Author's note: I know it's been a wait for this update, but you'll be glad to hear I have now finished all but one chapter of this story! I've also made good progress on "The Third Life of Steve Rogers," for those of you follow that story.

Also, I've published three graphics to show the connections between my original characters who are making appearances in this story (Agent 45, Harrison Carter, Joe, et. al.), along with pictures to show how I imagined them to look. If you haven't connected the dots yet and want to remain unspoiled, you may not want to look at it. However, if you've been reading my other story or you've picked up on the hints and figured out who they are, it might be a nice visual for you.

Unfortunately, FanFiction doesn't want me to post links, which is a pain in the neck, so I'll have to get creative here. Hopefully this will get you to the place. Make sure there are no spaces or quote marks in the URL. Once you find it, you might want to bookmark it so you don't have to type it again.

"https" and colon and two backslashes and "sites" and ".google" and ".com" backslash "view" backslash "forceforgood"

The family tree website is also requiring that you request access to be able to see the images. Go ahead and send those requests and I'll approve them all, at least until I figure out if I can change that setting to grant approval automatically.

Chapter 32

Steven Capecci sat with the other deacons of St. Patrick's, doing his best not to fidget as the strains of "Panis Angelicus" floated from the organ loft.

Under ordinary circumstances he would have thrilled to the music, would have soaked in the storied beauty of the 19th-century building and the rapt faces of the congregants, would have focused on readying himself to assist with the Eucharist as he was assigned to do. But today, he could not resist slipping his phone out and sneaking a peak at his browser. Beside him, one of his fellow deacons stirred slightly and shot him a disapproving look, which Steven ignored. It was in poor taste to even bring his phone, he knew, but today was no ordinary day, and he had more than one important job to do.

But there was nothing of note on the news sites. Yet.

Steven smoothed his dalmatic and laid his phone face-up on his knee, then let his eyes roam through the congregation until he met eyes with his wife. Beatrisa was sitting near the front, in between their 3-year-old twins, a few strands of her curly hair pulled back and secured with bobby pins. On her left, little Nicolás was intent on playing with one of Beatrisa's bracelets, and on her right, little María was trying to turn around to kneel on the pew and look at the people behind her. Quickly Beatrisa reached out and turned her around again, and María grudgingly sat back down the proper way, although she shot her mother a scowl first, her little bottom lip poking out defiantly. Then she seemed to feel Steven's eyes on her and looked at him. He pressed his lips together sternly and shook his head at her slightly, and she looked a little chastened and clasped her hands together like they were always telling her to do. It wouldn't last long, Steven knew, but at her age, even an attempt at reverence was the best you could hope for.

Beatrisa had wisely corralled the twins by putting their older two children on either side of them. Ten-year-old Joaquim was sitting with his body turned almost completely sideways, toward the stained-glass window nearest him, staring up at the depiction of Peter's ordination. On the other end, 8-year-old Rita was wearing her favorite blue dress with her dark hair tied back in a neat braid, sitting up ramrod straight and looking every bit as nervous as Steven felt. Briefly he wondered if it was a good idea to involve her in today's activities. But now was no time for second-guessing. She had been excited to help in the small way that she could, and he had felt impressed to let her: he knew that despite their family's best efforts, both Rita and Joaquim felt the difference between the two of them and the twins, not to mention the rest of the children on Steven's side of the family. Both of them were too young to remember much about their biological father and they had accepted Steven readily enough after the wedding, but even so, they were aware that unlike their half-siblings and all their cousins, they hadn't been born to the Carter family.

Steven's phone buzzed on his knee, and he glanced down to see the news alert that had just popped up.

"MANHUNT FOR STEVE ROGERS: Downtown D.C. shut down; BWI, IAD, Reagan airports closed; S.H.I.E.L.D. offers reward for information."

Steven felt his heart throb in his chest; it was starting. His eyes flicked to the reserved seat at the end of a pew near the back, where Steve Rogers usually sat in case he had to take an emergency call mid-service. It was empty, of course. But his attendance here was known; Sharon Carter had included it in "Agent 13's" reports to Alexander Pierce. That was going to create problems for them... but it would also introduce an opportunity.

The hymn came to a close and the congregation looked up expectantly as Father Andreassen made his way to the lectern to give the first reading. Most people didn't seem aware yet of what was happening, although Steven could see the congressman on the right side of the chapel was looking at his phone in disbelief, and so was the DOJ official sitting several rows behind him. Being located only blocks from the White House and Capitol Hill meant they had more than a few VIPs in the congregation. There might even be a Hydra agent or two present today, not that someone caught up in that cult would come to a place like this for their own edification. But they had to put on a public show of respectability, Steven knew.

