's about to cross into plain view, hissing, "Look!" and pointing at the shadow. That sneaky son of a gun!
She yanks me into the shadows and we run along the length of the bridge, darting quickly across the street to hide behind an overturned bus (is this what Steve smashed into? I do hope the people inside are alright). "What now?" I hiss but Natasha is already on the move. She whips out a handgun, leans around the corner of the bus and I hear two sharp bangs as she expertly shoots in the Winter Soldier's direction. She throws herself back around the corner and crouches just as we hear a sudden downpour of machine gun bullets as the Winter Solder shoots multiple rounds in lightning-fast succession all around us. Bullets ricochet off of the bus and deflect off of the cars abandoned in front of us, smashing every which way, and I crouch, covering my head.
We hear shouts and we see Steve locked in combat with two HYDRA strike agents except he's making short work of them. They're really no match for Captain America. We see three more agents rushing up to help their fellows. "Go!" says Natasha, shoving me. "You run! Run as far as you can! I'm going to help Steve."
"But I can't just leave you," I cry frantically. Is she mad? Where the hell am I supposed to go? I still have the flash drive!
"Victoria, the Winter Soldier wants you," she says, looking me dead in the eye. "We can't let HYDRA get you. Run—I'll come and find you. Don't worry, these guys are no match for me." She rolls out from behind the bus, exchanges a few shots between some HYDRA agents firing at her from the bridge and then runs toward Steve to help him. More agents have surrounded him and even Captain America can't hold off eight men as easily as he can one or two men.
I don't want to run like a coward—I want to rip someone's head off and bash their face in—but I have no weapon so I have no choice. I take a deep breath, take my chances, and then sprint out from behind the bus. Immediately I hear shots after me but like I've told you, I'm amazingly fast at running and I weave and duck and somehow I'm getting further and further away, out of reach from the bullets. People, normal citizens, are blocking my path and I shout, "Get out of the way! Move! Get out of the way!" as I run, using the energy thrumming loudly inside of me to literally blast people out of my way. Oops. Sorry, folks. It won't hurt them permanently so I don't care.
I make the mistake of looking behind me as I run and—merciful heavens, he's stalking after me, walking a mechanical slow-yet-fluid walk that's all too reminiscent of a lethal jungle cat stalking its pray. His goggles have been tossed aside and I can't see his eyes from this distance, but I remember them—cold, blank eyes smeared with dark soot all around th—
BAM! Like the fool I am, I trip over a purse laying on the ground go flying. I hit the ground hard and my already scraped up, bloody arms scream in protest. I scramble to my hands and knees and look behind me. My tongue seems to slither back down my throat, choking me, because he is so close to me now—how can he possibly walk that fast?—and I can now see the murderous rage in his eyes—
I throw myself forward, scrambling to get under the car closest to me. If I can just get under it and make it to the other side, I can run the few yards into the bank on the other side and hide somehow. Before I can drag myself all the way under, he grabs my ankles and roughly yanks me out, ripping my arms even more. (By the way? I'd just like to point out that being dragged back out from under a car by someone chasing you is one of the scariest things you can ever go through. Horror films should be made about this moment.) At this point I'll be surprised if I see any flaps of skin hanging off of them at all. I scream in pain and fear and he grabs the back of my head and yanks me up by my hair. Tears of pain and rage spring to my eyes and I twist around and scream, "HA!" (don't ask; I don't pick and choose my war cries) as I slam my open palm in the direction of his face. His head slams back and he staggers back a few feet, clearly thrown off balance for a moment. I use this to my advantage and shove both palms outwards again, blasting him back another few feet. Third time's the charm, eh, so I figure I'll try again—
Except he's ready this time and grabs my arms and yanks me forward, grabbing my head and slamming my face into the hood of a car right behind him. Stars explode in front of my eyes and I taste rust in my mouth, on my lips, warm liquid all over my face. My ears are ringing and as he tightens his grip around my waist, all I can dizzily think is, You're the biggest fool in the world and he's going to take you back to them, before I heard a strange schwing-ing noise and a red, white, and blue round blur slams into the Winter Soldier so hard he's knocked off his feet and blasts right past me, his grip vanishing from my waist. He does jerk me a bit so I stagger back, about to fall, but someone perched on top of the car grabs my wind-milling arms and yanks me forward, up and over the roof of the car, and throws me to the ground on the other side.
"Victoria, run, NOW!" Steve yells. That's all he has time to say before the Winter Soldier lunges at him, sending Steve's shield slamming back into Steve's body.
I watch in horror and slight admiration, hovering behind the car, as they furiously fight. I don't know where Sam and Natasha are but I hear a constant volley of shots behind me, near the bridge, so obviously there's still a gunfight going on. I know I should run but I can't tear my eyes from the fight. It's too…amazing. Sorry, that's the only word for it. It's terrifying and tense but it's also amazing. Steve's a super-soldier but he's met his match with this Winter Soldier, who also seems to be a super-human of some sort. They're punching, whirling, slamming each other into the ground and into cars, and it's like watching a dance. Steve is all power and strength, straight jabs and clean movements. He's not playing dirty. He's agile and quick but he's also very solid if that makes any sense, using his shield directly to block the Winter Soldier. The Winter Soldier is like a striking cobra. He's quick and dirty, spinning and twisting like he's made of smoke, and he's throwing killing strikes like nobody's business. He's fluid and he's not above grabbing Steve's shield and using it to try and bash Steve's face in. For a moment he uses the shield to defend himself and it's like the moment is framed in slow motion—the Winter Soldier, eyes insane, eyebrows drawn, whirling with his hair flying, holding the shield as if he's the dark version of Captain America. It's a surreal moment and one I'm not likely to ever forget.
