Chapter 21

We spent the next week that way – fighting crime around the parts of the city unsupervised by security cameras or police patrols.

We had to change where we retreated to for sleep almost every other day to keep everyone – cops or otherwise – off our scent. We slept in turns during the day and went out all night, taking along our backpacks of essential gear in case we were unable to return to our lair of the day.

It was rough living, but I hadn't felt so alive in months. We'd busted drug deals, prevented murders, turned in gang members, and stopped several muggings. Best of all, neither of us had needed to take a life in all that time. We were still on the run, but for the first time in decades I felt free, like I might just be able to put my past behind me.

Natasha was an excellent partner, I discovered. She fought beside me almost as well as Steve had, predicting my moves and covering my back whenever I needed it. Sometimes in the middle of a fight she would flash me a mischievous grin, and I would find myself returning the smile.

Other times, when we weren't searching the streets for trouble or monitoring the police activity at the edges of the city, she would become quiet and withdrawn. At those times I wondered if she were thinking about Clint or what Rogan had done to her, of the lives she'd taken while under his control. But she never said anything, and I never asked.

I still woke up from nightmares on an almost daily basis. But whenever I did, Natasha would be there, telling me it was okay, holding me close sometimes when the fear persisted long after I'd awoken. Gradually, the nightmares started to get less frequent and severe, but the trust that had grown between Natasha and I didn't fade with them.

And that made me happier than I'd felt in a long time.

On the Tuesday night we set out once more. We didn't have to go far to find ourselves in a part of the city ripe with criminal activity. Rostov-on-Don wasn't considered an overly healthy place to live, and Natasha and I had become good at finding the really bad areas.

We moved through the shadows and thinly-falling sleet until we reached an old warehouse we'd seen the evening before but not had the time to scout. Its roof was a bare skeleton of metal framework and strips of corrugated iron, the glass panes long since smashed, and the brickwork was covered in graffiti. Just the sort of place an illicit meeting might take place.

I entered through the building's side door, which was held in place more by the dirty snow piled up against it than by its rusted hinges. Natasha remained at the doorway, gun in hand, while I moved further into the warehouse. There wasn't a lot to be seen. Wooden crates – long emptied of whatever they once held – sat in rotting stacks along the walls, and the chain for a disused hoist system swung listlessly in the cold breeze coming through the open roof.

My searching gaze landed on a set of boot prints in the snow covering the floor and I gestured for Natasha to join me.

She looked down at the prints. "They're new. Snowfall hasn't had time to cover them yet."

"Which means somebody's still around," I added.

"Dead right," a cold voice replied from the shadows.

We turned together to face Clint as he emerged from the gloom in the far corner of the warehouse, an arrow nocked to the string of his bow.

"Clint!" Natasha started forward, the relief evident in her face, but Clint raised his bow and she pulled up short.

"Stay where you are," Clint warned.

"Clint, we're okay now," Natasha told him. "We've got our minds back."

Clint didn't lower his weapon. "You sure? 'Cause I'd rather not get thrown at another police car." His gaze flickered to me briefly as he spoke.

"If we'd wanted to kill you, you'd already be dead," I pointed out. "Natasha's telling the truth."

Clint lowered his bow slightly. "Well, that adds up with what the papers say," he admitted. "You two have been all over the news this week, you know? 'Rogue Avengers stop gang shootout' and stuff. Media can't decide if your heroes or villains." He returned the arrow to his quiver. "I've had my hands full trying to convince the CIA and ISID that you were brainwashed when you shot those people in Sochi."

"Did they believe you?" Natasha asked.

Clint shrugged. "Hendricks, yes. The US government? Not so much." He faced me. "They're fine with believing you've gone rogue again, but Nat they suspect of treason. If they catch you two, it'll be messy."

"So you're here to warn us to keep our heads further down?" Natasha asked.

Clint shook his head. "I'm here to ask you to turn yourselves in to me. If I can track you, so can the CIA – and they're out for blood. You've caused an international incident and they want it dealt with ASAP."

I frowned. "We're not turning ourselves in. They'll lock us up and then we'll never stop the Molniya."

Clint ran a hand through his hair. "I don't think you get it, Bucky," he said. "The Molniya are a side-issue right now. I'm trying to save your lives."

"Maybe you're the one who doesn't get it," I replied. "We've come closer to the heart of this mission than you have by miles."

"And look where that got you," he retorted coolly.

I clenched my fists, opening my mouth to reply.

"Stop it," Natasha demanded, cutting off whatever I'd been about to say. "Arguing won't get us anywhere."

And that was when the CIA arrived. They poured in through the warehouse's side door and appeared around the edges of the roof, yelling for us to surrender even as they took aim at Natasha and I.

Natasha turned to Clint. "Did you–?"

He pulled her behind him, shielding her from the agents as they surrounded us. "I swear this wasn't me."

"Drop your weapons!" the CIA agents yelled. "Put your hands on your heads and get on your knees!"

Clint complied instantly. "They're not the enemy anymore," he yelled back. "Hold your fire!"

Natasha sank to the floor beside Clint and I followed suit, keeping my hands open and visible the whole time. Any wrong move right now would spell disaster.

The agents approached quickly and I felt the cold pressure of a gun barrel against the back of my head. Natasha was no better off. Clint hadn't been joking. It looked like the CIA agents weren't going to bother with a trial.

"Wait!" Clint got to his feet, looking desperate, but the agents turned their guns on him, forcing him to stay back.

I met Natasha's gaze and saw fear in her eyes.

Then there was a sudden whir of rotors and a helicopter appeared directly overhead, hovering above the warehouse.

"That's not ours," one of the agents said.

The sharp sound of metal hitting concrete reached my ears and my gaze landed on a small gray canister as it rolled across the floor, thrown from the chopper.

Oh, man.

I closed my eyes tightly as the stun grenade detonated, feeling the shock of the blast as it swept across the room. My ears were ringing when I opened my eyes.

More grenades sailed into the warehouse through the roof and a gray-green vapor poured from them. Within seconds the CIA agents were staggering around drunkenly, shouting into their radios for backup and coughing on the contaminated air.

Gunfire rang out from the roof and then five men in black fatigues rappelled down into the room. They wore gas masks and badges identifying them as Rogan's men.

I took a small breath as I stood and choked, head swimming. Most of the CIA agents had already crumpled to the floor, unmoving. Clint was out too.

One of the soldiers crouched over Natasha's crumpled body and moved to secure her hands. He'd barely touched her before she slammed her fist up under his jaw and ripped the mask off his face, staggering to her feet.

But she was already faltering from the knockout gas, being surrounded by Rogan's men. "Bucky!" she yelled.

I lunged towards her but another one of the soldiers got between us. "Longing," he began quickly in Russian. "Rusted. Seventeen."

"No." I gritted my teeth and tried to focus on Natasha, my memories, the other soldiers – anything other than the words. But it wasn't working. I could feel my sanity slipping away like water through my fingers...

It was too late.

"NO!"

I looked up at the sound of Natalia's anguished scream as she struggled weakly against her captors' hold. Why was she fighting our own men?

"Soldat?"

I turned my attention back to the soldier in front of me. "Ya gotov otvechat'."

He nodded. "Let's move out."