Chapter 6: San Francisco

He tracks the target through the scope, moving the rifle to follow as the man leaves the brick school building, a young boy beside him, holding the target's hand. The target stops at a car, fishes for his keys.

Finger on the trigger, he holds his breath, then squeezes. The rifle fires, recoils. The shot rings true. The man's head snaps back, a red spray slicing through the air, raining on the boy as the target crumples and hits the ground, lifeless. The boy stands, silent, eyes wide.

Bucky lurched awake, his right elbow and knee slamming into something hard that protested with a crack and groan. He blinked, breathing heavy, taking in glass, a roof, the haze of the dwindling daylight, and the leaves of a tree overhead.

He was in the SUV. The glove compartment was now smashed, hanging open, and the passenger door dented outward.

Running his hand over his face, he wiped the sleep from his eyes, then ran his fingers quickly through his hair, scratching at his skull and wishing he could scrub a few select memories out of his brain. He needed an uninterrupted night of sleep.

The child in his dream was a middle-aged man now, a co-victim of that assassination. Lucky for him—if luck were a gruesome sadist—the only thing he witnessed was his father's murder. He didn't see the Winter Soldier, and so he lived.

Bucky eyed the damage to the interior panel. At least the door held. If he were lucky, maybe it would still open and close. Expensive car repairs were not something he factored into his budget.

He tried the door. It opened with a groan, but when he pulled it closed again, it took a couple of tries and a hard slam to get it to latch. Not great, but doable.

The glove compartment was hanging open, revealing the stash of energy bars and napkins along with registration papers. He lifted it and, thankfully, it closed, though there was a concave dent in the front. He opened it and closed it a few times, testing its integrity, relieved that it was functional.

He checked his phone. It was just almost nine p.m. Even though it was July, he felt the chill outside. San Francisco had the coldest summers anywhere in California. His jacket provided warmth, but he couldn't easily zip it, so he opted to keep the front open, leaving his chest and torso with only a couple of layers of cotton between him and the cool breeze.

The 'shipment' was due to arrive any minute. The shipment . He hated that term, hated the euphemisms criminals used to cloak the ugliness of their acts in legitimacy.

Asset. Soldat. The Fist of Hydra.

As he looked over the bay, he used the view to remind himself that the world still had good things . Even if the city itself had become more cesspool than playground, and that was even before the Blip, it was surrounded by natural beauty that humanity hadn't yet managed to destroy. He'd heard that during the Blip some of the big cities flourished, with cheap, sometimes free housing, cleaner streets, and empty industrial buildings that people claimed as their own to start a pop-up restaurant or sell their crafts, until whoever ended up being the rightful owner kicked them out or asked for rent.

After the Blip, chaos erupted. Returnees had no idea what was happening as their surroundings morphed before their eyes, and some found themselves in their homes with different furniture and strangers gaping at them.

The world was still trying to sort it out—the sudden lack of housing when there had been plenty, property rights, and even custody rights when the parents of previously orphaned-then-adopted children reappeared.

That chaos is probably the only reason Bucky ended up with a pardon, and that was its own kind of messed up.

A ship approached the dock. Bucky pulled the scope from his pack and looked through it until he found the name on the side of the hull.

The Seaduction. Bingo. Not subtle at all, assholes .

He shifted the scope to the collection of shipping containers. According to the information he'd obtained from a man who no longer had any front teeth, two of them held human cargo, mostly teenage girls smuggled from North Korea and promised freedom but sold instead as sex slaves to the highest bidder.

He could spend the rest of whatever life he had left ending slave traders and freeing their victims, and it still wouldn't be enough. There were too many people willing to profit off other humans. Too much evil. Like Hydra. Cut off one head, two more take its place.

He could help the girls on the ship in front of him. He could do for them what no one had done for him.

Port authorities and inspectors boarded the ship, all business as usual. Twenty minutes later, a port crane unloaded two of the front containers, which were likely filled with legitimate cargo.

An hour later, all was quiet, and he swapped the scope for a pair of binoculars. A tractor-trailer pulled up to the ship, and a large man dressed in black hopped out of the passenger side, then hurried to the rear and opened the loading doors.

Through the binoculars, Bucky spotted the girls—children, really. He counted twenty, and all looked terrified. Some appeared no older than thirteen. The oldest might be in her early twenties, but to his surprise, only half of them appeared to be Korean. The rest were of various ethnicities. Chinese, European, and Indian, he guessed.

