Chapter Thirty-Nine


A muffled gunshot ripped through the air. Dry grit and debris crumbled on top of me as I threw myself into forward roll, scrambling for cover.

More bullets followed in my wake, as I dove behind a concrete wall. Bullets chipped into the other side but couldn't penetrate — safe for the moment.

Breathing hard, I looked at my phone again. Still no service. What the hell was going on?

All I knew was that I was being shot at and I had no idea who or why.

I didn't fail to note the sound of the repeated gunfire, their relative quiet. These guys were using suppressors. Even in an empty location they were taking precautions not to be detected.

Premeditated.

"I'm afraid that phone won't do you much good up here," A voice jeered, as if sensing my thoughts. Male. Laughing. Unfamiliar. "We got this place all jammed up from here to Hoboken."

"All just for you, sweetheart," a second voice said. Mockingly sweet. Also male.

There came a crackle of radio, and the first one said, "We got her cornered up on the top floor."

Followed by a chorus of scratchy replies. All male. At least three others.

And that's when it hit me.

The smoking man, the one standing at the lamp post, the one chasing me through the subway station — carefully positioned to guide me away in the right direction, corralling me into a location of their choosing. A great, empty construction zone where they'd cut off communication and any chance for me to get help.

A trap.

And I'd walked right into it.

"Why don't you come out of there and say hi?" the second man said, and I could hear the floors creaking as they crept along. One on either side, intending to trap me behind this small, open-ended section of concrete. "We never got the chance to properly introduce ourselves."

I didn't respond, pressing my back harder against the wall. My first thought was reaching for a weapon — but I had none. I didn't carry any knives or anything on me. Not anymore, not when I was trying to get better.

Clearly I had to rethink that part of my lifestyle.

Now I had a choice. Take a chance on which side I wanted to be closer to. Couldn't stay where I was, had to have the element of surprise.

"What, no comment?" The second man said when I didn't speak.

"Aww, she's shy." The first one chuckled. "Why don't you just come out now with your hands up, and we promise we'll go easy on you."

Footsteps coming in close on either side. Both going slow, trying to match speed so they'd round on me at the same time, get me cornered. But the one on the right was a little closer, leading the charge. Maybe far enough ahead of the second one that I could take advantage without getting shot from behind.

I was about to find out.

Carefully sidling to the right so I was as close to the edge of the wall without being seen. Straightened until I was fully standing, back pressed hard against the concrete, and praying that my timing was right.

The end of the muzzle appeared first — the long metal tube of the suppressor, followed by the barrel. I didn't wait to see the rest of him appear.

The thing about guns, at least when you're a super soldier, was that they were a lot less effective up close. As soon as they were in range, they could be rendered useless.

Which was why I waited for only a second before grabbing the barrel — still hot — jerked it down and forwards, closer to me with my left hand.

At the same time, driving my right elbow as hard as I could into the man's solar plexus. Armor cushioned the blow, but not the follow up as I struck fast, into the throat region. My elbow connected into something hard, his collarbone.

The man choked, grunt cut off. He didn't have time to call out, and I'd bent the rifle's barrel in my grasp — only a few inches, but now too ruined to fire.

It went down in less than two seconds. Long enough to see he only wore basic tactical armor, lightly equipped. No other firearms except for the one in his arms. Not even night vision goggles, which for some reason I'd been expecting.

Whatever. I threw the first man to the ground, yanking at his belt.

The second man had just turned the corner to see his buddy fall, to see me chucking a grenade at his feet.

He cried out in alarm, leaping away. I was already tearing off, putting the concrete wall between me and the other two as the flash-bang went off. A collective cry rose up as the two were blinded and deafened.

Even with my back turned away, I squeezed my eyes shut just in case. The explosion sent a muted ringing through my ears but it was manageable, not debilitating. It would keep those two stunned long enough for me to get off this floor, get a headstart.