At least for a few more days.

Father Andreassen was reading from the Old Testament now, a passage that began with the king of Syria sending out his army in the hopes of destroying the prophet Elisha, who had just warned the king of Israel of the location of Syria's war-camp and thereby foiled an attack. Out of long habit, Steven listened with half an ear despite his distraction.

"And when the servant of the man of God was risen early, and gone forth," Father Andreassen recited in a gentle unhurried rhythm as the lights of the chapel gleamed off his silver hair, "behold, an host compassed the city both with horses and chariots. And his servant said unto him, Alas, my master! how shall we do?"

"And he answered..."

Father Andreassen trailed off.

There was a long pause, and then the congregation began to shift in their seats, wondering if Father Andreassen had lost his place. But the old priest wasn't looking down at his text. He was looking at the far end of the chapel, where the double doors were propped open to the lobby.

There were men in combat gear standing there, with guns in their hands.

Suddenly a murmur of alarm rippled through the congregation, as more and more people followed the priest's gaze and saw what he was seeing. Some people began to rise to their feet, the beginnings of panic written on their faces, but then one of the men in the lobby took a few steps into the chapel and called out in an authoritative voice that echoed through the spacious room:

"Father Andreassen?"

Father Andreassen stared back at him, mouth fallen open a little.

"Brock Rumlow, agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.," the man continued loudly, his voice roughened as if through overuse. "This way, sir. We need to speak with you."

The murmur of the congregation grew louder.

"Now," the man added, and Father Andreassen gripped the lectern uncertainly for a moment before gathering up his notes, hurrying down from the chancel, and handing the papers to Steven as he went past, his chasuble fluttering in the wind of his passage.

Immediately Steven got to his feet and strode down the aisle behind Father Andreassen, pausing only long enough to hand the notes off to his wife Beatrisa, who took them without hesitation and walked swiftly up to the lectern. Technically one of the other deacons should have taken over the service, but they were all standing motionless in utter shock, staring at the armed men in the lobby. Beatrisa, on the other hand, had prepared for this. Even Joaquim and Rita were following their instructions to the letter, each of them pulling a twin onto their lap to prevent them from following their mother up to the lectern.

"Brothers and sisters, let us resume the Word," Beatrisa said into the microphone, her Portuguese-accented voice ringing through the chapel and pulling everyone's attention back to the front. She cleared her throat confidently. "And Elisha answered, Fear not: for they that be with us are more than they that be with them. And Elisha-"

Father Andreassen and Steven emerged from the chapel into the lobby and closed the double doors behind them, shutting out the sound of Beatrisa's voice.

Brock Rumlow stood surveying them both, in a wide-legged stance with his hands on his hips. He hadn't drawn his gun — only the STRIKE team members armed with rifles had their weapons out — but the holster strapped to his thigh looked well-used. Steven had an odd moment when he realized that Rumlow used the exact same pistol he himself had favored since his days in the Marine Corps: a SIG-Sauer P226. It didn't mean anything, of course, but he felt a little unsettled by it anyway.

For so many years Steven had wondered how he would react if and when he came face to face with this man. Would he feel anger? Revert to the old fear that had driven him since childhood — a fear that was not entirely unjustified? Would he manage to muster up some of the compassion he had often prayed to be able to feel?

Instead, all he felt was a faint thread of sadness. They'd never laid eyes on each other before, he and Rumlow, and yet as boys they'd been terrorized by the same man. Steven had been blessed with a family and a church community that had eventually brought him to rights again. But Rumlow... no one had been there for him.

No one but Hydra.

Rumlow barely even glanced at Steven, choosing instead to focus his dark eyes on the old priest.

"Father Andreassen?" he asked.

"Yes, that's me," Father Andreassen said, looking at the men gathered around him with a bewildered expression. "What is all this?"

"Have you been in contact with Steve Rogers recently?" Rumlow asked curtly.

"Steve Rogers?" Father Andreassen repeated, looking even more puzzled. "Well... not for at least a week, I think. He comes to Mass, but I didn't see him in his usual seat today." He gestured vaguely toward the chapel doors just as someone slipped through them: Steven's daughter Rita, her arms more than full with her little brother Nicolás; he was almost too heavy for her to carry now.

She held her head high and pointed ignored the STRIKE men as she marched right through them to come and stand at Steven's side. Nicolás, of course, immediately held out his arms in a silent plea, and Steven took him from Rita's arms and settled him on one hip. His son promptly hid his face against his chest; he had never liked being around strangers.