He swapped his binoculars for his phone's camera, zooming in as much as he could without losing details, and snapped a few photos. Then he switched to video.

Six men hurried the girls into the back of the tractor-trailer. Three followed them inside, two closed the doors, and the guy who'd hopped out earlier went back into the cab. The truck drove away.

Bucky placed the phone on the dash holder and followed the truck. As he drove, he called in an anonymous tip to the local authorities about the Seaduction . Hopefully, some extra attention and more detailed inspections would net a few of the leftover bad guys. At the very least, it would interrupt any other plans they had.

Bucky debated the merits of waiting until the truck made it to its destination, when he would no doubt be even more outnumbered, or intercepting it on the street and using the element of surprise. He wanted to know who the main boss was and where the headquarters were located, but his chances of a successful operation with minimal casualties were best by interrupting the truck en route.

He waited until the truck stopped at a light, then pulled his SUV to the side of the road, swung the packed crossbody over his chest, and got out of the car. As the light turned green and the truck eased into motion, Bucky ran behind it, making sure to stay close and out of sight of the mirrors.

Now came the tricky part—opening the back door and sending in a smoke canister with one hand, hopefully giving him cover to take out the armed men without risking the girls. If he was fast enough, it would go smoothly.

He hoped.

Pacing the truck, he grabbed the smoke canister from his pack, held it between his chin and collar bone, then lifted the door latch. As the door swung open, he grabbed the canister, pulled the pin with his teeth, then tossed the cylinder inside. Hoping his right arm was strong enough for what he planned, he grabbed the metal step beneath the cargo door and jerked up.

The truck careened and slowed as the trailer came back down. Bucky almost ran into the vehicle as the driver fought for control. With a single leap, he was inside, blinking through the smoke as it poured out the open doorway, and located the gunmen. The swerving and smoke had everyone off their feet and disoriented, including the girls, whose choked, coughing screams filled the metal container. One of the guys fired a wild shot at him. Bucky ducked, ripped the gun from the assailant's grip and slammed the butt of it into the man's face. Bucky flung one man out the back and sent the other one sailing after with a swift kick. When they hit the blacktop, neither moved.

The truck's air brakes squealed, and the sudden deceleration sent the girls tumbling to the front along with the remaining two gunmen. Bucky used the momentum to leap toward the two men, landing just as one of them managed to fire the assault rifle.

The vest took three bullets, but his shoulder took one before he sent a fist into the man's face. Blood sprayed upward, and the man went limp.

The wound in Bucky's shoulder was bad, but he'd had much worse. He gritted his teeth and grabbed the shirt of the last man, who was fumbling for his gun. With a jerk, Bucky threw the guy upward into the metal roof, head first, and the clang reverberated through the cramped container. Bucky dropped his limp body, not sure if the guy was alive or dead. Two figures appeared in the open end, both with guns aimed at him, and he had only a moment to react. If they opened fire, they'd pepper the inside with bullets, killing everyone inside, including the girls.

He kicked one of the limp bad guys toward the two armed men and grabbed the second body, flinging it after the first. One of the limp bodies connected, taking out the man on the right, but the other side-stepped the flesh-and-blood projectile.

Bucky launched himself toward the door as the man fired. Two bullets hit the vest, and one punched a hole in his left thigh. When Bucky connected with the gunman, he didn't hold back. He couldn't afford to.

He sent his fist through the man's skull, ending him. In his peripheral vision, he spotted the other assailant get to his feet, firearm swinging up. Bucky rolled, grabbed the dead man's rifle, and fired.

He was pretty sure there were no more bad guys left, but he kept his finger on the trigger, his back on the ground, and lifted his head to do a visual sweep. A few of the girls peeked out of the truck, their faces masks of terror.

Maybe he should have called this one in and let the police handle it, but that came with its own risks, such as a firefight that ended up with both cops and girls dead.

"Is everyone all right?" he asked the sobbing Korean girl who stared wide-eyed at him.

He gave her a quick visual scan with his eyes. Her wrists were red and broken, indicating prior restraints. She wore a pink dress with long sleeves, but the right one was torn at the shoulder seam and fell around her elbow. She favored her right side, keeping her arm close to her ribs.

She needed medical attention. They all did.

She didn't answer, so he repeated the question in Korean. Her face flickered with surprise, and she nodded, scrubbing hard at her face.