The floor stretched out already of me, a hallways of darkness, support beams and half-constructed walls. I had to get downstairs, figure out a way around the guys still catching up from below. Try not to get shot while I was at it.

My eyes were still adjusting to the darkness of the flash — going more by my memory of the place than actual sight — when something appeared in front of me. A man, stepping out from behind a column. His arm, swinging in hard.

I didn't have time to duck.

He had the strength of a very fit man but my speed only made it worse, and the brick in his hand came across the side of my head like a bullet.

It shattered on impact.

I went down. Hard.

Crashing came and went — I didn't even remember it. Stars flashed in my eyes and next thing I knew I was on the floor, on my stomach, shoulders and knees aching. The palms of my hands scratched up. My head, feeling like it was going to explode. Dry grit from the brick sat on my tongue, thick and nasty. Something warm dripped down from my temple and onto the floor.

I might have been okay had I not been going full-speed. But the third man had been clever, using it against me. It made the blow that much more powerful.

When I opened my eyes, three beams of yellow light glared down at me. Flashlights. Like suns at midnight. They were excruciating, after the blow to my head, and I squinted in pain, bringing up my hand to shield my eyes.

"Ugh, I think she pulled something in my shoulder," one of them grunted. The first voice, his silhouette now rubbing his neck.

"You're lucky she didn't smash your windpipe." The third man said. "I told you not to underestimate her, you morons. Remember what she did to us last time?"

"Well, she doesn't look so tough now," the second one muttered, and to prove his point, delivered a kick to my side. It caught me by surprise but I refused to make a sound, curling in on myself. "I mean, look at that. Not so scary anymore when she's on the ground now, huh?"

My brain was still playing catch-up. My lungs also, having the wind knocked out of me from the fall. I wasn't sure what they were talking about, what was going on. Still couldn't bear the piercing light without pain. Behind me, a voice chuckled, and said, "I don't remember her being so small. And you thought we couldn't take her, Flume."

"Shut up." A fifth one mumbled, also behind me. I risked a peek over my shoulder, but they didn't have flashlights — the other three illuminated them, and one I recognized to be the smoking man at the subway entrance. The other I didn't recognize. His was the direction of Flume's voice.

Five in total. Out-numbered. Surrounded.

"Still got nothing to say, Fletcher?" The third one said, and one beam dropped down, looming in closer. I tried to wince away, but there was nowhere for me to go. "C'mon, don't tell me you can't remember. It's me, Cathcart."

"I don't know you," I muttered, starting to pick myself up, only to get kicked from behind, forcing me down again.

"What a shame," Cathcart tsked, shaking his head. I could just make out the blond buzz cut now. "Because we remember what you did to Klein, to Clevinger. We know who you are, Amelia. Or should I say, Soldatka?"

My blood went cold. A STRIKE team. HYDRA. But how? Who sent them?

"We also had Rumlow," said the first one with his busted shoulder, growling. "And he would've loved to be here, too, if seventy-five percent of his body wasn't covered in burns."

I had no idea what had happened to Rumlow after the Triskelion. I was actually a little surprised he was still alive. "I had nothing to do with that."

"No, but you sure didn't help, did you?" The leader growled, and took my chin in his hand, forced me to face the light. Tried to wriggle away but a boot at my back kept me from going anywhere, so I had to grimaced against his touch as he said, "You used to be one of us, and you got off scott free. Now does that sound very fair to you? It doesn't to me. HYDRA doesn't tolerate traitors."

"So they sent you," I snapped, and tried to bite his hand, but he pulled back just in time.

"No, actually," He replied, his voice gradually turning into a snarl, "HYDRA's gone, remember? We've been disavowed. We don't fucking exist anymore."

"Every agency on the planet wants our head on a pike." The second man added, with no small amount of venom. "We've been on the run for weeks, none of our old allies will help, it's only a matter of time before the FBI or CIA or Interpol find us."

