A/N: Spoiler alert for Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Avengers: Age of Ultron, and Captain America: Civil War.
As always, many thanks go out to CapriceAnn Hedican-Kocur for the Beta and Winter-Soldier-88 for the brainstorming.
Note 1: I know it's been a while since this story was updated, but it couldn't be helped. Not only is my muse a fickle little scamp, my family has been experiencing a great deal of emotional turmoil that may not get better any time soon. Such is RL.
Note 2: This story is being revamped. Some scenes will be removed completely. Others will be changed to better conform to the MCU movies. Also, parts 2 and 3 will be eliminated and the chapters posted all under one title.
Namaste,
Sunny
"I will come back to you, I swear I will;
And you will know me still.
I shall be only a little taller
Than when I went."
― Edna St. Vincent Millay, The Harp-Weaver and Other Poems
Winter Soldier
And You Will Know Me Still
Chapter13
Otto Landry laughed at the woman's pitiful struggles as he dragged her from the trunk of his car toward the tarp laid out next to the hole he'd already dug. The construction crew had prepared the soft earth and would pour the concrete sidewalk in the morning, unwitting accessories in his latest crime.
Gaining access to the property had been a piece of cake. Intimidation, a couple of knuckle sandwiches or threats against someone's family worked wonders. At six-foot five, and built like a bull, not many people stood up to him. Those that did didn't make the mistake twice. That the woman continued to fight amazed him. She'd surrender to the inevitable soon enough.
"I said shut up, bitch!" She screamed again and he slapped her across the face as a warning, though she continued to make that annoying whimpering noise. "Now take your clothes off."
The fear in her eyes excited him. The constant pleading and begging, not so much. "No, please! I-I have a family. A h-h-husband a-a-and kids."
Otto's laugh was cruel and punishing. One meaty fist grabbed the front of her blouse and yanked, tearing the flimsy material and exposing her small breasts covered in a plain white bra. He preferred his women fuller figured, but he was in a hurry, so he'd taken what he could find. Standing over her, he grinned unpleasantly. "Relax, babe. I'll make it good for both of us."
The fence jangled, but he ignored it as he reached for his zipper. Then Otto realized that not only had the woman stopped crying, she was looking over his shoulder. He turned around, and there, silhouetted against the night sky, a man stood on the fence's top rail.
Puffing out his barrel-like chest, Otto called out, "Hit the road, jerk wad! This ain't no peep show."
He could see the man's chest expand and contract with his breathing. However, with the light behind shining in his eyes, he couldn't see the man's face. His hair was pushed away from his face by the breeze. Other than the glove on his left hand, Otto couldn't tell what he was wearing. Only that he appeared to be puny in comparison.
"Let her go."
The voice was deep, gravelly and menacing, but Otto didn't feel the least bit threatened. He'd used the same vocal tricks on others and to greater effect. "What're you gonna do if I don't?"
Otto's bravado faltered just a little when the man jumped from the top of the fence, flipped over in midair and landed solidly on the ground. He walked toward him, stopping less than two arm lengths away. His eyes flicked to the woman and back so fast, Otto didn't have a chance to do more than shift his weight from one foot to the other.
Then, his opponent did something weird. He raised his left hand and pulled the glove off one finger at a time, revealing a shiny metal hand. He turned it over to look at the back, flexing the fingers. The glove was shoved into a pocket then he casually pushed his shirt sleeve up to the elbow showing that the metal went all the way up.
"You're gonna fight me?" A contemptuous snort found its way out. "I haven't lost a fight since fifth grade."
The woman gasped, and the man again looked at her, giving Otto just the opening he needed. He balled his right fist, took a step on the left foot, leaning into the punch as he brought his right foot forward. It seldom took more than that to knock out some jackass who'd gotten all up in his grill.
However, this was no ordinary man. That metal hand came up, stopping Otto's punch in mid swing. He turned to look Otto in the eye, blinking once. Suddenly, the man had him in a wristlock, face down in the dirt. How could someone smaller than his deadbeat dad be that strong?
In Otto's experience, sometimes your opponent got lucky. Easy enough to help along and give the guy confidence before taking him down. "Ow! Hey, that hurts. Lemme go!"
He was released so abruptly that Otto's face hit the dirt again. Otto got his hands under his shoulders while eyeballing the distance between them, guessing at less than three feet. He counted to three and surged to his feet, throwing one punch after the other and missing each time as his opponent effortlessly dodged each swing.