He heard sirens. Good. The gunfire had drawn police. He kept an eye on the unconscious men around him, lest any of the living ones stir and decide to start shooting, but they all seemed solidly out of commission.

He dropped his head, his skull thunking against the blacktop, and blinked up at the dark sky.

Come on, get up and get out of here.

He had suffered far worse injuries. With a grunt and a massive effort to ignore the pain in his shoulder and left leg, he rose to his feet.

"Police are on the way," he said in Korean.

Suddenly the young woman launched herself out of the truck and into his arms. He swung the firearm out of the way and stumbled back from the unexpected bundle suddenly clutching at him.

"Thank you! Thank you!" she sobbed in frantic Korean.

He wrapped his arm around her impossibly thin frame. "You're welcome," he answered in her native language. "I have to go."

"Who are you?" a voice asked in English.

He looked up as another teenager, a young woman with blonde hair that looked maybe 16, hopped out of the truck. Inside the cargo bed, there were at least ten more girls than he'd counted going in. Some of them must have been in the truck prior to the ship unloading.

"No one," he answered the teenager. "Cops are seconds away, so you should be okay. Don't touch any of the guns." He didn't want a cop mistaking the situation and shooting one of the girls.

He gently extricated himself from the girl's embrace and guided her into the arms of the American teen, then turned to run back to his car. One of the men on the road groaned, and Bucky gave him a swift kick in the jaw to send him back to sleep. By the time the cops arrived, Bucky was blocks away.

His shoulder throbbed as he navigated the car through the city streets, keeping his injured left leg as straight as he could. His best bet was making it out of the city before finding a cheap bed, but the drive would be hell. He made it over the Bay Bridge, then pulled off in Emeryville and found a suitable motel.

The place was worn down and shady, but it would do for the night. He slipped into a jacket to cover his shoulder wound. There wasn't much he could do to hide the leg except hold his pack in front of the wound as he walked into the lobby.

Fortunately, check-in was quick, and the clerk barely paid attention. Buck parked in front of his room, slung his gear around himself, and limped inside.

He stripped immediately, groaning as he pulled the shirt over his head. Getting out of the vest took a bit longer than usual, and he inspected the damage from the bullets. The vest was compromised. It might still stop a bullet, but he couldn't count on it. Fortunately, the cash he repurposed from the weapons buyer in Sacramento offered a nice buffer for such expenses.

Bucky fished the first aid kit from his bag and went into the bathroom. It was small, with a shower, sink, and toilet. He sat naked on the toilet and worked on the bullet in his thigh first.

The bullet in his shoulder made his entire arm throb, but it was the only arm he had to work with. He grabbed the forceps and probed the angry wound in his thigh. Pain flared. Fresh blood streamed out of the hole and dribbled down the side of his thigh.

Kulak Gidry ne chuvstvuyet boli! the voice from the dark bunker echoed in his head. 'The Fist of Hydra feels no pain.'

He pushed the pain and the memory away. Grabbing the flattened piece of metal with the forceps, he pulled it out and dropped it in the wastebasket. He'd toss the trash bag on his way out so whatever passed for housekeeping in this dive didn't find bloody bullets and decide to call the police.

His shoulder was next, and that was going to be a bitch. Looking down, he could see the wound, but it wasn't a great vantage point. Taking a breath, he bent his right arm and twisted his wrist to get the necessary angle. There was no way to be delicate about the operation, so he dug the tip of forceps into the wound and tried not to bite the inside of his lip, fighting the hot agony that pulsed throughout his chest and shoulder.

There! He clamped onto the bullet and pulled it slowly out. Too fast, and it might slip out of the metal grip. Once out, it too went into the wastebasket.

That was over with, thankfully. He slumped forward, breathing a relieved sigh as he dripped blood on the bathroom floor.

He washed the forceps, hopped in the shower, then dried off and bandaged his wounds. He left the bloodied towels on the bathroom floor—those, too, would have to be disposed of—and staggered to the bed.

He forced his eyelids open a bit longer and grabbed the journal from the pack on the end of the bed. Opening it to the previous entry, he wrote the date below the previous one and scribbled the number 30 under it. Then he shoved the pack off the bed and tossed the journal on top of it.

He was exhausted, but it was not easy to find a comfortable position that didn't aggravate his wounds. His shoulder and leg throbbed. The rest of him ached. He ended up on his back with one pillow beneath his arm and his hip shifted to the right, with his left leg slightly bent onto his right.

