Chapter 5: Sacramento

Sam rubbed at his lower back, finding the spot just above his tail bone that was screaming mad. So mad, it might put him out of commission for a couple of days and give him time to do more digging into where Bucky headed after Texas.

Maybe a nice hot soak would work out the angry knot? Or a massage. Or both. Being Captain America was hell on his body, and he wasn't as young as he used to be.

Thank heaven for the vibranium-laced suit. It wasn't as hardcore as T'Challa's, but it provided him with extra protection. Without it, he'd have broken something when he hit the car.

Those Chitauri weapons pack a punch.

He started the bathtub and stripped out of his clothes. He sure could use the big tub in the Delacroix house, but he was stuck with the standard tub in his DC apartment.

His phone rang, and he fished it out of the pile of clothes on the floor. When he saw the Nelson & Murdock caller ID, his heart picked up a few beats.

"Hey, do you have news?"

"Yeah," Nelson answered him. "Barnes is alive."

Sam breathed a relieved sigh, dropping to his butt against the rim of the bathtub.

Thank God.

It was nice to have confirmation that Bucky was still breathing and the freakishly strong one-armed guy in the news was almost certainly him, and therefore Bucky was okay, and not a corpse waiting to be discovered.

"He checked in to grouse about the checks," Nelson continued. "Look, man, we can't delay much longer. He's threatened to cancel the checks and hire new lawyers, and I probably shouldn't tell you that, attorney-client confidentiality and all."

"Mum's the word," Sam promised.

"I appreciate that, because I really don't want the Winter Soldier pissed at me. He did give me permission to tell you he's okay, and he said specifically to tell you that he's a big boy and you should back off and focus on being Captain America. Oh, and that you kept your promise to Steve, and your job is done. I think that's about it."

"If you don't want him pissed at you, don't let him hear you call him the Winter Soldier," Sam said. "He hasn't been that for a while."

"Got it. My bad."

"So, was this a phone call?" God, he hoped that meant they had a way to contact Bucky. "Did you get a number?"

"Nope, blocked, and he hung up before I could ask."

"How did he sound?"

"Grumpy."

Sam smiled. Grumpy meant Bucky was relatively okay. His usual curmudgeonly self. And he wasn't seriously injured by Delores' shotgun.

His smile faded as he considered how close a call the Texas incident had been. If he found Bucky—alive, dear God, he hoped—he was going to give him a vibranium-winged kick in the ass for taking off without so much as an in-person good-bye or leaving a cell phone number.

-0- -0- -0-

Bucky drove past the state Capitol, with its white columns and wide, concrete steps, green lawns, and massive trees. Senator Lewsom wasn't likely in the building of course. He could be anywhere—his district office, an event, or schmoozing over a fancy lunch with someone who could help line his pockets.

Still, Bucky wanted to get the lay of the land. The deal was supposed to go down tomorrow at 3 a.m. in a little area called Del Paso Heights. Bucky circled the Capitol a few times, then drove down the surrounding streets, checking out the restaurants and weekday vibe.

There were men and women in suits walking with hurried paces down the sidewalks. As he steered around a corner, a cluster of tents—a homeless encampment—sat on a section of sidewalk blocks from gleaming high-rises.

He punched the Del Paso Heights address in his phone's navigator and hopped on the freeway. Fifteen minutes later, he was in an area that screamed of poverty and failed gentrification, peppered by fireworks stands in preparation for the upcoming holiday.

Independence Day.

Steve's birthday. Three days away. The sharp twist in his chest was surprising in its intensity. How long would it take until he could think of Steve without feeling like a part of his insides were carved out?

He forced the emotions to the background and focused on the task at hand. Steve was gone. He wasn't coming back. And, shit, that was a hard pill to swallow, but the bad guys were still around, and Bucky had a mission.

The neighborhood was a good area for a shady deal. Residents weren't overly nosey, and police always took a little longer to respond to calls. He found the location of the exchange—an abandoned building with boarded-up windows that sat a block away from an older residential street.

Parking the car inconspicuously, he walked the area, surveying the building from all sides, keeping a casual pace. There were no visible security cameras on the old building, not that he expected them, and the place didn't seem to have electricity. The flat industrial roof provided an ideal vantage point. Signs were posted on the doors and a few boarded-up windows warning that the building was unsafe.