Otto hunched his shoulders, ducked his head and rushed him. Again he missed. He spun on his left foot, preparing to kick the other man in the groin, but he easily evaded the attack by stepping to the side at the last possible moment.
This fight had already gone on too long, in Otto's opinion. He picked up a brick, cocked his arm and threw it. As if in slow motion, the man jumped and flipped in midair, landing behind Otto on a stack of concrete blocks covered with a tarp. The brick thumped into a pile of dirt. Otto swung around, but before he could complete the turn, the man did another jump-flip, landing behind him. He wrapped that arm around Otto's neck and smashed him to the ground
Again, Otto regained his feet, now facing the woman who had gathered the sides of her blouse in one hand to cover herself. However, she was no longer paralyzed by fear as she wobbled on the broken heel of her shoe. He'd deal with her later. At the moment, his main concern was getting rid of the Good Samaritan. His death would make the news and Otto would drink a six-pack in celebration of a job well done. Yet another that could never be linked to him. That meant killing the woman too, though that had been the plan all along.
From the corner of his eye, Otto saw that metal fist coming so fast he couldn't avoid it. The knuckles smashed into the side of his head hard enough to knock him to the ground, and he literally saw stars. His consciousness wavered, but didn't go out. Not completely.
On his feet again, Otto brought his fists up into an attempt to defend himself. The way his opponent stared at him without blinking gave him the creeps. He had to put him down and soon.
~~O~~
James watched the big man struggle to stand once more, weaving side to side. His bluster and daring had taken a beating with little effort from the man once known as the Fist of HYDRA. His death would be easy to accomplish, without the need for weapons. Yet, inside, not as deep as it had once been, James felt the desire, a compulsion really, to humiliate the would-be rapist and killer before rendering him unconscious and turning him over to law enforcement.
The woman's eyes were round and her mouth hung open. James wanted to offer reassurance that no further harm would come to her. For now, he was satisfied with teaching her attacker a lesson.
On his feet once more, his adversary made several half-hearted punches, which James effortlessly avoided. Holding his fists up to protect his face and head, the other man gave a yell and charged. At the last second, he latched onto James' right arm, shifted his weight onto his left foot and spun.
One way to overpower an antagonist was to allow them one or two small victories to strengthen their confidence. Then, deliver the final blow. James allowed himself to be thrown by the bigger man, turning over to land on one knee and supported by his left hand, head hanging down as if in defeat. Even in his semi-conscious state, the other man was strong, but James was stronger and had superior training. Dragging his right foot in, he used it to stand, slowly raising his head to catch and hold the other man's eyes. For the first time, he saw fear.
Obviously concluding that continuing the fight was a very bad idea, the other man turned and headed for the exit at a shambling run. James would've let him go except for the look on the woman's face. Her eyes were wide and frantic, silently begging him to do something. She genuinely believed that if her attacker got away that he'd come for her again, and James wouldn't be there to save her.
It would take very little effort to crush his skull or shove his metal hand through the man's chest and rip out his heart. Instead, he did the next best thing. He ran after the man, and just as he thought freedom was his, James sprang into the air, coming down on his shoulders, both legs wrapped around his neck. He leaned back, twisting the lower half of his body, and jumping free to watch as the big man slammed into the sturdy wooden fence where he collapsed like a deflated balloon.
Satisfied that he wasn't faking, James looked up when the woman approached, still holding the sides of her blouse together. Leaving her in that condition, even in front of the police, would make the horrifying events even worse. Turning his back, he unbuttoned his flannel shirt and handed it over his shoulder, glad he'd worn a t-shirt underneath. After a moment's hesitation, she took it.
He listened to the rustling of clothing as she put the shirt on. Then, she touched him on the shoulder and softly whispered, "Thank you. For everything."
He wanted to ask her not to tell anyone about him the way he had with Tracie, but no one in their right mind would think this woman could've overpowered someone more than twice her size.
The face of Natasha Romanoff, as good a name for the red-haired woman as any of the others, came into his memory. She was a highly skilled fighter. Were he a normal man, she would've easily defeated him during their fight on the bridge. He squeezed his eyes shut at the memory of shooting heron two separate occasions and hoped that someday he would get the chance to ask her forgiveness.