"Figure if we're going down," the smoking man said. "We might as well take you with us."

"And since we don't have your little trigger phrase," Cathcart said lightly, as if informing me of some bad weather. "The only option left is to kill you."

I remained silent for a long moment, trying to control my breathing, my racing heart, staring at the ground. Then back up at the lights. "...So, did you practice that speech first, or what?"

As a reward for my glib, Cathcart delivered a fist to my jaw. My head knocked against the ground again, aggravating an already pounding injury.

"I don't remember you being a smartass," he sneered, pulling away. "Get her up! We're going to have some fun, first."

My stomach lurched sickeningly at that, right before two pairs of hands wrapped around either arm and hoisted me up. I started to struggle but was still dazed, the sudden movement making me nauseous. I fought against it, trying to focus as the world swayed around me. I didn't come this far to die by the hands of some disgruntled shmucks too stupid not to side with HYDRA.

Their fugitive status explained their lack of firearms, reliance on the element of surprise. If they wanted to just kill me, that might've made things easier. But they weren't interested in exacting any perceived justice. They just wanted revenge. They wanted me to suffer first.

The first two still had their flashlights on me, now angled at the ground and allowing me to see better. One was holding himself awkwardly. The bad shoulder. I kept him in mind for later.

"So how do you want to do this, boys?" Cathcart asked the group at large, pulling something from his belt. The flashlight's beam caught against the long, sharp edge, serrated on one side, curved on the other. A combat knife. Classic. "Should we all take turns? I don't feel like shooting her. A bullet's too good for this one."

A chorus of agreement went up, making Cathcart laugh. One of the men restraining me, leaned in to whisper in my ear, his nicotine breath wafting over me like a plague. "And look on the bright side,"

As he spoke, one of his hands went to the back of my neck, stroking my skin before tightening into a vice grip, holding my head in place. "Maybe you'll even get to enjoy some of it."

I tensed, a frigid chill going down my spine.

"Tell me, Soldatka, if it's true what I heard," Cathcart asked, approaching as twirling the blade around experimentally. He fixed me with a leering smile, "How you were passed around the Crucible like the town bicycle."

And just like that, something inside my head switched off.

Cathcart got closer, still contemplating, the knife extended between us. I had no idea what he was planning to do with it. I wasn't going to wait and find out.

As soon as he got within five feet of me, I acted. Lifted my feet off the ground in a practiced move, ankles snapping around his wrist, locking together before he could rip away — and jerking hard to the left.

Crack!

Cathcart yelled — at the same time, the two holding me had started to pull me back as soon as I'd lifted my legs, but that only worked in my favor, yanking Cathcart along with me and knocking him off balance. He stumbled forward, broken wrist releasing the knife. It hit the floor. Cathcart hit the ground, wrist still between my ankles, and I stomped on it for good measure. The follow-up crunch, bone breaking through skin, was satisfaction to my ears.

The first two reacted instantly. As soon as Cathcart went down, they sprung into action, lunging at me at the same time.

If Cathcart had known me as well as he said he did, then he would've known better than to have used only two men to restrain me. Just because my head hurt didn't mean I suddenly lost my super-strength, and I'd been waiting for the right moment to use it.

They both had their flashlights — the big, metal, industrial kind — and now decided to use them as blunt weapons, swinging for me.

Planting both feet on the ground, I threw my left arm down hard — catching the smoker by surprise as he went flying forward, taking the first flashlight on his back.

The second flashlight went over the smoker, going straight for my head. I ducked, pulling my right arm forward and bringing Flume right into the weapon's path.

Glass shattered and the light went out. By the sound of his grunt, Flume took it right across the kisser.

Flume went down. The smoker let me go after he hit the ground, already taking a blow from the flashlight. I kicked him away and bent to pick up the fallen knife, rolling away as Bad Shoulder slammed down with his flashlight.

With both flashlights now broken, only one remained, sitting on the floor and giving an angled beam for a small portion of the area. I threw myself out of its light, making myself harder to follow.

