A/N: Spoiler alert for Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Avengers: Age of Ultron, Captain America: Civil War, Ant-Man, and Spiderman: Homecoming.

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. We're into year two of the Year From Hell.

Note 2: This story is being rewritten from chapter 45 forward to more closely conform to the MCU.

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

Chapter 47

Motel 9

Room 57

Pre-Dawn

The man who was once Vasily Karpov, now known as Charles Fowler, at least until his contact could provide him with new ID, methodically shoved his clothes and personal items into a battered leather suitcase. The Asset should have arrived long before now with the body of the Black Widow. That he hadn't proved the woman had most likely broken through the programming, compromising him further. Staying would be the reckless and foolhardy, and he was neither.

He closed and snapped the locks, carried the bag to the car and came back with the ingredients for two small bombs. The rooms to either side and above were empty, but even if they'd been occupied, Fowler wouldn't have given his next actions a second thought. The room had to be obliterated to remove all trace of his presence. DNA, fingerprints and so forth had to be eliminated, both here and in the office.

Assembling the firebomb didn't take long for one who had been trained by the Soviet military and later had taught others before taking over the Winter Soldier project from his predecessor. The man had met his fate at the hands of one of those who would one day become the new breed of Winter Soldiers. Taken as individuals, each of the candidates had more kills per person in the years leading up to the collapse of the Soviet Union than the Asset had over a fifty-year period.

For months prior to that day, the man he once was, Vasily Karpov, had been a zealous spectator of the program, observing and mentally noting all that occurred within the walls of the secret bunker. Such devotion gave him an edge over all other candidates when the time came to replace the man who had become overconfident and complacent regarding the individuals chosen to receive the serum.

Fowler placed the second firebomb on the rear floorboard of his car and drove around to the office. He parked and got out, secreted the bomb inside his jacket, and let himself into the lobby.

The desk clerk looked up as he came in the door and smiled. "Leaving us already, Mr. Fowler?"

To put the woman at ease, he smiled sheepishly. "Yes. My business in town didn't take as long as I thought." He laid the key card on the desk and accepted the key fee in return, shoving it in the pocket of his pants.

"Be sure to stay with us the next time you're in town." The woman glanced at the television hung on the opposite wall, displaying the local weather. "Storm's coming. Drive carefully."

"Thank you. I will." Fowler slipped on gloves, and reached inside his jacket, bring out a silenced handgun, which he used to shoot the woman three times in the back. Going around the behind the desk, he stepped over the body to access the computer. He inserted a thumb drive and uploaded a virus that would destroy all of the motel's records, not just his own, but all of them, including the videos recorded by the cameras. If it was in the system, it would be destroyed.

To give himself plenty of time to get away, Fowler let down the blinds in all the windows and doors, verified that they were locked and went out through the back door, which locked automatically behind him.

In case anyone was watching, Fowler took care to make the walk back to his vehicle appear as if nothing were amiss. He started the engine, put on his seatbelt, shifted into gear, and drove off the property.

Once at a safe distance, he took the detonator from under the front seat and flipped up the red guard. With a nasty smirk, he murmured to himself in Russian, "Fire in the holes."

Tularosa, New Mexico

The Safe House

Under the note lay James' knives. All of them, including the one used during their most recent fight.

Hoping it was all an elaborate joke, Natasha laid the note on the bed and searched the room. The closet and drawers were empty. Going to the weapons closet, she checked the inventory and found all accounted for.

She returned to the kitchen to check the food supply. James had taken enough for several days, leaving the lion's share for her. She found another note on the refrigerator. This one in English.

I have the car. Will leave it in town.

Straight to the point this time. No sorries. No good-byes. No explanations. Nothing of a personal nature. No chance for rebuttal. She was frustrated and, yes, a little hurt that he'd leave without a word, but, then that had been his plan, so he couldn't be talked out of it. Natasha started coffee, got out the leftovers, transferred them to a plate and put it in the microwave, shutting the door with more force than necessary. While the food heated, she made a phone call on speaker to keep her hands free.

"What's up, Nat?"

She dug in the silverware drawer, not bothering to choose the right fork for the meal. "Need a ride, Clint. Can do?"

"Can do. When?"

"ASAP. Not much packing to do."

In the background, she heard the kids playing and Laura's voice telling them to go outside while Dad was on the phone. "Any special arrangements need to be made? Want me to call Cap for you?"

