Chapter 7: New York

"Boss wants the delivery on the third at ten. Can you make that timeline?"

"Not a problem. Any livestock needs?"

Bucky's hand clenched around the steering wheel as he listened to the conversation. Livestock likely meant humans coerced into doing their bidding, probably drug mules or sex slaves.

"No. He's got someone in mind."

"Not a problem."

Bucky wasn't sure if the delivery included drugs or something else, but he'd gotten wind about Hydra equipment that changed hands during the Blip. Hydra leftovers had to be kept out of the wrong hands. He clenched the wheel harder, and the plastic creaked.

Immediately, he loosened his grip. He didn't need more car repairs, though he was no longer hurting for money thanks to the duffel of cash he'd obtained in Sacramento. Still, there was no telling where his travels might lead him or what equipment he'd need, and anything left over belonged to victims.

Like the girls in San Francisco.

"South street seaport."

He had a location, date, and time. Looks like he was heading back to New York, and with the deal only ten days away, he couldn't afford to waste time.

"Don't be late. Boss has special plans for it that night. He isn't a forgiving man, and he leaves a brutal yelp review for bad service."

Silence, then. "The Fat Man will get the delivery on time. Don't worry."

-0- -0- -0-

Matt Murdock held his position on the roof, ears tuned to the harbor. The auction would begin in a few hours. Fisk couldn't be allowed to rebuild his power base. The man should be in jail, and still would be if not for the Blip.

He heard the boat arriving, the size of a small trawler from the sound of the engine and the way it sliced through the water. Four men waited for it on the docks.

As the boat docked and the engine died, Matt listened to creaking floorboards and footsteps. He couldn't distinguish heartbeats from this distance, but he counted at least four more men on the boat. It wasn't the delivery he was interested in, but the item was heading to a secret location for the auction. Matt needed to know where that auction was being held. Most of New York's big wig criminals would be in attendance. All he had to do was follow the delivery and, in a couple of hours, he'd put a dent in New York's criminal underbelly.

-0- -0- -0-

Bucky crouched low and watched through his binoculars as a white-haired man hopped off the boat and approached three more at the docks. They chatted for a moment, their postures stiff and eyes wary. The white-haired man waved, and three more guys wheeled a large item from the boat.

A slither of iciness snaked through him as he peered at the thing through the binoculars.

"Then wipe him, and start over."

The clamps on his arms. The whir of machinery. The helpless anticipation that twisted his insides. The cool metal against his face. The hiss just before white-hot pain scorched through his skull.

Another man appeared, observing from the ship as the others navigated the cargo onto the dock. There was only one use for that chair, and Bucky needed to find out who wanted it, then make sure they never had a chance to use it.

-0- -0- -0-

Matt followed the package to the warehouse. He knew only that it was a piece of Hydra equipment that changed hands multiple times during the Blip. Fisk had ties to Hydra, the Hand, and the Ten Rings. Fisk had ties to almost every major criminal organization in the United States.

Hunkering low on the roof, Matt listened as a black SUV pulled up in front of the warehouse. Two people got out. Flat shoes and heels. The man spoke to his companion, and Matt recognized the voice as Norman Romanski, an art dealer whose real merchandise was black-market technologies. His presence confirmed that the warehouse was the auction site, and the guests were starting to arrive.

-0- -0- -0-

Bucky observed the proceedings in the warehouse from his vantage point in the duct space of the roof.

This was an auction, not a simple sale of black-market goods, but an actual event with twenty-five guests, a dozen guards, and a large man in a white suit that Bucky assumed was the "Fat Man." This was much bigger than he realized, and he was badly outnumbered. He didn't know the players in the audience, but it was a near certainty that they were all part of the criminal underbelly of New York.

Five items had already been auctioned, collectively totaling more than two million dollars. Small ticket items, for the most part. A few outdated items from the destroyed Avenger's complex, a Chitauri energy gun, and a USB drive alleged to have pre-Blip Hydra and Shield passwords and encryption protocols that were probably no longer of any use—a buy-at-your-own risk low-level item for anyone wanting to try their luck at stumbling on something useful.

The Fat Man came on stage, a walking stick in his hand. His voice was deep, and he carried himself with confidence. He gave a gentle, welcoming smile. "Thank you all for coming. I'm pleased to inform you that the item has arrived." He gestured off stage, behind a wall and a curtain.