Bad Shoulder was still too close. I whirled on him, blade in my right hand, left arm raised in defense. Took his following blow on my left arm and used it to surge inwards, breaking his guard and slamming my shoulder into his. He let out a pained cry. That was before I drove my knife into his stomach, just under his ribcage.

The body armor might protect him from a bullet or a fist, but not from a knife. It went in slick and easy.

Warm blood came out hot and fast, bursting out across my hand before he fell away. He gasped, dropping the flashlight to clutch at his bleeding chest, staring up at me with a stricken expression, the white of his eyes stark in the darkness. He stumbled back one step, two, before falling onto his side.

By that point, Cathcart had recovered. With his ruined hand clutched in his chest, he rounded on me with a pistol.

"I changed my mind about the bullet."

And fired.

By pure chance I'd already been turning away when he'd fired. The bullet ripped through my hair, right where my face had been a second ago. I threw myself into the pivot, trying to angle myself away before he could fire again.

My back glanced off a wall, and I stumbled to catch myself.

Only my foot landed on empty air. My head snapped around. Saw the gaping hole behind me.

In the frenzy, I didn't realize the elevator shaft was behind me. The blow to my head, all those lights, had been disorienting and I'd forgotten the layout of the area.

Now I was falling over open air.

I tried to catch the edge of the wall, but I was falling too hard and my fingers found no purchase against the smooth surface. A bullet snapped near my hand.

And I slipped.

And fell.

For a second, images flashed in my head. The bridge. The helicarrier. Sea and sky. None of that this time. Just a long tunnel of darkness.

This impact, I remembered. Mostly because it was shorter than I expected, and I was still alive afterwards to witness it.

My left leg took the brunt of the fall. A bad angle, felt something snap. The floor beneath me was hard metal, and bounced upon landing. Giant metal cables flexed and snapped, vibrating deep, undulating notes as the elevator beneath me absorbed my fall.

Head thoroughly rattled, I slowly twisted my head around, looking up. Everything in my body hurt, and the light above my head drifted back and forth, my vision blurry.

The light flickered, and a head appeared. From way above, perhaps ninety, maybe a hundred feet up, Cathcart called, "She's still alive! Move it before she escapes!"

The head disappeared, followed by distant, pounding footsteps. I groaned, rolling over. Somehow, I was still alive and in one piece.

To my right, the shaft opened up to a lower floor. I wasn't sure which one, could only guess that I'd dropped maybe seven, eight floors. Not enough to kill me, apparently.

Slowly dragging myself to a stand, a sudden agony shot up my left leg and I gasped, nearly collapsed again. Caught the edge of the wall for support.

Okay, so… not long enough to kill me, but definitely enough to break my leg. What a hell of a difference a vibranium shield could make.

Fighting the sudden tears springing into my eyes, I tried to catch my breath and found it near impossible. Fear ripped through me like a firestorm. I could barely stand and there were at least four guys still breathing, still wanted to kill me. And they didn't care about a long death anymore. I'd proven myself more trouble than I was worth. And a broken leg would bring them down on top of me, a pack of hyenas hunting a wounded gazelle.

Even worse, I'd dropped the combat knife after I'd fallen. Couldn't see it anywhere around me. Maybe it was still up there, on the top floor.

Fantastic.

Unarmed, broken leg. I didn't stand a chance. Not against all of them. Not all at once.

I couldn't run. I couldn't get out of here — not quickly, at any rate.

I had to hide.

There was no time to figure out where or how bad my leg was broken. Needed to get moving, get out of here before the STRIKE agents figured out what floor I was on.

That first step was unpleasant. The second, awful. The third, excruciating. My moving speed had been rendered to a hobble, a limp, and I had to bite down on my lip to keep myself from making any sound. I couldn't remember the last time anything hurt this much. Not even being shot.