"Has Rogers called you anytime in the last 24 hours?" Rumlow pressed. "Emailed you? Shown up at the parish house?"

Father Andreassen shook his head. "No."

"But he's been there to see you before." It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes, I invited him once or twice. I like to get to know my congregants on an individual basis." Father Andreassen shot Rumlow a strange look. "Why are you looking for him here? Doesn't he work for you?"

"Steve Rogers is a fugitive from S.H.I.E.L.D.," Rumlow said bluntly. "We've just put word out to the media. He's considered armed and dangerous, and he needs to be brought in."

"What?" Father Andreassen stared at him in disbelief. "Steve Rogers? But-"

"There must be some mistake," Steven put in quietly, shifting Nicolás more comfortably in his arms. "Steve Rogers is a national hero."

"Whatever he was before, he's a traitor to his country now," Rumlow said, barely sparing a glance at him. "And anyone who's caught shielding him will find themselves in a world of hurt. So I'm going to ask you again, Father. Has he contacted you?"

"No," Father Andreassen said again, looking deeply shaken. "A traitor? I can't believe it. I- I was his confessor. I never would have thought..."

"Every man has his price," Rumlow said, matter-of-fact, and then his voice grew suddenly sharp and he snapped out: "What?"

Steven followed his hard gaze down and realized that Rita was tugging imperiously at the sleeve of Rumlow's jacket, open hostility in her brown eyes.

"You interrupted the Mass," she said in her high voice, her face a darkening thundercloud.

"It's a cracker, kid." Rumlow shook her hand from his sleeve and faced Father Andreassen again. "If he tries to contact you, Father, call us right away. We'll take care of it."

"I understand," Father Andreassen said faintly. "Yes, of course."

Just then the radio on Rumlow's belt crackled to life, and a man's voice said urgently:

"Sir? Sitwell's team just spotted him in the CCTV footage. He's at New Hampshire and 24th, headed northeast. Only minutes ago."

The STRIKE men grew suddenly alert, gripping their weapons more tightly, but Rumlow held up one hand to signal silence as the voice on the radio continued: "Be advised he's in civilian clothing. Must have ditched the uniform."

"The hospital," Rumlow said in his rough voice, a sudden understanding dawning in his eyes. "Where they took Fury. He's going back."

"Why would-" the man on the radio began to ask, but Rumlow interrupted him.

"On my way," he said curtly, and without a second look at Father Andreassen or Steven, he and his men hurried outside and piled into the black vehicles waiting at the curb. Moments later, they were out of sight.

In the sudden quiet of the foyer, Steven pulled out his cell phone, opened an app and looked at the map for a long moment.

"Brock Rumlow just turned onto Constitution Avenue, traveling west," he said with satisfaction. He put a hand on top of Rita's head, smoothing her flyaway hair, and smiled at her when she tipped her head back to look at him. "Nice work, honey."

"I dropped the first one," she confessed, and she crouched on the floor to pull a tiny metallic device out of the fibers of the carpet and handed it to him with a sheepish expression.

"Yeah, well, that's why we brought extras." Steven took the tracker and deactivated it before pocketing it. "Now run into Father Andreassen's office and get my blue duffel bag out from under his desk, please."

Rita ran to obey, and Steven and Father Andreassen exchanged a long look.

"How did I do?" Father Andreassen asked with visible uncertainty, and Steven took a moment to appreciate the strangeness of his old spiritual mentor asking for his approval, rather than the other way around.

"You almost had me convinced, Father," he said coolly.

The priest nodded, looking pale but relieved, and then he began to remove his vestments, taking care with them despite his haste, and handed them to Steve. A few moments later, Rita came running back with the duffel bag, and Steven took it from her and handed her the vestments, which she carried carefully back into the office.

"The streets are closed like we thought, but it doesn't matter," Steven said. He handed Father Andreassen the duffel bag. "Shuri's by your car with her sling ring ready, and Saul's in place at the hospital parking garage. We'll get you there before Rumlow. Call me if anything goes wrong."

Father Andreassen nodded crisply — they had rehearsed the plan many times and he knew it like the back of his hand — and he strode out the side door with the duffel bag, now dressed in his black suit and clerical collar.

Steven waited for Rita to come back and then they headed back into the chapel together. His next task was to help the other deacons get the congregation settled down after all the disruption, but even as he strode down the aisle with Nicolás in his arms, his lips were already forming the familiar prayer without sound: "Saint Michael the Archangel, glorious prince..."

Father Andreassen — and Grandpa and Natasha — were about to need all the help they could get.

Steve Rogers locked eyes with Natasha Romanoff, willing himself to make the right call. Was she lying again, or was she telling the truth?