"None. And no." Though Clint waited, Natasha didn't elaborate. "Stop at my place on the way. In the back of the closet, bring the garment bag labeled 'Winnipeg', then go to the safe and gat Homeland Security IDs for both of us. I'll create the court order. Call when you're almost here."

"It's serious business, if you're breaking out the Winnipeg suit." He exhaled loudly, as if he was being inconvenienced, but it was all a show. "Nat, what's going on?"

"When you get here. Bring a suit and tie. The dark grey, matching tie, pearl grey shirt." She hung up without waiting for his response at the same time the microwave dinged. In lieu of a cloth napkin, she yanked a paper towel from the roll. She poured coffee and carried everything to the table. "Should've tied him to the bed and sat on his ass to make sure he stayed." She scooped a forkful of food into her mouth, chewed and swallowed. "How do I explain it to Steve?"

Alamogordo, New Mexico

Discount Mart

Using the tracker on the SUV, Natasha located it parked on the side of the road not far from their next destination. There were no traffic cams in this area that could give her an idea of what time it had been left or which direction Bucky had gone when he set off on foot, assuming, for the moment, that he hadn't stolen or otherwise procured another vehicle. She and Clint slipped into their assumed personas of Jules Newman and Colt Madden as easily as most people changed socks.

She drove to the Discount Mart, parked and got out of the SUV. At the same time, Natasha and Clint put on sunglasses. He buttoned his suit jacket and smoothed his hair back on the sides. In this light, his few silver hairs caught the sun imbuing him with a more distinguished mien belied by the mischievous twinkle in his blue-grey eyes.

"How we playing this, Nat? Good cop-bad cop?"

"Straight up." The playfulness vanished in an instant. "Someone who knew what buttons to push sent the Winter Soldier after me."

Clint pulled her to a stop before they reached the doors. "How's that going to tell us where Barnes went?"

"Discovering the identity of the person who compromised James is one step closer to finding him. It won't be a big step, but its all we have right now." Clint crossed his arms stubbornly, waiting for more, so she gave it to him. "This person, whoever he or she is, has intimate, top-level knowledge of the Winter Soldier program, if they were able to reactivate him as the Asset. With that kind of power, he or she could wreak havoc on world governments, intelligence networks, and economies."

"You mean like you, Rogers, and Wilson did when you dumped HYDRA's and SHIELD's databases onto the internet?"

Holding in a snarky remark, Natasha headed for the entrance again. She took the enticing sway out of her walk as they stepped through the automatic doors. Because it was her op, Clint followed her lead. They took their badges out as they reached the security guard standing at his post by the ice machine, turning so their bodies blocked the cameras from seeing what they were doing. "Special Agents Jules Newman and Colt Madden, Homeland Security."

The guard warily examined the badges, his eyes comparing the photos to their faces. "How can I help you?"

Natasha tucked the leather cover out of sight with one hand and removed the sunglasses with the other, letting the man know it was serious business. "We need to see security footage from yesterday afternoon. Internal and external."

Her partner added his voice. "Front entrance, bathrooms, changing rooms, loading docks, employee entrances. The works. We'll want to question some of the staff as well."

"Don't you need a…" The guard's voice trailed off as Clint opened his jacket and took out the court order. "Right. You'll have to speak to the manager. This way, please." He unlocked a secure door and led them up the stairs to a small office that said "security" on the door. "Have a seat. I'll get the manager."

Keeping her expression bland, Natasha dropped into a padded chair while Clint roamed the room, reading posters and flyers as a pretext for locating hidden cameras. By the time the guard returned with the manager, Natasha had let it appear that she was bored with the whole scene. She stood and Clint came to her side, both once again producing their badges. Clint also passed over the court order that would get them access to the security tapes.

The guard made introductions. "Louis Foley, agents Newman and Madden."

They shook hands while Foley looked them over. "Pleased to meet you both, and somewhat puzzled as to why Homeland Security would want our security tapes. Not much happens here except for the occasional attempts at shoplifting and major fashion mistakes on the part of the patrons."

Natasha took a half-step closer to show she was in charge. "We're not at liberty to discuss details, Mr. Foley."

"It's a matter of national security," Clint added.

"This case is time sensitive. We'd like to get started, if you don't mind."

Foley nodded gravely. "Of course. John, help the agents in any way you can."

