I know, I know, I'm in for a world of pain and suffering for once again taking FOREVER to update. Guys, I'm really sorry – the end of the school-year was absolutely exhausting and draining for me, and by the time I actually had free time to write, I was so dead that I hardly had any energy or motivation to type a single word. All I could do was sort of stare listlessly at my word document, sigh heavily, and then go on the internet. Or fan-girl about something else. Please don't batter me with stones. Oh, and then I realized I had AP summer homework to do and… yeah… please… I beg you… don't hurt me…
Anywho…
This. Could be. It.
The most MOMENTOUS – SUSPENSFUL – JAW-DROPPING – PLOT-TWISTING – WORLD-CHANGING chapter of Athena you – the glorious and grandiose readers – have EVER SEEN.
YEAH. I know. It's pretty awesome. And do you know why it's awesome? Because. There's a plot-twist. There's some fight-scenes. There's some shoot-outs. There's some escaping. There's some exciting stuff happening.
You might just want to check it out. In fact, I highly encourage you to do so.
As usual, thank you to my über amazing, wonderful, awesome reviewers: Musicwolf7 (especially for the touching and heartfelt review to last chapter!), Blackbird71, Zabusasgirl, Anodienthefair, ThePhantomismyLove, "Fangirl" – I am truly sorry to say, and you've probably figured this out by now but… monthly updates – Gosh, what I would do to pump out a half-decent chapter on a monthly basis, lawdy. Alas, that has yet to happen I hope you'll still read! – and anyone else who reads, favorites, follows, or reviews! You guys are my rocks! Thank you so much for the motivation and inspiration!
Regards,
J.B.
ATTENTION: Please pay attention to the time headings, as we flash-forward and flash-back on several occasions in this chapter.
Flash Forward 48 Hours from Last Chapter
Berlin, Germany
1943
Bodies littered the teakwood floor, blood trickling from jawbones, blown to pieces by expertly aimed bullets. He had chosen traditional bullets, in favor of his tesseract-powered pistol – he wanted evidence of their deaths, their once-pristine uniforms, emblazoned with his insignia, to bear their blood like a rusty hue of paint, to bear their failings, their humiliation, their suffering. The tesseract obliterated with the speed and stealth of a fox. He lusted for time, not a mere instant, to breathe in the scent of cold fear, the metallic tang of blood, to hum to their silent screams that reverberated like the faintest melody. More still of the crimson liquid spilt from shattered skulls, seeping into the plush threads of the antique Baksheesh carpet. No matter; he could easily procure a new one, when Istanbul was his for the taking. The finest gems in the world would soon be his, the jewels of his treasure rooms, lush with ancient antiquities, elegancy, finery – wealth beyond imagination, power beyond the common man's reach.
His long, crimson fingers glided with practiced grace across the keys, finally caressing the beloved surfaces of his Bösendorfer grand pianoafter being removed for so many months, deep in the Alps. But, despite his slender hands being alight with the energy of death, extinguishing the lives of petty failures that deserved misery and slow suffering, who deserved hellish afterlives, withering under the weight of his death wish, he derived little ecstasy from his music.
The heavy chords of Franz Liszt's Totentanz suited his mood with an almost surreal perfection – tragedy, rage, a poignant sense of loss and emptiness, a hollowness that worked its way deep into his psyche, leaving not but ruin and desolation. His heart ached with a dull and listless, throbbing pain that matched the growing migraine in his skull. Death, destruction, and bloodshed could not compare to the blooming sensory explosion of emotions he felt – he did not know where to turn; he was utterly lost in a hollow of darkened hopelessness, loneliness, despair, disappointment – perhaps a touch of regret – no, no, it was more than a touch. It was a deep sense of regret, something foreign and alien to him leaving him empty and dead.
His fingers rippled across the keys, ascending and descending scales – such mournful yet chaotic music would have left him in a state of ecstasy, a sort of unbridled perfection, unleashed from his skilled and willful fingertips. Yet, the strikingly modernistic cacophony of Liszt's composition left him cold, as deceased as the spirits it animated with its diabolical rhythms.
