Chapter 4: Texas

Two months passed, and Sam still had no idea where Bucky was, but he was pretty sure he was alive. That was progress. First, the news story about a one-armed man intervening in a convenience store robbery—leading to the arrest of a man suspected in a string of ten robberies and the death of one clerk—caught his attention.

Then there was the human trafficking ring busted up in Florida. The victims reported being saved by a one-armed man with dark hair, his face obscured by wide streaks of black makeup.

Their savior was at least six feet tall with smokey blue eyes. That was all witnesses could offer, other than the mystery man, quite literally, single-handedly took out six armed men, then broke their chains with his fingers.

As he sat at the kitchen table in his D.C apartment, scrolling through the latest story on his phone about a one-armed man in Texas who saved a caravan of immigrants from heat exhaustion inside the back of a van, Sam was glad he'd set up a keyword news alert after the first story caught his attention.

Now, whenever a one-armed man was mentioned in a news story anywhere in the country, he got an alert. Bucky was making his way west across the country. Sam debated going to California. That had to be next on Bucky's list, but California was a huge state. Sam could randomly pick any large city in California and still be hundreds of miles away from Bucky…and far behind. By the time he got a heads up of another one-armed man saving lives, Bucky could be in Oregon, Washington, or even Canada.

Sam pondered going to Texas to interview witnesses. Maybe if he flashed his Captain America smile, people would be inclined to talk? He might get a lead about where Bucky was heading next…if the mysterious one-armed man actually was Bucky. It's not like Mr. Cyborg was the only amputee in the world, but he had to be the only amputee who could break chains with his fingers.

Why haven't you reached out to me, Bucky? Sam asked silently. He tried to imagine what his friend must be going through, traveling on his own with limited funds, using his skills, Hydra training, and super strength to take on dangerous criminals.

Outnumbered and with only one arm, Bucky was still a force to be reckoned with. Sam worried that if Bucky spent too much time in the dark hole of vigilantism, he'd slip further and further into the robotic, soldier mentality that had enveloped him for over seventy years.

But what the hell was his end game? Why was he making his way across the country, taking out random bad guys and saving lives, all with one arm? If he wanted to be a vigilante like that Devil of Hell's kitchen, why not keep the arm? Super soldier or not, fighting bad guys with one arm–without the vibranium one that could deflect bullets–put Bucky at a significant disadvantage.

Then again, thinking back to the vision of death on the freeway in 2014—that guy would have been lethal even with one arm. Was Bucky slipping back into his old fighting skin? The one where he didn't have to pull back to avoid killing people? Didn't care about getting hurt?

God, Sam hoped not, but the arm and the letter had him worried that Bucky was on a suicide mission, taking out as many bad guys as he could until someone took him out but not wanting the arm to fall into the hands of whatever bad guy happened to finish him off. Even if the bad guy didn't know the arm was detachable, there were messy ways to remove it.

His phone rang, and Shuri's name popped on the screen. Quickly, Sam answered. "Good morning, or I guess good evening on your end. Please tell me you have good news."

"I take it that you have had equally poor results in locating Sergeant Barnes?" Shuri asked.

"Just following the news stories, assuming the mysterious one-armed man with superhuman strength is our guy, of course."

"I regret we have been unable to offer greater assistance."

"No, it's okay. I understand. You all have your hands full with post-blip life just like everyone else."

"Indeed. However, while we have the arm, I have made modifications and minor repairs. It appears the arm suffered an electrical overload at some point. If you do locate our friend, the arm awaits him. It remains his to reclaim."

"Thank you, Shuri."

He had to find Bucky before the only thing left to find was something to bury, and he'd buried too many friends already. He hung up with Shuri and checked out the quickest flights to Texas.

-0- -0- -0-

"Shit!" Bucky sailed over the wood fence as the woman fired the shotgun at him, standing on her back steps in a blue robe and pink slippers.

He felt the sting on his right hip and landed in a crouch, out of her line of vision, then made a beeline for the woods behind her property. He adjusted the strap of the crossbody that threatened to slip off his shoulder and pushed the sunglasses up under the brim of the cap.

People in Texas had guns. A lot of people. He'd have to remember that but he didn't plan on staying much longer. Texas held nothing but bad memories—one very, very bad memory, in particular.

Taking out the smugglers was one thing. A few make-shift projectiles traveling at 50 to 60 miles an hour generally did the trick, and it was usually nonlethal. Usually. Though, he was pretty sure the guy with the tattoo on his forehead wouldn't be walking out of a hospital anytime soon.

But taking out a soccer mom defending her backyard that just happened to be the easiest and fastest route to his vehicle was off the table. He was still James Buchanan Barnes, not the Winter Soldier. He refused to let the darkness Hydra had scorched into his soul take over.

Never again.