John nodded and Foley left them alone. He entered a code into the only other door and held the door for them to go in ahead of him. A single man was sitting before a bank of monitors covering one wall. Keyboards, CPUs, empty drink bottles, snack wrappers, and cardboard coffee cups cluttered the curved desk. In the corner, an old coffee machine burbled. As much as Natasha wanted a cup, she'd wait until their job here was finished.

"I have to get back out on the floor. Jason here will help with whatever you need."

John closed the door, leaving them alone with a stocky Hispanic man with a slight paunch. He scooted back from the desk, his dark eyes giving them both a onceover that held little interest. "What can I help you with?"

Taking one of the empty chairs, Clint rolled up to the desk, pulled a keyboard to him, rapidly typing instructions into the computer. This didn't set well with Jason.

"Hey! Only authorized personnel are allowed to work the equipmen…"

His voice trailed off when Natasha hit him with a dose of the same knockout drug used on the nosy rednecks in Vermont. He slowly fell forward and she quickly pushed him back in his seat, picked up his feet and rolled him out of the way.

"Got it, Nat." Clint shoved a thumb drive in the port and tapped the keys that would upload all the videos for the last forty-eight hours. "Thanks to Stark, the quinjet has state of the art software for facial rec."

"I'm interested in the area in and around the changing rooms. Everything was SOP until he came out. Oh, he said all the right things and even smiled, but there was just something off, as if he weren't all there."

Clint pocketed it the thumb drive and stood. "You're thinking one of HYDRA's goons got to him."

Together, the partners moved Jason up to the desk. Clint lifted him up in his chair so he wasn't slumping while Natasha pushed the keyboard in front of him and placed both hands on it. Jason took a deep breath, indicating he was waking up. They resumed their seats, and when he opened his eyes, they stood together. Natasha graced him with a smile. "Thanks for your assistance, Jason. You've been very helpful."

The guard blinked himself awake, looking around like he didn't know where he was. Clint shook his hand. "Your country appreciates your assistance."

Jason followed them to the door, still with that confused expression. "Sure. No problem."

Natasha offered her hand. "Thank John and Mr. Foley for us."

As always, Clint gave one last word of warning. "As per the court order, our visit here is to remain strictly confidential."

"Oh, yeah. No worries." Jason walked them to the exit. "If you need anything else, let us know."

The partners got into their vehicle and pulled out of the parking lot headed for the quinjet hidden outside of town. Once there, Clint powered up the systems and inserted the thumb drive.

In the back, Natasha paced.

Unknown Location

The two men eyed each other warily and with good reason. Trust didn't come easily to either of them. They'd been burned too many times in the past leaving no hope for the future aside from pain and more betrayal, personal and professional. Since the literal fall of Sokovia, Zemo had wanted nothing more from his life than the end of the Avengers. Not death, though he wouldn't shed a tear if they all perished tomorrow. No, Zemo had something else in mind.

With Rumlow and his sycophants on his side, the Avengers would have multiple targets without knowing there other players. His plan was to end their friendships, turn the Avengers against one other to the point where friendship no longer had any meaning and he would use any and all tools in his pursuit of that goal. To see them fighting to the death would be a grand spectacle, one that he has waited for, plotted and planned for since the destruction of Sokovia.

Zemo's host had extended an invitation to share the evening meal with him, just the two of them, no others around, once he was reminded that the limbs obeyed the commands of the brain, not the other way around. Not for a moment did he believe that Rumlow was intelligent enough to pull off his doomed-to-fail plan. To achieve his goals, Zemo needed additional appendages, and Rumlow and his people were immoral enough to get the job done. As members of HYDRA, they were used to carrying out orders without the necessity of requiring explanations.

Though the cooking area of the warehouse set-up was primitive, Zemo had offered to prepare a meal of traditional Sokovian dishes. As the aromas of home filled the air, he reflected on the fact that there were few of his people left in the world. The old traditions were a painful reminder of what had been lost, and so may not be handed down the coming generations. This as much as all over events saddened Zemo.

He gave the pot one last stir, turned off the stove, picked up the silverware and napkins, and went to set the table. All while he worked at chopping and cutting and preparing the food, Rumlow had watched while exercising his upper body. Not bothered in the least, Zemo made short work of it all without once giving the impression he wished to shove the knife between his host's ribs. That may come later, but for now, as the saying went, the enemy of his enemy was his friend, or at least a temporary ally.