Steve had come to her rescue and they too fought as if their lives depended on it. His mission, he now recalled, had been to kill Natasha and another, and anyone who got in the way. And though the others, the ones he associated with excruciating pain and numbing cold, had done their best to wipe his mind clean of the images Steve had evoked by calling him Bucky, when he faced him on the ship, he still felt the pull of familiarity.
He turned toward the exit, watching with amusement as she stopped next to the unconscious man to kick him in the ribs then hastily left through the gate James held open. He pulled it shut behind them, picked up a metal bar and bent it into a U shape. Sliding the piece of metal through both sides of the gate posts, he twisted the ends around each other so the man inside couldn't escape. "Flag down a black and white and file a report. He won't hurt you again."
Seeing her clearly for the first time, James just now realized she was smeared with dirt, sweat and blood, and her hair was matted with the stuff. Her shoes, damaged beyond repair, were still on her feet. Her dark brows angled downward in confusion. A phone was in her right hand. "Um, why don't I just call 9-1-1?"
Now it was his turn to be confused. "9-1-1?"
She dialed and her call was answered immediately, his exceptional hearing picking out the voice of a woman saying, "9-1-1. What is your emergency?"
Facing away from James, she spoke urgently, her voice wobbling as she choked back tears. "A man kidnapped and tried to rape me… No. No, he didn't… Bruises, couple of scrapes… At the construction site across from the old surgery clinic… Yes, that one… A man stopped to help and… His name? You ask him…"
~~O~~
Julia Burris turned to pass the phone to her rescuer only to find that he'd vanished just as quickly as he'd appeared. She hadn't gotten his name, where he lived, nothing. He hadn't known her, yet he stepped in to stop that hulk of a man from following through on his plan to rape and kill her.
Shuddering, she hung up with the 9-1-1 operator when she heard sirens coming. And finally, the breath she hadn't realized she was holding rushed out, leaving behind a feeling of relief. The mind numbing fear had lessened, but it was still there, making the muscles of her legs shake.
From the corner of her eye, Julia saw movement on the roof of the empty building across the street, but when she turned, whatever she'd seen was gone, if it had been there at all. She dismissed it as an aberration, a trick of the light, a product of her overactive imagination. Or not. Whatever. She was so sick of New York and its gangs and murders and alien invasions.
California came to mind as an alternative until she remembered the earthquakes.
Nevada? Hot, dry, too much gambling.
Florida? Hurricanes, alligators, sinkholes and tourists.
Chicago? Humid in summer, cold in winter.
Colorado? Snow, even in spring.
New Mexico? Hot, dry, possibly inhabited by aliens.
Texas? More heat, tornadoes, and down on the coast, hurricanes. On the upside, Texas has never had a Bigfoot sighting.
Maybe somewhere overseas. England, Australia, or even New Zealand.
Sighing, she vowed to make big changes in her life in the coming months. Where she moved to didn't matter nearly as much as getting the hell out of New York, city and state.
Police cars, two ambulances and a black SUV marked with the police department logo turned onto the street, skidding to a stop at the curb. Two of the vehicles moved to block off the street at both ends. Still holding the phone, she stayed still, not making any sudden moves that might be misinterpreted by the uniformed officers spilling out of the vehicles.
Casting one last glance at the rooftop, she allowed a pair of paramedics to lead her to the ambulance trailed by a senior officer bombarding her with questions. When asked for a description of the Good Samaritan, she briefly considered giving them false information. However, aside from the incredible strength he displayed and the silver arm, he looked just like a million other guys living in the Big Apple.
The male paramedic took her blood pressure while the woman prepared an IV. Julia wanted to tell them not to bother though she knew it wouldn't do any good. She lay down on the stretcher and the detective taking her statement, Seth Fletcher, climbed in with her.
"And this guy, the one who intervened, what did he look like? Can you describe him?" His expression, while calming and sympathetic to her experience, couldn't fully erase the lines of world-weariness about his eyes. The "been there, done that, got the t-shirt" look so many New Yorkers wore these days.
"I'd say about six feet, brown hair down below his collar, well-built, Caucasian. He didn't say much, though he didn't seem to have an accent. Not sure of his eye color. It was too dark to see. I think he had on jeans, boots and a white t-shirt."
"Did he tell you his name? Anything?"
"No. He left while I was on the phone with the 9-1-1 operator. Don't know where he came from and didn't see which way he went."