Limping away from the elevator shaft, I quickly scanned the area for a place to go, a place to hide. There was more construction here, more debris and things to hide behind — stacks of wood planks, rolls of pink insulation, wheels of wiring and racks of tools and hardware. Climbing anything was out of the question — not with this leg, and these guys would anticipate it, if they'd been the same ones to attack me in DC. No go.

The stairs were also not an option. They'd catch up with me too fast, and it would be all too enticing for them to just push me down the rest.

Their shouts and footsteps rebounded somewhere above me. They were taking the time to scan some of the floors. Good. Bought me some time.

Down here, it was blessedly quiet aside from the thunder of rain. It was pleasant, in a way, and masked the sound of my movements. My hair still hung limp in my face as I made my way to an outside wall, leaning against it to catch my breath. There had to be a way out.

Beside me, cold, wet air whistled through an unfinished window, tarp rattling in the window to keep the rain from getting in. The wind kissed my face, cooling my flushed face and aching head.

Outside of it, gravel, a floor. I frowned, peered out. This level had some kind of balcony, a lower roof of an extended part of the building. It was quite narrow, maybe thirty feet across at most, not a lot of cover, just open surfaces with some low vents and ducts. I'd be a sitting duck if I went out there and one of the STRIKE agents just happened to look out the window. To the back, brick walls rose up on either side, a dead end. But close by, about fifty feet along the furthest side where it led to open air, I thought I saw open metal steps in the silvery-black rain.

A fire exit.

Somewhere above me, I heard a loud crash. Like a stack of pipes had been knocked over, followed by a muffled shout.

My head snapped towards the ceiling. That sounded close.

Deciding to hell with it, I forced myself to hop up through the window, taking the time not to bang my leg and carefully pull it over with my own hands, but still quick enough that I could slip out under the plastic tarp without leaving a trace.

Rain hammered down on top of me, filling the air with its incessant drumming. Slowly pushing my way towards the back. It was slow going, each step sending spikes of pain and tension up my hip and side, down to my knee. I was already out of breath from the exertion. I shouldn't be walking on this leg, it would only make it worse. But I knew I couldn't just lie down and die, either. I had to get out. A broken leg would heal. A bullet through my head, not so much.

I could still hear the STRIKE agents inside. The stomps as they hit this floor, started looking around, calling out. Cathcart was the easiest to recognize.

"Come out, come out, Soldatka!" He called, jeering. "After what you did to McWatt, you're gonna be leaving this place in fucking pieces!"

"Hey, where's Soto?" Another called. Flume.

"How the hell should I know? He's still upstairs somewhere." Cathcart snapped back. There came the crackle of radio. "Soto, status report."

Nothing.

"See? He's been awful quiet…" Flume sounded nervous.

"Well, if you're worried so much, go look for him yourself!" Cathcart said. "Acosta, stick with me. Let's see her try to gut one of us now…"

They were still inside. I could see small beams flicking around — a smaller set of flashlights, maybe. More footsteps, getting distant again, as Flume went back upstairs to check on the missing guy.

Not paying attention, my head turned towards the building so I could watch the lights, assess their position, my left foot caught against tubing on the ground that I didn't see. I crashed hard, a gravel crunching loudly, a tiny yelp escaping my lips before the agony locked my throat down.

"Did you hear that?" Cathcart said, in low register, just loud enough for me to catch. "Sounds like it came from outside."

I had to move. The fall had taken the breath out of me, the pressure in my leg worse than ever. And now… I couldn't get up. I couldn't get back up. My whole body was shaking so hard from the pain I could barely rise to my hands and knees. The rain sent an uncommon chill through my bones, the wet gravel stinging my raw palms.

I looked up. The fire exit was only ten feet away.

Lights fell on me.

"Well, well, well," Cathcart's jeering tone rolled out, and I could hear his footsteps, languid and swaggering as he walked up to me, still on the ground. "Not looking so good there, Soldatka. Had a bad fall?"