It should have been easy to tell. It used to be easy for him. Maybe it still was. His every instinct was telling him to believe Nat. About Fury's orders regarding the Lemurian Star, about the memory stick in her hand, about this mysterious Winter Soldier who had supposedly been assassinating people and stirring up trouble for the last 50 years. Never mind how impossible the story sounded; somehow it had the ring of truth to it. And it fit with the strange man he had glimpsed outside his apartment last night, and how easily he had avoided Steve's pursuit.

But his confidence in his own judgment had been badly shaken. If someone had told him three days ago that S.H.I.E.L.D. itself would turn on him as dramatically as it had this morning, he would have been concerned about their mental state. It didn't help that Nat was a good liar; no one knew that better than Steve. And she knew him all too well. His every weakness. If anyone was capable of lying to him and getting away with it, it was Nat.

Nick Fury's last words had been not to trust anyone. Somehow Steve doubted Fury had meant for him to exclude Nat from those instructions. Fury may have trusted her enough to send her after the S.H.I.E.L.D. intel on the Lemurian Star — but not enough to tell her what that intel was, or to come to her for help once Fury had come under attack. Clearly his trust in her had limits.

Maybe Fury's paranoia was justified after all, Steve thought. Maybe, now that he was gone, it was best to act as he would. Compartmentalize. Go it alone.

He could do it. He could take the memory stick from Nat right now. She wouldn't be able to stop him, and she wouldn't be able to keep up with him, either. He could find out on his own what was on it, what information was so critical that Fury had been willing to send mercenaries to attack his own ship to get it. Once he had accessed the information, his next course of action would become clearer.

But Peggy's words kept floating through his mind. She had warned him yesterday not to try doing anything alone. She had urged him to find someone he could trust. And she'd said it with a strength and a certainty that had belied her physical and mental decline. There must have been a reason.

Was Nat the right one to trust?

At the end of the day, there was one thing Steve was certain of: Nat's grief over Fury's death. That hadn't been feigned. And if she cared that deeply for Fury, then she wouldn't be playing games over tracking down the man who was responsible for his death. She wanted justice. And so did Steve.

The memory stick was the key. They had to find out what was on it. Only then would they know for sure why Nick Fury was so intent on getting it. And maybe it would offer some clue as to who the masked assassin was, or at least who had hired him.

"Going after him's a dead end. I know, I've tried," Nat told Steve. She offered the memory stick to him. "Like you said: he's a ghost story."

After a little thought, Steve relented, allowing the last of his anger to fade. "Well, let's find out what the ghost wants," he said, taking the memory stick from her.

Just then they heard footsteps enter the hospital room they had ducked into, and abruptly Nat grabbed his face with both hands and pulled him closer as if to kiss him. Instinctively Steve turned his face away, both from the doorway and from Nat herself, and her lips ended up landing on his ear instead. Simultaneously embarrassed by Nat's move and worried that Rumlow's team had just caught up to them, Steve froze in place, Nat's hair tickling his cheek as he fixed his gaze blindly out the window and prayed it was just a janitor coming in to clean or something.

"Excuse us, Father, but I think under the circumstances, three's a crowd," Nat said archly to the unknown person who had entered the room, not relinquishing her grip on Steve's face.

"Actually, I think you might be glad I came," a man's voice replied, and Steve was so startled by his recognition of the voice that he turned to stare.

"Father Andreassen?" he asked in disbelief.

It was. His priest from St. Patrick's was standing there in the doorway, wearing an ecclesiastical collar and looking at them both in bemusement.

Nat was visibly taken aback, and then her eyes flicked between Steve and the silver-haired priest, looking wary. "Steve?" she murmured.

"Your face is all over the news, Captain," Father Andreassen said mildly. "I assume there's been some kind of... misunderstanding between you and your employer."

"That's an interesting way to put it," Steve said. He could feel the tension in Nat's body, still pressed up against his, and he was acutely aware of the hard bulge under her jacket that was her Glock. He was as tense as she was, even as another part of his brain was shouting him that this was his priest and confessor, for heaven's sake, he wasn't part of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s corruption, even they wouldn't have corrupted a priest, he was sure...

Except he wasn't sure at all. The whole world was upside down, and he just didn't know anymore.

"Steve?" Nat said quietly and deliberately into the silence. "Why is your priest in this hospital?"

"I come here a lot, actually," Father Andreassen answered before he could. A gurney rattled out in the hallway, and he turned to carefully close the door behind him, blocking out the noise, before turning to face them both again. "Blessing people, you know."