The detective had noticed her clothes earlier. She could see it in his eyes. "That shirt. Where did you get it?"
Looking down at the shirt, Julia smiled gently. It was white with red and blue stripes and checks, the sleeves so long she had to roll them up. "That creep tore my blouse. He, the other guy, gave it to me." She grinned and shook her head. "I think he was more embarrassed than me that he could see my bra."
"Anything else you can remember?"
Julia debated with herself about giving him one last piece of information and decided against it. "No."
He nodded, and this time the sympathy seemed more real. "Would you like me to call someone to meet you at the hospital? Husband? Boyfriend? Girlfriend?"
"No husband, no kids, not seeing anyone." Julia didn't feel bad at all for lying to her attacker. At the time, she'd done it to make him think someone would be looking for her. "I'll call a friend to come and get me."
Fletcher fished a card out of his breast pocket and passed it over. "Call me if you think of anything else."
"Of course." Fletcher climbed down from the ambulance, and just before the paramedic closed the door, she saw her attacker being loaded into the second ambulance. A glint of metal showed that he was handcuffed to the stretcher. If she never saw him again, that would be just fine. She still had to face him in court, and that was okay too because once this was all over, she was out of here. With a sigh, she closed her eyes and wished for sandy beaches and winters where snow was a four-letter word.
Abandoned Sugar Factory
Near the Navy Yard
As they approached his and Maria's assigned search area, Steve began to feel faint vibrations through the soles of his feet. He looked at her and she nodded. "I feel it too."
"There's a smell too. It's getting stronger the closer we get." Steve looked over Maria's shoulder as she scanned the area. The graphic depiction of the factory now showed an area of heat coming from deep underneath the center of the complex. Globs of yellow with red centers moved about, stopping next to brighter red and pink blobs. Other sections showed green and blue. "Why are there so many color variations so close together?"
"Materials with higher emissivity will always appear to be hotter than those with a lower emissivity." At his blank stare, she attempted to explain. "In general, objects emit infrared radiation across a spectrum of wavelengths, but sometimes only a limited region of the spectrum is of interest because sensors usually collect radiation only within a specific bandwidth. Thermal infrared radiation also has a maximum emission wavelength, which is inversely proportional to the absolute temperature of object, in accordance with…"
Steve touched her on the shoulder. "English, please."
He could see what it cost Maria to smile instead of rolling her eyes. "The emissivity of the surface of a material is its effectiveness in emitting energy as thermal radiation." Letting his face go blank, he waited for her to continue. She huffed once, her right hand brushing at her bangs. "Not everything emits thermal radiation the same way. On infrared, two objects may appear to be different temperatures because of the material they're made of, when in reality, they're both the same temperature."
They hunkered down behind one of the cooking vats. "See? Wasn't that easier?"
"Not really." She turned the screen so he could see it. "Whatever it is, it's getting hotter in several places. I doubt Barnes is anywhere close by unless he has lots of company. Let's call this one before we get busted."
The scent was a little stronger now. "What's the smell?"
"Nothing that concerns us. Let's go."
She turned to leave and Steve stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. "If they're doing something illegal, we can't just let it go, Maria."
Pressing her lips together to keep from making a smartass remark, Maria agreed with him, in principle. But dealing with this particular situation could bring attention on them that they didn't want or need. "Steve…"
"Finding Bucky is important, but we still have to do our jobs."
~~O~~
"And I believe you, Steve. He's just not here," Maria told him with conviction while keeping her voice low. Odors she recognized hung in the air, strong enough to tell her what was happening beneath their feet. "Instead of Barnes' hideaway, we've stepped in a pile of crap called a meth lab."
"I'll take home grown enemies over aliens any day."
Steve's wry grin made her smile too, in spite everything going on around them. "You might regret saying that one day."
A sound that could've been anything, rat, human or the wind, sent the pair scurrying for cover in a dark corner wedged between two of the vats. They were so close, her shoulder brushed his chest. Not intimate, and yet not casual at the same time. A small intake of breath let her know that they were on the same page regarding the pull of attraction between them. She turned her head a fraction of an inch, and their eyes met. The blue of his irises darkened slightly, and Maria knew for a fact their close proximity was the cause.