She was gone – and with her, more power than he ever could have imagined. Power beyond even his highly advanced psyche had been in his grasp, power that in itself was the key to complete control, to world domination. Power that his niece had been unable to fathom – power that she shunned, criticized – loathed. And now, she was gone – whisked away by the men that he had dreamt of crushing beneath his heel. His already blackened heart had constricted, shriveled under the weight of his rage and no amount of death or suffering could satisfy his fury. A mixture of anger and bitterness welled up within him like a spring, tainted with a cold, heavy feeling of betrayal and loss.
His niece had been torn from him, violently captured by his enemies in the heat of an air raid. She could be cold, starving, ailing – those American fiends could be torturing her, tormenting her, causing her pain and sadness, urging her to give up the Red Skull's whereabouts. His heart ached with worry and concern.
And yet… what if it was what she had wanted, to fall into the allies' hands, to be coddled and protected by that damned star-spangled man? What if his eternal goodness, his child-like innocence, had drawn her to him, had enthralled her with ideals of freedom and peace? She had attempted by then fifteen escapes, each a failure, granted, but an attempt all the same. She had been reeling to escape his grasp, rejected his visions as madness, and had sought to make her opinions known by causing his elite officers chaos and tiresome annoyance. She had made a nuisance out of herself, adamant to prove herself a thorn in his side, a constant bother. What if she had wanted this, to be rescued by those American fiends? What if she had hoped and longed for it to happen, for them to whisk her away, far from his watchful eye?
The idea was simply too painful to fathom, yet his mind was rife with its detail. What if she had wanted it, because she dreaded him, loathed him, despised him so strongly?
He shuddered, his slender fingertips jolting to a halt against the ivory keys, the music crashing into a dead silence.
No amount of death or suffering could erase the thought that lingered on his psyche.
She loathed him. Not simply the Red Skull.
He looked at the portrait that hung on the far wall, his darling little Mina, pale and sallow, a sickly little thing. Her eyes, a washed-out grey, so lifeless, so sad, yet so sweet and innocent. He loved her with all his heart – a world without her was unimaginable. She was destined to be his queen - she would be his greatest success, his legacy, his most magnificent creation. But love was something that he had been robbed of all too often – a deprivation as a boy, a lust as a foolish youngster, a poison as a seasoned scientist. His father had cast him off as a weakling who did not deserve the life he had been given; the love and attention that he had craved as a boy were never granted to him. His superiors regarded him as little more than a hopeless, utopian fanatic; they envied his brilliance and used it as a weapon against him.
Victoria. The woman he had loved more than anything in the entire world had betrayed him, manipulated his emotions, diverted his iron gaze from that of his true destiny. She'd filled his head with nonsense, ideas of marriage and a seemingly idyllic happily ever after – only to bring it all crashing down within moments, after so many blissful months.
His career and credibility in shreds, his lover whisked away, back to America, the land of milk and honey and roads paved with gold, he had purged himself of all true emotion, of all love, until there was naught but blackened hatred, utterly collected and composed by a facade of bitterly cold indifference.
He felt a twinge of regret. What he had demanded of Wilhelmina had been steep – nigh impossible. He had expected utter perfection from her – piano lessons, fencing lessons, marksmanship, tutoring in Greek, Arabian, Latin, Norwegian – dancing and etiquette classes, to ensure that she mirror the proper lady of traditional nobility. He viewed his laborious efforts at educating her as one of devotion and affection – he strived to create for her a life of privilege and luxury. Yet, he had awarded his love sparingly and with a bitter edge that had been distinct. He could not help it – he had never been and never would be the nurturing, warm spirit that his sister had been. Love had never been awarded to him as a child, despite his sister's patient efforts, and he, somewhat distressingly, had never been able to award love freely to others. His cold countenance and stubbornness had merely been his defense against the outside odds, set deeply against him. But had he unwittingly driven his niece away? He could not pretend to have been ignorant of her pleas for contact – he needed only to recollect the countless occasions on which he had been called away to the Alps, that little girl's lonesome eyes, begging him to stay.
Tears stung at his eyes; he brushed them with away with a rigid hand.