He made his way to the SUV. He'd need a place to crash and tend to his wounds, which meant a cheap motel. He checked the map on his burner phone and picked one a good fifteen miles away.

When he arrived, the place looked barely operational, but the clerk behind the dirt-caked desk took his money and handed him a worn keycard. Bucky parked in front of his room, grabbed his packs, and headed inside. The room was small, with a full-sized bed covered by a questionable bedspread, but Bucky had slept in worse places. He just hoped he didn't leave with hitchhikers.

With a grunt, he tossed his backpack and crossbody onto the one chair in the room, took off his cap and sunglasses, then fished the first aid kit out of the pack, peeled out of his shirt and bullet-proof vest, and inspected the spattering of shotgun wounds on his right hip.

The damage wasn't as bad as it could have been. Most looked like surface wounds. Still, it would take a while to remove all the shrapnel. At least it was where he could reach, even if the angle was awkward. He grabbed a few sheets of toilet paper from the bathroom and spread them on top of the dresser, then stood in front of the mirror, a pair of long tweezers in hand, and set to work.

Some of the pieces came out effortlessly, with little pain. Others, he had to dig for, gritting his teeth on a few of the deeper ones. One by one, he set each bloody piece on top of the toilet paper until every tiny wound in his side had been excavated. Finally, he hopped into the shower to clean up.

He was halfway through washing the shampoo out of his hair when he heard a woman scream, and a thud shook the wall.

Shit. It sounded like a domestic disturbance. Disturbances brought cops.

The hard squish of flesh hitting flesh, a woman's cry, and another thud had him out of the shower, a few suds left in his hair as he toweled off and used his one arm to hurriedly shimmy his damp body into uncooperative jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt.

He grabbed his hat and sunglasses and left the hotel room, eyeing the old blue Chevy parked next to his SUV, directly in front of the neighboring room. He gave three hard knocks on the door.

"Fuck off, whoever you are!" a man's deep voice bellowed.

"Hey, man, is this your Chevy out here? It's about to get towed."

The door flung open, and a bare-chested older man with red-rimmed eyes looked at the Chevy, then at Bucky, and snarled. "Who the fuck are you?"

Bucky smiled and peered into the room. A woman was on the floor at the foot of the bed, blood on the right side of her face, sobbing. "Excuse me, Ma'am, is this guy bothering you?"

She shook her head and muttered, "It's fine. Just an accident."

Bucky kept his easy posture and looked back at the man's smirking face. The guy's brown eyes held the challenge of an inebriated idiot.

Holding his fake smile, the one he used to practice in the mirror when he was following Dr. Raynor's Rule Number Three, Bucky said. "Well, he's bothering me."

The man pushed at him, stumbling back from the effort, and closed the door, but Bucky stopped it with his foot, then gave a solid kick.

The door slammed into the man's face. He screamed and fell backward, blood erupting from his nose. As he hit the floor, his hands flew up to cover his nose.

"You broke my nose, you asshole."

"Sorry, it was an accident." Bucky looked at the woman. "Ma'am, if you want to get the keys to the car and get out of here, I'll make sure he doesn't hurt you."

She looked at Bucky, then at the man on the floor—whoever he was to her—and hesitated.

Come on, he pleaded silently.

Finally, she nodded, grabbed a purse and car keys, and hurried past him. "Thank you."

Bucky waited until she drove away, then turned to the man on the floor. A few lookie-loos from other rooms had peeked their heads out for a moment, but in true skid-row fashion, no one intervened.

"You want me to call an ambulance for you, pal?" He asked.

"Fuck you," the man wheezed.

"Have a nice day." Bucky closed the door, grabbed the packs and supplies from his room and drove away. He'd find a secluded place far enough from the scene and sleep in the passenger seat.

It didn't take long to pick a spot. He slept fitfully on the side of a quiet road in an industrial park and, when morning came, he grabbed a few energy bars from his glove compartment, scarfed them down, hit a drive-thru for coffee, and made his way to Dallas.

Dallas was a city he never thought he'd step foot in again, but now that he was in Texas, so close, he wanted to see it. He wasn't sure why. It sure as hell didn't make any sense.

He parked and walked the short distance to the tall brown building, pausing a moment to look around at the grounds, the street, then up at the sixth floor.

The trees were bigger, and the cars on the street were different, of course. Still, it looked eerily familiar, almost the same as it had on November 22, 1963.

The spectators waving at the caravan. The excitement in the air. The woman in the front of the crowd with the red dress and the scarf tied over her head.

The first lady in her pink outfit and pink hat. The suit dress would end up stained with blood. The hat would fall off, lost in the chaos and panic.

That day, Bucky deprived a son of his father, a woman of her husband, and a nation of its leader. He'd changed the course of history, shaped the century. The museum on the sixth floor of the building would talk about conspiracy theories, Lee Harvey Oswald, a second shooter, and sound recordings, but it wouldn't tell the real truth—that he, the Winter Soldier, killed John F. Kennedy.