He roamed the rest of the neighborhood, looking for any structures close enough with security cameras that could catch a view, but the houses in this part of town were low income. Only a few had visible cameras, and none of them were close enough or at the right angle to view the old building. The jammer in his pack would take care of any hidden cameras within 100 feet.

The lack of surveillance was no doubt one reason the shady entrepreneurs chose this location. It was an advantage for both him and the bad guys. His stomach gave a grumble. He decided to find something to eat and a place to park his car where he could sleep undisturbed for the night.

Hours later, after eating at the Crab Shack by the river and filling the SUV's gas tank, he found the perfect spot—a quiet street at the edge of a park occupied by old RVs and tents where unhoused persons congregated. He situated the car half a block away, far enough to stay off the radar of most of the park residents, but his proximity to the camp pretty much guaranteed no one would notice one extra guy sleeping in a vehicle. No residents would call him in as a "suspicious" person, and the cops obviously left the area alone.

He pulled out his cell phone and checked his bank account. The $15,000 designated for Yori had been deducted from his account. It wasn't anywhere near enough to compensate for the loss of a son, but there was no sum that would.

At least it would give Yori a cushion at this time of his life, let him eat all the sushi he wanted, maybe argue less over trashcan space, and just generally make life easier. Yori never needed to know where the money came from. Bucky was clear on those instructions.

If Yori had known who sent the money, he wouldn't have taken it. With Bucky's name attached, it would have felt too much like a guilt-payoff, money meant to wipe RJ's blood from Bucky's hands.

Nothing could ever get rid of those stains—not a pardon and not all the technology at Shuri's disposal.

The rest of the money was still in his account. He'd give the lawyers two more weeks. After that, the checks would be stale, and he'd have words with Nelson and Murdock.

He grabbed the tablet from his pack on the passenger seat and double-checked that his surveillance files were backed up on the cloud. He'd recorded an incriminating phone call between Senator Lewsom and the lead arms dealer—a man named Dwayne Monroe with connections throughout the United States and Europe.

The senator shared when and where alien technology would be transported. Monroe set traps, intercepted, killed a few people, and got his hands on valuable alien weapons that he sold to the highest bidders across the world.

Buyers ranged from ruthless dictators seeking to vaporize uprisings before they got off the ground to drug cartels wanting to out-muscle their competition.

An explosion rattled the air, and he jerked upright, his eyes scanning the area. The residents of the homeless camp were undisturbed.

Fireworks. Great.

And it wasn't even the Fourth of July yet.

By nightfall, the neighborhood sounded like a war zone. M-80s rattled windows, set off car alarms, and sent a non-stop cascade of memory-induced adrenaline into his system.

He huddled in the passenger seat, trying to stretch out and relax, but every bomb was hell on his enhanced ears and had him resisting the urge to duck for cover. As another one rocked the air, too close, rattling the entire car and lighting up the night, he was in a foxhole with the smell of sweating bodies and moans of injured men.

He gritted his teeth, debating the merits of moving the car, but he could see and hear fireworks for miles, so he closed his eyes and hunkered down.

Another explosion from behind the vehicle, only a few blocks away, shook the car again. He flashed back to the Avenger's complex in upstate New York. Death from above as Thanos' ship rained fire. Dirt and rock sprayed around him with each hit, until one found its mark.

Bucky took a deep breath and closed his eyes, turning against the door and focusing on his breathing like Ayo had taught him. Inhale slowly, count to five. Exhale slower, count to eight.

How many times had he died or almost died and found himself not dead? One when he was eight and slammed into a tree sledding, ending up with a concussion. The train in the Alps and the fall that should have killed him but unmercifully did not. Three particularly hairy missions as the Winter Soldier. One battle with Tony Stark that took the metal arm and fried his brain for a while. Getting dusted for what seemed like a second after the first battle with Thanos, then taking a direct hit from a spaceship in the second battle.

Why wasn't he dead? In so many ways, things would have been easier had he died even a few moments before the snap. Those dead didn't come back. It wasn't fair or right. A few seconds or minutes in that battle made the difference between staying dead or coming back. He'd have gladly traded places with one of the Wakandan warriors who died a moment too soon.

Two deafening explosions battered the night, sending more car alarms screaming and his heart racing faster.

Enough.