Three men wheeled the chair onto the stage, positioned it in the center, then locked the wheels and tethered it to the stage floor.

"Thank you, gentlemen," the Fat Man said. "This is the only device of its kind that has ever been recovered during the Blip. It has been lovingly inspected and restored to its original working condition. This chair is capable of wiping the memories of any human subject, even an enhanced one. At maximum power, it will kill a normal human being, but at twenty percent capacity, it will successfully erase his memories."

Bucky couldn't tear his eyes away from the machine. He had no idea what had happened to it after the destruction of the helicarriers and the release of secrets that sent Hydra and SHIELD into chaos. He wasn't even sure this was the chair stored in the bank vault.

But the memory of its brutal embrace, the hiss of power coursing through its mechanical veins, and the electricity that stole pieces of him, second by agonizing second, were embedded in every neuron of his body.

He had to call this in. There were too many people present, and he couldn't fight all of them with only one arm. He waited to hear applause, then dialed police dispatch and gave the location.

Once police arrived, the criminals would scatter. Most would likely escape, but Bucky had only one mission this time around.

Destroy the chair.

"I'm sure you'll all like a demonstration," the fat man announced.

A demonstration? Bucky's lungs froze as he watched a struggling man forced onto the stage by two goons gripping his arms. A third held a gun at the ready.

No. No. No. This wasn't happening. He had no idea who the man was, but he sure as hell wasn't a willing participant, and Bucky couldn't sit by and let another human being go through that hell.

Did they mean to kill the man or erase his memories? Either way, it couldn't be allowed to happen. But there were too many people, and with one arm and no backup, Bucky's odds of being able to save the guy were low.

"Hello, Agent Jameson," the Fat Man addressed the prisoner.

Agent?

"Thank you for joining us," the Fat Man continued, his tone polite, gentle.

"If you're going to kill me, just get it over with," the agent retorted.

"Oh, we're not going to kill you," the Fat Man said, then turned to the audience. "Allow me to introduce my associate here, Agent William Jameson of the DEA."

A DEA agent? Shit to hell. The prisoner was law enforcement. Goddamnit. An innocent man. They were going to put an innocent man in that chair.

No. Not happening. That chair would never be used again.

Never.

"He is an honorable man, very good at his job," the Fat Man continued. "It brings me no pleasure to do this, but as you know, our work requires secrecy, and he threatens that secrecy. However, a man of his connections and skills could prove very useful."

"You're delusional if you think I'm working for you," Agent Jameson scowled.

"Please, sit down, Agent Jameson," the Fat Man said, pointing his cane at the chair.

The goons maneuvered the struggling man into the metal chair. The hum of electricity rose. Someone had connected it to power. Metal restraints clamped into position along Jameson's arms.

-0- -0- -0-

Matt listened from outside the warehouse. A DEA agent? Time was running out. He was outnumbered, but Fisk was here, along with a DEA agent who likely had enough evidence to send Fisk back to prison.

Crawling along the outside of the building, he kept track of the guards' footsteps. He heard two heartbeats on the roof, but they were both slow, as if the men were unconscious or sleeping. The scent of blood told him there were injuries. A third heartbeat was fast, thready. There was no shuffle of footsteps from the roof. No rustle of fabric or shifts of position. Soft breathing.

Someone had already taken out a few of Fisk's men. Who was the new player? A rival criminal?

A commotion from inside forced his attention back to the auction. A crash. Yells. A scream. Gunfire. The chaotic reverberation of frantic footsteps.

Matt ran into the auction house. The guests were fleeing, and he sidestepped two of them, letting them go. They weren't his concern.

"That's the Winter Soldier!" he heard someone say.

Matt tilted his head. Barnes was here?

"How the hell do you figure that with all that shit on his face?" another man answered, his voice sounding younger.

"Look at him, strong, fast, one-arm. It's him."

"Shit! Let's get out of here," the younger man yelled.

Matt let them go, focusing on Fisk, the DEA agent, and the guy on stage tearing through metal who had to be James Buchanan Barnes.

-0- -0- -0-

Bucky ripped off the metal restraints at the joints and yanked Jameson out of the chair.

"Who are YOU?" the Fat Man bellowed at him.

Bucky spun just as the boss man's gigantic fist came at him, barely missing.