I forced myself to roll over, as much as twisting my leg hurt. At least to look up at the two STRIKE agents, now deciding to take their time. All I could see was their silhouettes against the dim city lights in the background. I backed up on my hands and knees as they continued to approach, right up until my back hit the brick wall behind me, and all the air left my chest in one, defeated rush.

Acosta, next to him, paused to speak into his radio. "Hey Flume, Soto, get the hell down here. We got her, the bitch is lame. Ripe for the picking."

I could hear the smile in his face when he said that. There was a short, pregnant pause as he waited for a response. Acosta's voice had lost his smile when he tried again, "Flume? Soto? Do you copy?"

"What, no wiseass comments for me now?" Cathcart asked me, tilting his head.

I swallowed thickly, glad for the rain to that hid my tears. Tears for the torment wracking up my leg. The particulars wouldn't matter to Cathcart. He'd just see it as an indication of fear, and I didn't want to give him the satisfaction, no matter how false it was.

"Aww, no more fight left in you?" Cathcart asked, getting closer. Acosta remained further back, still fiddling with his radio. "McWatt's probably going to make it, you know. Probably won't be the same ever again, but I'd like for him to live with the knowledge that we dealt with the little bitch that shanked him and Klein."

Still refused to speak. I didn't know what to say. I wasn't good at casual fight banter like Peter. Guys like this just liked to hear themselves talk, maybe. Didn't trust myself to speak, anyways, too afraid there might be tremble in my voice. Didn't want to lose my dignity, whatever was left of it.

"You know, you never did answer that bicycle question." Cathcart said. His voice was teasing, and he dropped down to one knee so we were eye to eye. The grin on his face made my skin crawl. "Come on, be honest. You're telling me no one, not a single person in the entire Crucible, would've taken advantage of a pretty little weapon that can't say no? Who would've stopped them?"

He was only saying it to torment me. Maybe he knew I didn't know for sure. Maybe he knew that uncertainty, that loss of memory haunted me in more ways than one.

When I didn't answer, Cathcart laughed.

Behind him, a shadow dropped out of the sky and swallowed Acosta whole.

Acosta could only let out a single strangled cry before it was cut short, ending in a bloodcurdling gurgle.

Cathcart whipped around, alarmed. Stared at the shadow rising over Acosta's prone body. "What the fuck?"

Cathcart fumbled for his pistol. Raised his arm, aimed to fire.

The shadow was faster.

Cathcart was already yelling into his radio, "Flume! Soto! We're under — ack!"

A metal hand closed around his throat. Cathcart's gun fired uselessly over his shoulder, the shadow's other hand clamped around his wrist. Squeezing. Twisting. Breaking.

Cathcart let out a strangled cry. Cartilage snapped. His trachea. His free, ruined hand pawing uselessly at his throat.

The shadow lifted him up off his feet. Threw him over the side of the building.

Cathcart was there. And then he was gone. After a second, I heard a distant, wet thump when his body hit the ground.

And then it was just me and the shadow. I stared at him in a mixture of awe and mute shock. What the hell was going on? Who was this?

Fight over, the shadow lowered his arm, drawing up to his full height, terrifyingly tall and silent as death. Only his silhouette could be made out in the darkness, and he was bigger than any of the STRIKE agents I'd seen so far. His head turned to me.

Cathcart and Acosta's fallen flashlights illuminated the area in odd angles. The shadow stepped closer.

Only he wasn't a shadow anymore.

The flashlight cast ghoulish shadows across his frame, but I could make out the details well enough. This man wasn't like the others. Not dressed in black tactical gear, but a simple pair of jeans. Work boots. A Carhartt jacket completely soaked through. Several layers underneath that just seemed to add to his already formidable bulk.

But no weapons. No gear.

Just a man, whose long hair dripped in his face, beard a few days unshaven.

Gray eyes, meeting mine.

The Winter Soldier.