He got out of the SUV, the pungent smoke in the air making his nose crinkle, then walked to the driver's side and slid behind the wheel. It was time to find another place to rest. The map showed his location surrounded by rural areas. If he could find someplace a little more out of the way, maybe the aerial barrage wouldn't bother him as much. Maybe, he might even get a few hours of sleep. He needed to be sharp and get to the drop site two hours before the deal was set to begin.

He drove until he was in a pitch-black area with no one around.

Explosions boomed in the distance but they no longer shook the car. He moved back to the passenger seat to try for a couple of hours' sleep. He set two alarms on his phone ten minutes apart, then tilted the seat as far back as it would go and closed his eyes.

He wasn't sure how much actual sleep he got when the first alarm went off, but it wasn't much–nothing more than a twilight slumber where the sounds of distant explosions commingled with memories of battles long ago.

Switching over to the driver's seat, he set his phone on the dash holder and punched in the destination. Fifteen minutes later, he nestled the car into a dark section along the street, two blocks away, beneath a broken streetlight. He had another two hours to wait, but he couldn't afford to sleep. Odds were, some of the parties would arrive early, and he didn't want to be taken by surprise or wake groggy.

Nor did he dare use his cellphone. Its bright screen would be a beacon in the early morning hours. So, he stayed huddled in his car and gritted his teeth against the fireworks still flashing like thunder and lightning in the night. Sirens punctuated the in-between silences, as the police no doubt responded to calls of illegal fireworks.

The criminals knew what they were doing by picking this part of town at this time of the year when the local PD was obviously too overwhelmed with complaints of M-80s and rocket launchers to respond to "suspicious activity" calls. Even reports of gunfire would be assumed fireworks-related.

The domestic war zone began to quiet just after two a.m., and it was time for him to get into position.

Bucky grabbed his crossbody and checked the contents, making sure everything was in its proper place. The knives were in exterior pockets, snug and accessible, with the flashbangs in the front. His backup firearm was safely in the rear. The main compartment held bear spray, a last resort and a risky one considering a change in the breeze could send it back his way. The stun gun was charged and ready.

He pulled the Glock with its clip-on holster from the pack and secured it on the right side of his waistband. Then he worked the glove onto his hand, using his teeth as an anchor. Turning off the vehicle's interior light, he slid out of the car, quietly pushed the lock on the door, and slid through the night with the pack across his chest.

As the Winter Soldier, he would have taken a strategic position on a rooftop and picked off the targets before they could locate his position or take cover, but he was no longer the Winter Soldier. He was James Bucky Barnes, and he was not a killer.

Not a murderer. Not an assassin. Not anymore.

So, he'd do this the hard way. Running along a side street, he circled around to the rear of the building, climbing to the old roof and shimmying on his stomach. He kept flat on the roof, listening, his head below the six-inch cement lip, as he reached into his pack. He found the black greasepaint, smearing it liberally on his face, then wiping his glove on his jeans.

At 2:30, things began to happen. The groan of tires indicated the arrival of a large vehicle. Bucky peeked over the lip of the roof. A black van sat in the lot, its headlights off. Two men sat in the front.

Forty minutes later, a black Cadillac Escalade arrived, stopping ten feet from the van. The passenger door opened, and a hulking man hopped out. Caucasian, graying hair, with a mustache. A dark-skin man emerged from the driver's door, clean-shaven, dark sunglasses.

Dwayne Monroe.

So far, four men were visible, two in the front of each vehicle, but there had to be more in the windowless cargo hold of the van. The rear of the Escalade looked empty, presumably to keep cargo space for whatever weapons were exchanged.

-0- -0- -0-

Dwayne kept his eyes on the buyer and his ear to the comm unit as he walked a few feet to meet the older man halfway.

"Just the two of them," Bobby's voice proclaimed in his ear.

Bobby made a decent look-out riding shotgun, but he had a penchant for stating the obvious.

"You are?" Dwayne asked, stopping in front of the man who had a couple of inches on him.

"Scott."

"Okay, Scott, let's see what you've got."

Scott jerked his chin toward the van. "Let's see the goods first."

Dwayne held himself a little taller. "You won't mind a pat-down?"

Scott sighed and lifted his shirt. "No wires. No weapons on me." He jerked his head toward his companion in the vehicle. "He's got me covered."

Dwayne didn't see the weapon pointed at him from the man in the Escalade, but that only meant the weapons were on him weren't visible. Not surprising. Buyers at this level weren't stupid. Quickly, he patted down the buyer, who returned the favor, then they got down to business.