"There aren't any patients in this room," Nat pointed out, her voice low as she gently pushed away from Steve and turned to face Father Andreassen, feet shoulder width apart and hands held down loosely at her sides.

"No?" Father Andreassen asked, raising an eyebrow. "I see two people who look like they could use some help, actually. Maybe you were too busy, ah, canoodling to notice-" He shot Steve what may have been a hint of a teasing smile. "-but a bunch of guys in S.H.I.E.L.D. uniforms just showed up here and stationed themselves at all the public entrances." His face sobered. "They're watching everyone coming in and out. You'll have trouble leaving without being seen."

It wasn't exactly good news, but he couldn't have said anything better. If STRIKE were here, they'd hardly send an old priest in to root them out. After what happened in the elevator, Rumlow wouldn't have the patience for anything less than "shock and awe" tactics this time around. Steve knew him well enough to be sure of that.

Nat cocked her head at Steve.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're great at fighting but lousy at sneaking?" she asked with quirked eyebrow.

"How do you know they didn't follow you here?" he shot back.

"It's not my face on the news."

"Well, you might not be on the news, but the men at the doors are showing everyone your picture," Father Andreassen broke in.

Nat sighed. "Guess Pierce noticed I didn't report in." In response to Steve's questioning look, she added: "I'm supposed to be hunting you down right now, by the way."

"You got me."

Nat shrugged one shoulder casually. "When I'm good, I'm good."

"So how are you gonna get us out of here?"

Nat scoffed at him. "How are you going to get us out of here?"

"I may be able to help," Father Andreassen put in. "There's an elevator at the end of the hall for the use of staff and volunteers only." He unclipped his volunteer badge and handed it to Steve. "You can access it with this. It takes you down to the underground parking. There's a white 2012 Honda Accord parked on the first level by the elevators, license plate 316 JHN. It belongs to the parish." He pulled a set of keys out of his pocket and handed them to Steve as well. "Use the east exit. There's a card on the dashboard you can scan at the booth to lift the gate."

There was a short pause.

"As help goes, that's not bad," Nat said.

"Thank you," Father Andreassen said coolly. "Oh, and there's a duffel bag in the trunk. My deacon has to change out of his street clothes to help with Mass. You're welcome to use the clothes in there. Might make it harder for S.H.I.E.L.D. to spot you."

"That's great," Steve said, feeling an intense relief. "Thank you, Father."

But Nat turned to face the priest fully, eyes narrowed. "How did you happen to find us in here, anyway?"

Father Andreassen lifted his eyes up to the ceiling and smiled beatifically.

Nat shot Steve a look of pure disbelief. "Is he for real?" she asked.

"Nat, we don't have time for this," Steve said impatiently. "And don't question miracles, it ruins 'em. Let's get out of here."

Nat let her breath out in a huff, but after a beat she began to give them both glib instructions, and soon the three of them went out into the hospital's corridor. Father Andreassen had his arm around Nat, who kept her head down and several wadded tissues pressed against her eyes, quietly weeping as though she'd just been given bad news by a doctor. Steve followed behind them, slouching as instructed to hide his physique, chin ducked down as if he, too, was distraught.

They managed to make it to the elevator without incident, and Father Andreassen gave them both a quiet "Bless you both" before the doors closed on him and Steve and Nat were on their way down to the parking garage.

They found the parish car exactly where the priest had said, and Steve grabbed the duffel bag out of the trunk and brought it into the car to change clothes.

"I'm thinking the mall," Nat said conversationally as she swung into the driver's seat, glancing over at the stack of neatly folded clothing Steve had just pulled out of the bag: blue jeans, a casual jacket, a baseball cap, hipster glasses. "We'll blend in with the crowd there, and I know where we can access the memory drive. Plus we'll have a chance to change wheels. We better not keep your priest's car for long, he's a known associate and STRIKE might think to look for him."

She paused when another item of clothing fell out of the bag as Steve rooted through it a little more, and she reached over and grabbed it.

"Why does Father Andreassen's deacon have women's clothing in his duffel bag?" Nat asked, holding a women's hoodie in an accusatory kind of way.

"Deacons aren't priests," Steve said distractedly, pulling off the ill-fitting hoodie he'd stolen from the gym where he'd ditched his Captain America uniform, and grabbing a men's graphic tee out of the bag instead; by some miracle, it was actually his size. "They're allowed to be married."

Nat shrugged off her black leather jacket and put the hoodie on, raising the striped hood to hide her distinctive red hair.

"You have your head full of the most incredibly useless information, Steve," she said.

TO BE CONTINUED

Author's note: I'd love to hear your feedback! Let me know what you think.