He flirted with sleep, thinking about the Korean girl and how she'd launched herself at him, her arms wrapped around him, clutching the back of his jacket. Before he started this mission, the last time anyone thanked him for saving them was the councilmember who climbed out of the van after the Flag Smasher's assassination attempt. It was a feeling long forgotten that stopped Bucky in his tracks and made him hesitate. It felt good but hesitation could get him killed.

He tried to remember the last time anyone hugged him like that girl. He fell asleep thinking of his mother and her tight, warm embrace on the morning he left for the war.

-0- -0- -0-

The caller ID on Sam's phone was a 415 area code he didn't recognize. Normally, he'd let it go to voicemail, but maybe it was Bucky calling—or news of Bucky, and most likely bad news if that were the case. He took a breath and answered it.

"Who is this?"

"Is this Sam Wilson?" a man asked.

"Yes, who are you?"

"I'm Detective Arnold with the San Francisco police department. I'm involved with an investigation into the kidnapping and human trafficking of thirty minors, and it appears James Barnes was involved.

Involved? No. Kicking ass, probably. Unfortunately, the police didn't know that. "No way," Sam told the man.

"We don't think he was involved in committing the crime," the Detective clarified. "According to the victims, he rescued them, but two of the suspects are dead, and we found Barnes' blood on the scene."

Blood. DNA. Fingerprints. The government had processed the hell out of the former Winter Soldier when they had their hands on him before his pardon.

Shit. Sam sank onto the couch in Sarah's living room. Fortunately, she and the boys were out running errands. First, a shotgun hit, now this. Damnit, Bucky, why are you determined to get yourself killed?

"How much blood?" His gut clenched as he waited for the answer.

"Enough to indicate serious injury. According to victim statements, Barnes was shot at least twice. He took off before police arrived, and fleeing the scene is a serious matter, but we just want to talk to him. He's a vital witness to the crime."

Sam's grip tightened on the phone. How badly was Bucky injured? Serious for a normal person? Or serious for a serum-enhanced human? "I don't know where he is. If you find him, let me know. I've been looking for him." And having about as much luck as I did after the SHIELD-HYDRA fiasco . "Just so you know, he's a good guy. If one of your officers does find him, make sure they don't shoot him."

"We don't shoot unless we have to."

Sam wished he could believe that.

" Do you have any idea why Barnes is in San Francisco?" the detective asked.

He did, or at least he was pretty sure he did, but 'being a vigilante' wasn't an appropriate answer. "No idea at all. Probably just sightseeing. The guy's earned a vacation. He helped save the universe, after all." Best to remind the detective of that fact. "And before that, he was fighting Nazis."

He was laying it on thick, but the Winter Soldier was a heavy legacy to overcome, and he'd lay it on as thick as he had to if it meant some cop's finger would hesitate even a fraction of a second longer on the trigger when facing the former Winter Soldier.

"Yeah, I know the story. The only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country. Look, Captain, like I said, we just want to talk. If you hear from him, please contact me. Did my cell number come up on your phone?"

"Yeah, I have it." Sam wasn't going to make any promises so kept his response vague. "Thanks. I'm in the middle of something, gotta go." It was a lie but gave him a reason to hang up quickly.

He opened the browser on his phone and searched the news for the San Francisco story. Local media had extensive coverage, but article after article, it was all the same. Thirty girls from various nations, half of them from North Korea. A few American teenagers, mostly runaways, two with families who were still searching for them.

There were stories about those tearful reunions.

The victims' statements were all over the place in terms of what happened, but all of them were consistent on a few facts—a one-armed stranger with a black-streaked face and a crossbody pack took out six armed men. He spoke both English and Korean and had short hair. He disappeared before the police arrived, moving faster than anyone they'd ever seen.

That was good news. Moving fast hopefully meant whatever injuries Bucky sustained weren't as serious as the detective indicated…or it could mean that Bucky just hadn't lost enough blood to slow him down at that point.

Hospitals report gunshot wounds to the police, and the detective would've been informed of such a report. So Bucky either treated his wounds himself or….

No, there was no way the guy who survived Nazis, a fall from a speeding train, Hydra, Thanos, and the Snap would succumb to a couple of bullets. Bucky wasn't dead. No way.

Author's Note

Next Chapter: New York.