"Go!" He shouted at the agent, then turned to face the white-suited figure that stalked toward him, calmly, confidently, as if he considered Bucky no threat.

Five feet away, the man stopped, and his head tilted as he studied Bucky. "I know you. Sergeant Barnes. The Winter Soldier." The Fat Man straightened. "I understand," his tone was suddenly gentle. "This brings back distasteful memories for you, no doubt. I apologize for this unpleasantness. Perhaps we can take these unfortunate circumstances and create something mutually beneficial? Your services in exchange for the chair—yours to do with as you like."

Really? This asshole was trying to hire him? "No thanks." Anger flushed hot through his cheeks at the man's hubris . "There's only one thing I want to do with this thing." He grabbed one of the metal halos and ripped it from the chair.

"Stop!" The crime boss's voice was deep and bellowing.

Bucky's rage fueled his fist as he pummeled the remaining halo, his knuckles cracking as he demolished the barbaric metal arch that erased the man he was and helped forge the Winter Soldier.

A solid white mass lurched into his peripheral vision, and Bucky turned in time to counter the assault, blocking with a hard elbow into the Fat Man's chin and sending him staggering back. The cane clattered to the floor. Bucky followed through with a hard kick into the guy's stomach that should have sent him several feet through the air. Instead, the man stumbled another few steps but miraculously kept his balance.

Crap.

Whoever the crime boss was, he was strong. Too strong. Had he managed to get a hold of Nagel's serum? The kingpin was strong enough to present a challenge, and Bucky was working with a handicap.

The Fat Man roared and ran forward, fist swinging. Bucky had the advantage when it came to speed and twisted out of the way, using his momentum as he turned to bring his fist into the side of the man's face.

The guy collapsed to the floor, shook his head, then, impossibly, pushed back onto his feet.

You've got to be kidding me. Bucky took a breath. No more pulling punches. This asshole wasn't going down easy.

A red blur leaped onto the stage, throwing kicks and punches that the white-suited man deflected. Bucky had no idea who the newcomer was, but at least the man in red seemed to be on the right side of things…for the moment. Bucky let the two trade blows as he scanned the room. He heard footsteps, the cocking of guns. They'd have company soon.

But who the hell was the incredibly fast circus guy in the weird horned costume?

"I have had enough of you, Murdock!" the Fat Man bellowed.

Murdock? Bucky gave the red-suited figure another look. The height and build were right.

Matt Murdock. The supposedly blind lawyer? Faking it? What a sleazeball maneuver.

"New York has had enough of you, Fisk," Murdock retorted.

The voice sounded right. It was his lawyer.

And the man in white was Wilson Fisk. Bucky had heard of him, but in name only when Hydra used him briefly.

What the hell had he walked into? Unfortunately, Bucky didn't have time to ponder it. Fisk and Murdock were back at it. Murdock moved with near-prescience in the way he countered Fisk's attacks, but the larger man finally landed a punch to Murdock's chest that flung the not-so-blind lawyer twenty feet across the stage.

Bucky tackled Fisk, sending them both careening off the stage and onto the floor as he slammed his fist hard into Fisk's nose. Then his cheek. Again, and again. Blood spurted, but the Fat Man refused to surrender. A strong kick to Bucky's groin sent him sailing. He landed with a hard thud, his pelvis on fire, but one thing Hydra taught him was how to shrug off pain. He was on his feet at the same time as Fisk.

Murdock was back on his feet, too, behind Fisk. Footsteps clattered around them. Five men with guns. Two behind Murdock and three around Bucky and Fisk. More were on the way, their footsteps thudding outside, the clink of metal indicating more weapons.

Murdock flipped into an acrobatic display that rivaled any circus performer as the armed men slid to a stop, and Bucky used the distraction to careen around Fisk, giving a solid kick that sent the crime boss into the nearest gunman. Two of the goons opened fire, but Bucky was prepared, a flash-bang grenade in his hand, pin in his teeth, rolling as he sent it toward the gunmen.

They dove away as it detonated, and Bucky had another one right behind, rolling it toward Fisk as the man pushed to his feet. Fisk kicked his downed henchman on top of it, and the grenade gave a muffled bang.