Zemo spooned the dumplings into bowls and ladled stew over the top. He took two bottles of beer from the refrigerator and placed them on the table. Rumlow saw and dropped to the floor from where he'd been doing chin-ups. Without being told, he went into the bathroom to wash his hands. He returned shortly, the hairs around his face wet and his t-shirt clinging to the dampness of his chest.

Rumlow waited for him to place the food on the table to take a seat. He shook out the paper napkin, placed it in his lap, picked up his spoon and stirred the bowl. "Smells good. What is it?"

The man does have manners after all. Interesting. "A traditional Sokovian dish similar to paprikash. It is usually served over a type of dumpling called galyshka. However, I have never been able to make them well enough to satisfy my wife's exacting standards. So, I have used premade gnocchi instead." Zemo scooped a dumpling, sauce and a small piece of chicken and put it in his mouth, chewing slowly while watching his host, not surprised that he didn't trust him not to poison it. The thought had occurred, but now wasn't the time. He wanted the man to trust him, not question his every move. After a sip of beer, he dabbed at his mouth and replaced the napkin in his lap. "If you were a guest in my home, you would also have been treated to one of my wife's dobos tortas."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"It is a cake that is filled with chocolate crème and glazed with caramel. Luisa made and sold cakes from our home." Zemo glanced at Rumlow and back to his food. "Before Ultron and the Avengers came to Sokovia, we had plans to relocate to Budapest. Her dream was to open a small bakery, and because I wanted her dream to come true, my resignation had already been submitted. We traveled to Budapest to find a suitable location for the bakery, signed a lease, and rented a two bedroom apartment where we would live until we had saved enough to purchase a home." He ran a thumb through the condensation on the bottle. "My country was destroyed one week before we were to leave. Most of our belongings were packed and ready to be loaded onto the truck we'd purchased for the relocation."

"That's harsh." Rumlow chewed a bite of chicken and swallowed, following it up with a long sip of the beer. As a trained observer and the leader of EKO Scorpion, Zemo saw the smallest bit of remorse for his loss. He pushed the food around in the bowl. "So you hate the Avengers as much as I do."

A bitter laugh came out in one short blast. "I lost everything when Ultron attacked. My wife, son, father, home… and my country. As their leader, Captain Rogers will pay the highest price. By the time we are through, he too will have lost all that he holds dear."

Rumlow pointed at him with the spoon. "And you have a plan to make it happen."

"Da. The Avengers hold fast to the belief that they have an unshakeable bond that will withstand any storm. Such arrogance has created the team that repelled the alien invasion over New York, brought down HYDRA and destroyed Sokovia. It will also lead to their downfall."

Brooklyn, New York

Lantern Inn

Sam closed the door and threw his bags on the foot of the bed with a huff of irritation, hearing Steve to the same. "It sat empty for more than three years and suddenly someone buys it."

Steve set the bag with his shield on the floor propped against the wall. "It was bound to happen sooner or later, Sam. We're only here for a few days." Their eyes met in the mirror, and to Sam's further irritation, he smiled knowingly. "Ah. You liked the gargoyles."

"You gotta admit Barton was right. They were kinda cool."

The bag was moved from the bed to the floor so Steve could flop on the overused mattress, hands laced behind his head. "If it bothers you that much, we can swing by and have a look at the new owners."

Sam gave the matter serious thought then shook his head. "Forget it." He sat on the side of the second bed. "What's on the agenda? How're we going to find this guy?"

A pair of shoes hit the floor at the foot of Steve's bed. "Friday is analyzing his methodology in order to predict where and when he'll next appear." The box springs creaked as he rolled over to get comfortable. "Get some rest. We've got a busy night ahead."

Stretched out on the bed staring at the ceiling that hadn't been painted in a couple decades, thinking about the videos disturbed Sam's peace of mind. If he could fly, with or without the aid of whatever it was, how would they catch him in order to strongly advise him to take up some other hobby and leave being a knight errant to those who are qualified?

Oncological Research Center

Pewaukee, Illinois

There was not much to recommend about Pewaukee, Illinois. The nearest town of any size only had a population of fifteen thousand as of the last census. What it did have was a thick forest crowded around the research labs, obscuring it from casual visual inspection. To find it, you had to know where it was as it couldn't be seen from the main road. Most of the employees lived on the other side of the river making travel to and from difficult in severe weather. Unless you happened to be one of the chosen who had intimate knowledge of the secret tunnel that allowed the staff to bypass the bridges that would ice over in winter and be washed out in summer. For those who didn't want to brave the weather or were just too tired to make the drive home, the center provided sleeping accommodations.