"I need a peek at what you've got first, before you see the goods," Dwayne ordered.

The man in the Escalade held a small duffel bag out the window. Scott grabbed it and unzipped the top, revealing enough cash to meet Dwayne's expectations. If the deal went smoothly, Bobby could count it before everyone left.

"Follow me." Dwayne opened the door of the van on the building side, which shielded the interior from the street.

Dana sat cross-legged on the floorboard, a gun in her hand. A load of Chitauri weapons lined the walls of the van. The heavier ones sat on the floor. "You can test them inside the building. It's empty. Maybe a homeless person or two, if you're lucky, so you'll be able to see what it really does."

Something clinked on the blacktop. Dwayne saw a dark object roll toward the rear tire of the van. He lunged away, but too late. The night erupted with a loud bang and a flash that seared his eyes. His lungs took in smoke.

Someone yelled—maybe Bobby. A car engine roared.

Another bang, more smoke, and something hard slammed into his skull. His head pounded, the world spun. He blinked through the bright dots in his vision and the sting of smoke. A man, all in black, even his face and his hair, sauntered casually toward the van, glancing down at Dwayne as though looking at a dying insect.

The stranger bent forward. A strong hand grabbed Dwayne, dragged him along the blacktop, and deposited him against another body. He felt his arms and legs being bound. Then the stranger left and, a moment later, an explosion rocked the night.

He tilted his head up to see the van engulfed in flames, smaller explosions erupted as the cache of weapons succumbed to the fire. Through the smoke and flames, he caught a glimpse of the dark figure walking away, the satchel of cash in his right hand. He couldn't tell for sure through his blurred vision and the smoke, but it looked like the man didn't have a left arm.

His head hurt too much to think about how he was going to explain this to the big boss, so he rolled to his side, threw up, and passed out.

-0- -0- -0-

"Senator Lewsom hasn't been available for comment since the anonymous leak of the recording tying him to Dwayne Monroe, the illegal transfer of top-secret alien weapons, and a large money-laundering scheme. Monroe and the other four defendants remain behind bars pending their arraignments. Police still have no leads on the remaining suspect at large and are asking the public to come forward with any information they might have about the events of that night. If you saw or heard something unusual, please contact the number on the screen."

Sam turned off the television. He had no idea if the mystery suspect was Bucky, but since Chitauri weapons were involved and it went down in California—one of Bucky's likely destinations if his westward pattern held—Sam was willing to bet serious money on Bucky.

Where might Bucky go next? Oregon? Washington? Nevada? Hell, what about Canada?

Unfortunately, the trail after Texas went cold, and Sam had been pulled into another Captain America mission to rescue a group of Americans held prisoner in the middle east. Mission successful, and now he was back in Louisiana, trying not to think too hard how he'd react if Bucky turned up dead somewhere.

The guy was a grown man—former elite assassin and Howling Commando—and fully capable of taking care of himself. Even though Sam had only gotten to really know Bucky over the past year, he felt like he should be doing more. He promised Steve he'd be there for Bucky. No one else would, not even Steve.

It was a harder job than he imagined, and the man in question didn't want any help. Bucky seemed to be in the midst of a supersoldier-sized, trauma-fueled mid-life crisis, and Sam could only watch from the sidelines.

He hated the sidelines, but more than that, he had to admit to himself—though never to Bucky—that he missed the old curmudgeon. The more he'd gotten to know James Buchanan Barnes, the more he realized why Steve sacrificed so much to save him.

Bucky, who followed Steve into the jaws of death, who threw himself out of an airplane without a parachute, who bulldozed the Shield into Sam's hands, and who kept fighting, whenever called upon, alongside people who hated him, who'd tried to kill him, just because it was the right thing to do.

Shit. He actually liked the man. Admired him. Sometimes, in the quiet of the night, he found himself drowning in awe that he'd gotten to partner with both Captain America and Bucky Barnes.

Bucky Barnes, the most famous of the Howling Commandos. The man who kept coming back from the dead, still swinging.

How the hell did that even happen?

And now he was Captain America because of both Steve and Bucky. Both stubborn. Both loyal. Both damn good friends.

Bucky, so help me God, when I find you, I'm gonna punch you, even if it breaks my fist, then force a Louisiana-sized hug on you 'til you realize there are people who want you to stick around, no matter how many arms you have or how well you can fight.