Sirens screamed in the distance. Bucky hoped that meant the DEA agent had made it to safety and called for reinforcements. Murdock was in the air suddenly, on Fisk, and the two traded more blows as Bucky dealt with the remaining gunmen, kicking one hard into the other and sending both sailing through the exterior wall, guns and all. They landed in a pile of motionless limbs, one on top of the other.

The one on the bottom was a bloody mess. Probably dead. The guy on top was out, but he might make it. Bucky didn't give either man another thought. He moved into the fray, turning just in time to see Fisk with his hands around Murdock's throat, the fight draining from the lawyer with the pinching of his carotids. A few seconds is all it would take to render a man unconscious by blocking blood flow to the brain.

Bucky reached into his pack. It was time to end this. He pulled out the handgun, cocked it, and aimed the barrel at Fisk's head. "Let him go."

Shooting people, even bad guys, wasn't part of his plan. He avoided using guns after starting his cross-country crime-fighting spree, telling himself he wasn't a killer anymore.

That was a lie. He'd always been a killer, even before Hydra. How many enemy soldiers had he taken out, at close range and from a hundred yards away? Too many to count. War was different, but killing was the same. No matter the reason or the century, men all died the same way at the end of a bullet—with a spray of blood and, sometimes, a name on their lips.

Fisk opened his hands, and Murdock dropped like a ragdoll, crumpling onto the stage, barely conscious.

The crime boss's additional backup arrived as half a dozen armed men surrounded the stage. Bucky maintained his focus, the barrel aimed at Fisk's forehead.

"I believe you're outnumbered, Sergeant Barnes," Fisk said amicably.

"You're right about that, but I'm faster than your men," Bucky said, his voice and hand steady. "You'll be dead before you hit the ground."

Fisk tilted his head. "It seems we're at an impasse. Let me propose a solution." He glanced down at Murdock, who was slowly rolling onto his side, his head bowed toward his chest, aware but still. "We all walk away. You. Mr. Murdock. Me. My men."

The sirens outside were closer. Bucky estimated two minutes until they were on scene. Even Fisk had to hear them by now, which meant the man knew time was short.

"I just have to wait 'til those sirens get here," Bucky said.

"So the gunfight can begin?" Fisk asked. "Who knows how many people will die? Oh, I'm sure you don't care much for yourself. You've died how many times already? But this guy?"

Half the guns shifted toward Murdock.

"Are you really willing to sacrifice someone else's life?" Fisk's chin came up as he waited for an answer.

"I'm pretty sure he knew what he was getting into," Bucky bluffed. He wasn't willing to sacrifice Murdock, even if the guy did fake being blind. There were less reprehensible ways to throw off suspicion of being a masked vigilante.

Then again, with the way the cap covered Murdock's eyes, maybe he wasn't faking, but he had to see something. No blind man could fight with the kind of precision Murdock showed.

Maybe the horned headpiece held some kind of neural-optical technology?

"True," Fisk acknowledged.

One minute until the sirens came.

A commotion outside distracted the gunmen for a second, and Bucky fired, aiming and hitting Fisk's right shoulder, then threw himself on top of Murdock, dropping the gun to wrap his one arm around the lawyer and using his legs to catapult them both off the stage. Fisk roared, and something sharp slammed into Bucky's side, piercing his vest and skewering straight through him. He felt Murdoch jerk. The object pulled back, sliding out and leaving a trail of pain and blood. Footsteps retreated, tires screeched to a halt as sirens died and gunfire erupted outside.

Blood. It was warm and sticky beneath him, spilling onto Murdock as the man grunted and slithered out from beneath Bucky. He found himself on the hard floor. Hands turned him over, igniting a fire in his side that shot straight through his core, and as the groan ripped from his throat, he tasted blood.

"Barnes?" Murdock's head was above him, his mouth twisted in horror. Strong jaw. Hint of stubble. Eyes hidden behind the mask.

So, this was it. Bucky closed his eyes as he forced in each tight, painful breath. "I hope…you got…the…checks out."

"We'll talk about that later." Hands pressed on one of his wounds, bringing fresh hell.

He resisted reacting with a fist to the man's face, though Bucky wasn't sure his arm would cooperate even if he tried. "Tell Sam…" He swallowed the blood in his mouth to get out the rest of the words. "Duffel…in…my white SUV. Get to S.F. girls. Victims."

"Look, we can talk about all this later, just shut up and focus on breathing," Murdock said before everything faded.