It was a truth he dared not tell, not even to Steve, but like all terrible secrets, it was a weight on his soul. There were so many weights. At times, the collective burden was too heavy, and he could barely breathe. Some days, it took everything he had just to force himself out of bed.

He sometimes wished he never remembered any of it—not who he was, or where he came from—and that someday he'd wake up, and it would all be gone, that he didn't remember the family he'd lost, the best friend he'd never see again, the man he used to be, or the terrible things he was forced to do. The faces of his victims would be washed away. He'd start over, knowing nothing other than the world around him, the time he found himself in, slowly learning to navigate life, blissfully ignorant of the century-long nightmare he'd lived.

-0- -0- -0-

"Yep, he was here." Delores kept her arms crossed, cigarette held between two fingers, her eyes narrow as she stared at him. "Are you really Captain America?"

Sam flashed his best smile and nodded. "Yes, ma'am. So, anything else you remember that didn't make the police report?"

She shrugged, taking a puff of her cigarette. "Nope. I hear a ruckus, gunshots, I figure it's someone taking potshots in the woods or under the bypass. Just in case, I head on out with my shotgun, and sure enough, your guy comes sailing over the fence. Moved like a ninja. One arm. Pack across his shoulders, hat and sunglasses. I didn't see his face, but I'm sure he only had one arm, and I think I hit him."

Sam tried to keep a poker face as he processed that bit of information. How badly had Bucky been injured?

"He had a glove on his right hand," the woman continued. "A black jacket. Cap, but I can't remember the color, and I can't tell you his age or race, just that he had to be young moving the way he did. Tall guy. Not sure how tall, but taller than the fence by at least a few inches."

"Thank you, you've been very helpful." Sam forced a smile. "You say you hit him?"

She nodded. "Pretty sure."

"Any idea how badly he was injured?"

"Couldn't have been too badly. Didn't see any blood on the fence, and it sure as hell didn't slow him down. He was gone before I looked over the fence."

"Which way did he go?"

She pointed toward the woods. "That way."

"Thanks again, Ma'am."

Sam left Delores and trekked through the woods. Five minutes later, he came to a one-lane road, but of course there was no sign of Bucky. He wasn't sure what he expected to find—but he pulled up his sleeve and called Red Wing. A moment later, the drone buzzed overhead.

Maybe Red Wing could find something—traces of blood, footprints, or if Bucky were being particularly sloppy and helpful, a detailed road trip itinerary that showed his next stop.

Sam had spent two years hunting Bucky before Bucharest, and he sure as hell hoped things didn't pan out the way they had last time. He didn't have another two years of his life to spend searching for an asshole super soldier with a trauma-induced guilt-complex and antisocial tendencies.

-0- -0- -0-

Bucky was tired of being behind the wheel. He managed a couple of hours of sleep at a rest stop last night. Now, he found himself in one of the most scenic areas of his travels – the rolling hills and neat vineyards between Sonoma and Napa. It was nine a.m. and a whisper of fog nestled in the valley.

At least the backroads were fairly empty. Tuesday seemed to be the lightest traffic day of the week, but he always pulled over during rush hour to catch some rest, grab a bite to eat, or empty his bladder.

Wine tasting was a thing these days, apparently. It wasn't a thing in his time. Prohibition put a crimp in a lot of things, but even outside of those years, people didn't go to a place just to sip a few different wines and coo about whether it was oaky or fruity.

People drank to have fun, add social lubrication to dates, or forget their worries for a few hours.

As he drove past another vineyard with countless rows of grapevines dwarfed by green hills, he marveled at how much land was dedicated to growing a single product.

Grapes.

He spotted a small red and white diner ahead and pulled into the parking lot, picking a spot near the front window so he could keep an eye on the SUV. He grabbed his backpack, took a moment to stretch his legs, then headed into the restaurant. His crossbody, with dangerous things that shouldn't fall into the wrong hands, was in the back, hidden by a cargo cover. The backpack held the bulk of the important things – ammunition, cash, ID, his best knives, and of course, the firearms.

He worried about getting caught with the weapons, so he always drove the speed limit, used his turn signals, and kept a low profile.

He slung the backpack over his right shoulder. The chest strap was a pain in the ass to secure one-armed, so he avoided that aggravation whenever possible.

A woman behind a counter smiled at him, a large cash register in front of her. "Take a seat wherever you like, Sir."

He nodded and slid into a booth near the window where he had a clear view of the vehicle, then set his pack on the seat next to him. A digital screen on the table near the wall cycled through the menu options, and he decided on the cheap plate of eggs and sausage.