The Office of Dr. Christine Bennett

Her mind whirling with possibilities, Christine shut off the recording of the Avengers in Sokovia. The two young Inhumans were her main concern, especially the boy. Though unsubstantiated reports said that the brother and sister had begun their relationship as enemies of the Avengers, the videos showed a different story. In them, the pair is seen saving their home country's citizens in league with the group of heroes, not fighting against them. The questions of their motives for seeming to have changed sides would have to remain unanswered because the boy had died and the girl refused any and all requests for an interview. If the stories about her mental powers were true, would anyone even remember they'd spoken to her?

The knock on her office door made her jump. She toggled over to the funding proposal for the board of directors and pasted on a bland smile of greeting. "Come in."

Her boss and friend, Dr. Sonja Sandberg, opened the door. "You busy?"

Christine waved Sonja in with a sigh. "Still working on the proposal. It needs the perfect balance of raw facts, encouragement, and begging, without coming right out and telling them the reason I want to change the direction of my research is because my son is dying. His type of cancer isn't an orphan disease by any means. It's also not a big moneymaker for the drug companies."

Sonja perched on the corner of the desk. "I'm sure you'll figure it out." She folder her hands in her lap. "How is Eli?"

A long sigh rushed out. "Same as last week. The treatments aren't helping much. He's in a sort of holding pattern. Or more like a dam about to burst, with the drugs being the dam and the disease being the water pressure pushing against it until it gives up completely and the village is wiped out in a near-biblical flood." Christine wanted to curl up on the sofa against the back wall, draw the shades, and pull a blanket over her head so she wouldn't have to deal with all the shit happening in her family's life. "That's why this research is so important. I've been studying the techniques created by scientists who have worked for the government in some capacity since the second world war. Hoping to find a few pieces of gold mixed in with the pyrite."

"Or diamonds mixed with the charcoal?"

The small moment of humor wasn't lost on Christine. She just couldn't force herself to show it. "Too bad you aren't on the board yourself, Sonja. But then you'd spend your days running rampant through the politics, leaving the scientific discoveries to the rest of us."

A smirk turned up the right corner of Sonja's mouth. "True. Though it doesn't hurt that I'm personally acquainted with one of board members."

Leaning back in her chair, Christine raised her eyebrows. "Yes. How is your paramour these days?"

"Experiencing a bit of acid reflux, but otherwise healthy and active." She patted Christine's shoulder in what was obviously meant as a comforting gesture and stood. "Let me know if you need help with the proposal."

The door closed behind her friend leaving Christine alone with her thoughts. Instead of going back to the videos or the proposal, she called up photos of her family, stopping on the one taken just last week. The treatments for his illness had left him weak and caused his hair to fall out. Her theories for an experimental counteragent were just that: theories. All she had to do was convince the board of directors to procure the tissue samples needed and testing could begin. Regrettably, human trials were years away, making real the possibility that Eli might die before they could affect a cure. Bolstering her spirits with the platitude of the work being done now may one day save another child had long since lost its ring of truth. The words would no longer be uttered with the force of confidence. She wanted Eli to live a long and happy life. Not die before he'd even reached puberty. Her youngest son wanted to join the Air Force and become a pilot. "I'll make it happen, Eli. I promise."

Christine toggled over to the proposal and got to work with a fervor she hadn't felt in months.

Queens, New York

The undersized sign at the intersection of Myrtle and Wyckoff Avenues advised Steve and Sam they had crossed from Brooklyn into Queens without fanfare. Darkness had crept through the city like some oily creature that oozed from the depths of the underground sewer system. The stench that wafted through the street vents assaulted the senses and left behind thoughts of disgust and revulsion.

Steve rolled the window up and turned on the air. "Brooklyn and Queens didn't smell this bad when I was a kid."

A snort came from his right. "That was a hundred years ago, Steve. Unfortunately, Harlem smells just as bad now as it did growing up in the eighties." He turned in his seat. "What's the plan? If this guy's got powers, how do we stop him long enough to have a sit-down?"

At the light, Steve looked at Sam with one eyebrow raised. "Are you seriously asking that question?"