Maria's phone vibrated with incoming messages. Using her thumb and turning the screen so Steve could see, she opened them one at a time, making note of each team's status and whereabouts, pursing her lips in annoyance. It irritated her that they were all in a similar situation: hiding from drug dealers while they created a plan to take them down.
In this position, they were even closer. Before her next thought was fully formed, Steve turned her to face him again, his touch gentle yet firm. He tilted his head to the side and leaned in to touch her lips with his, making no demands. Behind that restraint, Maria felt a sense of urgency bordering on desperation. Her free hand pressed against his cheek, and a moment later, they parted. "Steve…"
"We've both been thinking about it." One side of his mouth curled in a half-grin. "Now that first awkward kiss is out of the way."
"First?"
One eyebrow moved up a fraction of an inch and included a playful grin. "Yeah."
They heard the sound at the same time, closer now, and obviously footsteps, possibly a guard making rounds. Steve wrapped his arms around her, turning so they were protected by the shield in case of gunfire. Staying still and hardly daring to breathe, Maria raised the Glock in both hands, aiming it at the opening to their hiding space. Somehow, she'd ended up kneeling astride Steve's thighs. Steve didn't seem to notice. To keep from drawing attention to it, she carefully inched backward until she was past his knees.
When the footsteps stopped close by, Maria held her breath again. Eventually, the person moved on. Steve drew his legs to his chest, rolling onto his knees until his shield was all she could see. He turned his head to the side, listening, and soon, he nodded. "He's gone. Not sure how long."
"Let's get out while we can." Taking out her phone, she tapped a message to the others to regroup, but before she could hit send, Steve stopped her by taking her hand. Releasing her, he edged toward the opening and stuck his head out, drawing back quickly. "We're not letting this go, are we?"
Maria saw a gleam in his eyes when he looked over his shoulder. "No."
She expected more than a one-word answer. A long, involved discourse on the evils of illicit drugs and the harm they're doing to society, culture and the world in general. Something more than a simple "no". He was one of those men who could say so much just by the tone of his voice. "I suppose an anonymous tip to the cops is out."
Again, that grin. "Yes, but not 'til we destroy the lab."
Steve was in charge and she'd agreed to follow his orders for this and all upcoming operations. Holding in a sigh, Maria readied her weapon, tensing her muscles to spring into action. "Then let's do it."
~~O~~
"Barnes isn't here." Natasha made the short and not so sweet statement less than five minutes after arriving on-scene, and Ty didn't doubt her because he agreed.
"I smell it too. Hydrogen chloride, phosphorus, hydriodic acid, diethyl oxide. Nasty stuff." She didn't respond except to nod. "My brother died from taking meth. But you already knew that."
She adjusted the set of the belt around her narrow waist. "Like to know who I'm working with."
"Seems fair."
Using a phone that put the best available to the public to shame, Natasha tapped out a message. The response came almost immediately, followed by another. Nothing in her face or body language changed, yet somehow, the air around them became charged with the electrical energy of excitement. That rush of adrenalin that prepared you to do battle.
Ty touched the pockets of his cargo pants, verifying that he had extra ammo just in case. He crouched next to Natasha and waited for the signal.
~~O~~
Sam showed Kiba the message from Hill. "Gonna be a long night. I got this, if you want to opt out."
Kiba snorted. "And let you have all the fun? Said I was in, Sam. With both feet."
Grinning, Sam slid the phone into his back pocket and took out his weapon. "I wouldn't have recommended you, Sullivan, Santino and Newcomb if I didn't know you'd have our backs."
Holding her weapon in one hand, she gave his arm a gentle nudge. "Always."
~~O~~
Clint and Dooney made their way around to the rear of the building where the loading dock was located. Above the padlocked door, Clint spied something that most people would've missed: a camera. He pointed it out to his companion who responded using ASL.
Got something for it?
Also using ASL, Clint countered, Of course. But shutting it down would tell them they have uninvited guests. His phone vibrated against his backside. He dug the device out and read Hill's message. He sent an acknowledgement then handed it to Dooney to monitor. Meth lab. Cap wants to shut it down and we're gonna help him. You still in?
Dooney scoffed. I'm insulted that you would even ask. Keys. Without a word or asking why, Clint exchanged the car keys for the phone. Dooney turned Clint's wrist over to check the time, his hands signaling a message. Got something to bring to the table. Back in seven. Don't start without me.
Wouldn't dream of it.