The woman behind the counter came up with a smile and took his order. As he waited for his food, he scrolled through his phone, catching up on the news. He'd created a Gmail account to keep tabs on keywords and phrases—Sam Wilson, Captain America, Avengers, Winter Soldier, James Barnes, and the names of the plaintiffs in the lawsuit.

He was pleasantly surprised to see an article about Captain America intercepting a transfer of black-market alien weapons from a Romanian dealer. This was only the second news story he'd found about Sam since leaving New York and, frankly, that had worried him. Relief brought a smile to his lips. It was good to see the Shield being used for good by a man worthy of carrying it.

Next, he logged into his bank account. The checks he'd left for his victims were still uncashed. He knew these things could take time—finalizing settlement agreements, distributing funds, but it had been almost three months.

What was the holdup?

He dialed the law firm, blocking his burner number.

"Murdock and Nelson, how can I help you?" a woman answered.

I'd like to speak to one of the lawyers. I'm a client."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No, Ma'am. Are they available?"

"Who's calling?"

He looked around and lowered his voice. "James Barnes."

"One moment."

A few seconds later, a friendly voice greeted him. "Sergeant Barnes?"

"Nelson, right?"

"Yeah, hey, it's really good to hear from you, and nice to know you're alive. We have no way to contact you."

"Why haven't the checks been cashed?" he asked, letting his impatience permeate his tone.

"Yeah, about that, see we're still working out the details with opposing counsels, and we've had a couple of questions for you, then one of the plaintiff's attorneys went on a vacation, so things are taking a little longer than anticipated. If you have some time, I'd like to set up a phone appointment so that three of us – my partner and I – can talk to you about the details. What's your schedule like next week? Or maybe the week after that?"

A week or two? Bucky got the impression the man was trying to buy time.

"Cut the crap. What's going on?"

There were only a couple of plaintiffs lawyers involved. The other recipients weren't part of the lawsuit, so there should be no one to negotiate with. All the lawyers had to do was see that the checks were delivered.

"Nothing. We've got your checks here."

"If they aren't cashed soon, the bank won't honor them. I'll have to write new ones." Or buy cashier's checks, but he resisted that option. It was more difficult to keep tabs on when a cashier's check was cashed without calling into the bank and going through customer service hell. At least with his bank account, he could keep an eye on the funds and know exactly when the checks were distributed.

"Where are you?" Nelson asked "You know your friend—Captain America—he's worried about you. Have you contacted him?"

So, that's what this was about. Sam had stuck his nose into the mix, probably convinced the lawyers to stall for time.

"No, and don't tell him I called." Attorney-client privilege was good for something.

"He's been looking for you. I know we don't know one another very well, but he seems like a good friend, and he's been worried you're dead. At least let him know you're alive, or let me tell him you're alive."

A pang of guilt twisted in Bucky's chest. He knew Sam would worry about him for a little while, but it had been three months. Is that why there had been so few Captain America news stories? Sam was in missing-persons search mode? Bucky figured Sam would've moved on by now, buried himself in his Captain America duties, and spent time with Sarah and his nephews on the boat.

Hell, Bucky figured Sam would be relieved. While their friendship had just started to get off the ground, it was still very new…and mostly the result of their mutual attachment to Steve.

Loyalty to Steve was the reason Sam violated the Accords in Bucharest and Berlin. Loyalty to Steve is also why Sam hung around during Bucky's arrest and pardon after the battle with Thanos. Loyalty was both Sam's strength and weakness.

In Bucky's case, loyalty was a burden Sam needed to shed. A clean break was easiest all around, for both of them.

"If he's still looking for me, you can tell him I'm alive, and I'm okay. I'm a big boy and he kept his promise to Steve, so his job is done. It's time for him to back off and focus on being Captain America. Got that?"

A sigh, then. "Yeah, I'll tell him. Now, how about that phone call?"

"No. Just get those checks distributed. Don't make me call again, or I'll cancel the checks and find new lawyers." He hung up just as his breakfast arrived.

He should have mailed the checks himself before he left and bypassed the lawyers. Devouring his meal, he paid the check, used the restroom to relieve his bladder, and did a very quick wash up with the body wipes from his pack. Then, he headed back on the road.

He eyed his gas tank. It was at the halfway mark, which would easily get him to the state capital where a former Hydra lackey was now serving in the state senate and backseat driving a money laundering and weapons operation. The senator hadn't been on Bucky's amends list because the Winter Soldier didn't help put him in power, but Hydra had, and that was enough. Time for the man to go.

Once Bucky reached Sacramento, he'd figure out a place to sleep – either a secluded industrial area where he could park overnight or an empty building. Sometimes he lucked out and found one with running water. A laundromat was also on his list, but a motel was not.

Sleeping in the car was murder on his joints, but he had to make the funds he kept for himself last as long as possible. He saved the motel stays for when he really needed them.