Steve is fighting to contain and the Winter Soldier is fighting to kill. At one point the Winter Soldier glances in my direction for a nanosecond before Steve slams a punch into his face and then they're fighting again, twisting and struggling furiously. I know what his look means: You're next.
I should run. I should really run and save myself. But I'm not a coward. I don't want to leave Steve and I want to help. I can't get a clear shot because they're moving around so much but I manage to blast the Winter Soldier a few times, either moving him just a foot away from Steve or closer depending on what's going on. I hit Steve once too and he staggers back as if he's been punched in the gut but we'll just ignore that, shall we? I focus and hover two pieces of brick laying around on the ground near them. I'm under so much stress that it's actually easy to hyperfocus on the bricks and lift them up. The Winter Soldier's got Steve by the throat, choking the life out of him, and he slowly lifts Steve in the air an inch while Steve wildly grasps at the Winter Soldier's hands. I hold my arms out and slam them together in a huge clapping motion. Both pieces of brick smash into both sides of the Winter Soldier's face and he drops Steve, stumbling backwards and falling over. He leaps back to his feet in a moment but the momentary pause allows Steve to get the upper hand.
He punches the Winter Soldier in the face and then claws at his face as the Winter Soldier lunges away, rolling on the ground and straightening, his back facing us. His mask clatters to the ground and I feel a thrill of mixed fear and elation. We're finally going to see this psycho's face. For a moment, we're all still as he stands with his back to us and I wonder what he's waiting for. Does he not want to reveal his face to us?
And then he slowly turns around to glare at us.
The surprises never end, do they? And here I was, thinking seeing Steve was the biggest shock I'd ever have in my life and nothing could top it. How very wrong I was. It's like someone's ripped my guts from my body and I want to topple over. My breathing feels wheezy and strangled as I stare in absolute shock and horror…at Bucky Barnes.
It's Bucky. It's him. It's…him. Stubble covers his face and his hair is long and he's glaring at us in what almost looks like a confused furious stare but it's Bucky Barnes. I would know his face anywhere. I would know—I've seen it in my dreams and nightmares for years.
"Bucky?" both Steve and I ask in unison. My voice sounds more strangled and Steve sounds more bewildered but there we are, both of us absolutely winded by this discovery.
The Winter Soldier furrows his brow as he glares at us even more. "Who the hell is Bucky?" he asks in a low voice. I feel like someone is using my stomach and windpipe as a punching bag. My mind and body are both frozen. It's his voice. It's his voice!
He glares at us for a second as if not sure what to do and then he suddenly pulls out a hand grenade. Before he can throw it, however, Sam flies out of nowhere and dives at him, shouting, "Not today!" and kicking the grenade out of his hand. Then Bucky—or do I call him the Winter Soldier?—pulls out a handgun and points it at Steve. Apparently he has an endless supply of weapons on his person, which is both impressive and alarming. Before he can shoot, however, a deafening blast goes off and a rocket shoots straight into him, making him temporarily vanish in a huge cloud of smoke. I whip around to see Natasha, bruised and bleeding, leaning out from behind a truck fifteen behind us, holding up the bazooka. I whirl back around to see where Bucky's gone but when the smoke and haze clears, there's no body. He's gone. That means he's survived—and vanished, as usual.
Natasha and Sam both jog up to Steve and I (who are both frozen like blinking and bewildered statues) but before the four of us can make any type of escape, huge and shiny black SUVs screech to a stop all around us, surrounding us, and men in heavy black combat gear leap out, holding machine guns, and surround us. There's at least twenty-five. We'll never be able to take them.
"Get down on your knees! Now!" one of them yells and we all do as he says. We have no choice. "Hands behind your head!" he roars and we all do so. Then a man jams the barrel of his machine gun into the back of Steve's head. My blood freezes. They're not going to kill Steve right here and right now, are they? If they try, I'll kill them. I'll rip each and every single one of them apart, even if it means my death here right now as well. No one is killing Steve Rogers—whether he's angry at me or not, whether I'm speaking to him or not—on my watch. But I watch as a dark-haired and tan man—the man from the elevator, Rumlow—looks up and notices news helicopters. "Not now," he says to the man pressing his gun to Steve's head. "Not now," Rumlow angrily repeats and the man backs off, clearly not wanting to. I suppress a grim smile. Rumlow doesn't want to kill Steve right now because all of the news helicopters will catch it on tape and then where will he be? The world will know him as the traitor who murdered Captain America in cold blood.
"Get them into the van!" barks Rumlow, his dark eyes darting around. "Now! And wait." He points to me. "Bind this one's hands." His dark eyes burn into my face and I sneer at him, give him my best bitch face, and then spit at his feet. Scumbag. I'm going to kill you, I promise in my mind. He clenches his fists as if he can hear my thoughts and wants to knock me out—but slowly says, still staring at me, "You don't know what she's capable of."