When Dooney vanished from sight, Clint tapped out a message to Hill and the other teams. We have a solution. Stand by.
Within seconds, Clint received responses. Natasha's came through in Russian, making him smile.
The next message was from Steve via Hill. We need to clear the building. Ideas?
Grinning to himself, Clint made a suggestion. Fire drill?
The pause was so long, he got the feeling that it was being considered. All they had to do was convince the people inside to leave before destroying the lab. Once they cleared out then Boom!
While Dooney was gone, Clint took care of the internal and external cameras by putting them on a loop showing empty hallways and clear loading docks.
Looking at his watch, Clint counted down the seconds and at exactly seven minutes, Dooney returned wearing a backpack. Clint helped him take it off, setting it on the ground between them. Still using ASL, Clint asked about the contents.
Dooney's reply was to open the pack to show a specialized type of explosive that was new to the world of terrorism and difficult to find, even on the black market, and detonators that could be linked to a single remote. Dooney took the blasting caps from his pocket. More than enough to demolish the lab. With the correct placement, the building would collapse in on itself and the company that now owned the property wouldn't have to pay to knock it down.
On the other hand, the money saved would go toward chemical clean-up, if that were even possible. The toxicity of the process of making meth was such that the buildings where the street drug was made became uninhabitable from day one, hence the need for hazmat suits. Whatever else happened tonight, the drug lord's business was about to take a dramatic downturn. If it were a stock market commodity, it would tank when the market opened in the morning.
Though Clint was only slightly familiar with the new type of explosive, he and Dooney made short work of getting it ready. Dooney let him know it was highly stable in this state, so the men didn't worry about it going off accidentally.
When prep was complete, Clint informed the teams, not surprised to be told that they'd come up with a plan to empty the building, and quickly, by going with an altered version of the fire drill scenario.
While they were getting ready, Clint brought up a schematic of the basement. With his extensive knowledge of building construction, Clint advised his friend on the best placement of the charges to cause the most damage with the least amount of fallout.
He let Hill know they were ready and waiting for the signal to proceed. Dooney slapped him on the shoulder to get his attention, handing him a face mask and safety goggles that would protect them from the toxic fumes coming from the lab.
The phone vibrated in Clint's hand. 2 minutes.
Roger that, he sent back.
In his head, Clint counted down to zero, but nothing happened. He was about to send a query to Hill when the dual loading dock doors opened, disgorging, at Clint's count, more than twenty people wearing protective gear. None were older than late thirties with the youngest appearing to be barely out of high school.
A cloud of smoke billowed out after them, and Clint grinned. Smoke grenades. That works.
Dooney looked over his shoulder at the scanner display showing that the building was now empty of people. Clint tapped his headset. "We're ready when you are, Cap."
Steve's response was succinct. "Everyone fall back. Meet at the rendezvous point. Ten minutes."
~~O~~
Using the schematic on Clint's phone as a guide, Dooney and he made their way to the basement. Even without it, they'd have found the entrance just be following their noses. The closer they got to the stairwell, the stronger the chemical smell. Dooney coughed, turning it into a clearing of the throat before Clint made a comment.
Clint was fast and agile, and Dooney didn't know how he did it with that bow and quiver on his back. Practice, I guess.
They separated as they entered the lab, placing the explosives where Clint indicated for maximum effect. It didn't take long, thankfully, and they were on their way again. Every second, Dooney found it more and more difficult to breathe. His doctor had told him this is how it would start, that he should slow down, take it easy. Still, he continued with his usual routine. For him, it was a quality of life thing. If he couldn't participate in life, why bother living? And he wasn't done living yet.
They'd turned the corner into the packaging area when Dooney pulled Clint to a stop. "Hold up. The remote's not getting a signal."
"Where did it stop?"
Dooney walked back toward the basement until a small red light came on again. Clint was still at his side. He turned the remote so his friend could see it. Nodding, Clint passed the information.
Dooney paced back and forth, verifying the location where the signal was lost. Turning in a circle, his stomach dropped. The sweet spot was so far inside that no one but the Flash would be able to get out without being caught in the blast. Taking a deep breath, Dooney joined the conversation. "Sorry, Captain Rogers, but someone has to stay behind."
There was a pause, and in the background, he listened to a debate between Hill, Romanoff and Rogers. It only took a moment's thought for Dooney to come to a decision. "Go, Clint. I'll stay."
TBC