His friend indicated surrender. "We get him on our level and then what? Take him for coffee? A cronut? Fish tacos?"

The light changed and Steve pulled through with a specific destination in mind. "I was thinking bagel and schmeer." He let the humor slide away from his expression and voice. "He's not like the Avengers."

"Didn't say he was." Sam pointed at him. "That was you and your little voice conversating inside your head."

"You're thinking it too. Is what we do any different than his vigilante raids under cover of darkness?"

Steve could sense the wheels spinning inside his friend's head.

"Big difference. The Avengers don't go slinking down back alleys looking for a fight. They come to us." Sam made an impatient gesture, topped off with a huff. "And yeah, sometimes we bring it on ourselves, and the end results are more far-reaching than a guy stopping a speaking car…" The pause was fraught with frustration and more than a little chagrin for both of them. "Forgot where I was going with it. Doesn't change the fact that the Avengers and people like us don't go looking for trouble. This guy's all over the place. Speaking of… how we gonna find him?"

Digging out his phone, Steve held it up. "Friday's always eager to do a favor."

Now Sam's smile was coming from his vast store of humor and, yeah, the closeness they felt as friends, and included a chuckle on the end. "Anything to get under Tony's skin. She's gone so far beyond her original programming, it's a wonder she hasn't made herself one of those life-model decoys."

Steve waved him silent. "Don't give her ideas."

"Give who ideas, Captain Rogers?" The lightly accented female voice came out of the car's on-board computer.

He shared a sheepish shrug with Sam. "Not important, Friday. What've you got for us?"

"A convenience store robbery in progress. Liberty and 112th, and guess who's in the middle of all the action?"

Without responding, Steve floored it, screeching around corners and blowing through traffic lights. Even passing a pair of cops coming out of a donut shop. They watched him drive away but didn't follow. "Call the police, Friday."

"Already on it, Captain."

As they got close, the neighborhood seemed quiet, serene even. Deceptive, as always. He pulled to the curb slammed the car into park and shut off the engine. By the time he and Sam met at the corner, his friend had retrieved the shield. He quietly passed it over.

Inside the store they spied their target giving three thugs in gorilla masks a beating they wouldn't soon forget. Within moments, they were dazed and tied up back to back by what looked like webbing of some kind, but the vigilante was barely winded.

So they wouldn't be seen, Steve and Sam approached from opposite sides. Standing with their backs to the worn brick walls, Steve signaled and together, the duo stepped into the light and stopped, sharing confused glances.

The red and blue clad man was much shorter than expected. Bruce's height, no more, lean and muscular. But the most surprising thing about him was his voice. He held up both hands one finger on one and all five on the other, indicating the age of the vigilante as being approximately fifteen.

"Buh-bam! And I didn't even have to get the flying monkeys." He crossed his arms. "You're not in Jersey anymore, guys. This is Queens and we don't like it when outsiders come and take our stuff." He swaggered around to the other side. "A common mistake that people make when trying to design something completely foolproof, like your plan to rob this store, is to underestimate the ingenuity of complete fools. That's you, by the way. We also take care of our own, right, Mr. Mendenhall?"

An older man with stooped shoulders, thin grey hair, and wearing an apron came from behind the counter carrying a broom which he used to further threaten the robbers. "Right you are, boychick. I called the police. You're fercockt but good now. Made a mess outa my store and your lives." He waved a hand and turned away, speaking to his companion. "Psht. Let them rot in jail. I gotta call Shira, let her know I'll be late for dinner again."

Mendenhall shuffled into the back still muttering under his breath. Steve cleared his throat, startling all four men. "Excuse me. We'd like to have a few words with…"

The vigilante, whom they now knew was just a kid, flexed his right wrist, shooting out more of the white webbing to stick on the side of the building across the street. "Can't stay." He grabbed on and swung between Steve and Sam like Tarzan in the jungle, calling out a parting shot. "So long, and thanks for all the fish!"

Steve spun around, while at the same time pulling the shield from the harness on his back and throwing it all in one flowing movement. It severed the thin filament at the same time the young man shot another web from his left wrist and kept going. The shield bounced off the wall between two windows, hit a light pole, ripped through an awning and returned to Steve's hands.

Sam and he came together in front of the store just as the shrill reverberation of police sirens filled the air. Taken aback by the odd comment, Steve turned to Sam. "Fish?"

TBC