He would rescue his dear Mina from whatever tortures the Americans were inflicting upon her – he would free her from their imprisonment, and he would revitalize her faith in him, her trust and her admiration. He would show her the world as she had never seen it before – the world was her oyster, a treasure that would satisfy her every desire. He would give her the love that he had once craved; he would learn how to show her the affection that resided deep in his withered heart. If she truly had wanted to escape from his grasp – he would win her back. Together, they would take on the world, and he would prove to her how desperately he wanted this for her. Not simply for the Red Skull, not simply for him. He would pour his heart and soul into his efforts, into his inventions, into his army – all for her, all for her benefit and happiness.
And the Americans? They would know suffering and they would know grief and tragedy. They would witness destruction more devastating than anything Hitler's concentration camps could ever dream of mustering. They had taken his precious little goddess from him – and for that, for that they would pay.
And the first in line to suffer his vengeance?
Why, Captain America, of course.
XXX
Flash Back 48 Hours to present time, Last Chapter
The American Barracks
London, England – 1943
2000 Hours
"No, Rogers. It's too much of a risk – you're a walking poster boy for American activity and if you just happen to magically show up in the middle of Berlin, every Nazi in Germany is gonna be on our asses like white on rice. And that's not including the HYDRA boy scouts Schmidt's got crawling all over his lavish estate." Phillips eyed the bristling Captain with a steely glare.
"But sir, Dog Company isn't prepared to go up against HYDRA's technology – they'll blow them to pieces. The Howlers should be the ones to go in. It isn't fair to those boys – they're a bunch of newly enlisted, they've only been out of training for a few months now. HYDRA will annihilate them! We've been up against them time and time again – we have the necessary expertise."
"Don't get cocky, Rogers. You weren't much better off than them when you first started out, not counting your lucky dose of super soldier serum. In fact, I'd wager that you were worse off."
The young captain scowled at his superior, which Phillips rewarded with a grim smirk. "The fact of the matter is you and the Howlers have more pressing priorities in the Alps – HYDRA trains carrying god knows what are in and out of the main-base – the last and most vital HYDRA base. Your skills are needed there, Rodgers, and you damn well know it. And, with all due respect, you are the only special one out of the Howlers. Which means that every single man in your battalion is just as at risk as any of the men in Dog Company. I need you in the Alps, blowing up HYDRA trains and stalling Schmidt's progress. Dog Company will take care of the girl in Berlin. I've got a boy that's just been promoted to Captain – Robert Leigh – he's nineteen but he has the balls to throw himself into the line of HYDRA fire. They'll take care of it, and they'll have plenty of reinforcements."
"I think wrecking HYDRA trains is child's play next to a highly advanced kidnapping." The young captain answered bitterly.
"You'd think twice about that if you had the patience to hear me out. We've intercepted a HYDRA code – Schmidt's little boy scout Zola has been in and out of the main-base, commuting to Berlin for materials – presumably for his weapons. Zola is Schmidt's closest goon – the information he could possess about Schmidt's next move could be vital. He's boarding a HYDRA transport line approximately twelve hours before the kidnap mission in Berlin is scheduled to be executed. You can't be two places at once, Captain, and I want you capturing Zola. We're catching this girl completely on a lark – on your judgment, which has a habit of being faulty. Zola is on the HYDRA inside – he's our best source of information next to Schmidt himself, and he's the only one in HYDRA who's liable to not have the guts to crunch the little pill."
Rogers sighed heavily. "I'm just concerned – this girl could be the key to our beating HYDRA. Zola might provide us with information, but every single lead we've ever gotten on HYDRA has taken us nowhere. Schmidt's too good – he knows better than to leave a predictable trail. He'll know that we've got Zola at some point or another. He'll adapt. According to the army, I'm the only one powerful enough to take Schmidt down. What happens if I'm not good enough?"
"That's humble of you, Rogers."
"I'm serious, sir."
"So am I. What happens if this girl is a HYDRA informant and Schmidt's setting us up? What happens if we "rescue" her from HYDRA's iron grip and it turns out that she doesn't want to be rescued? Then what? What happens then, Rogers?"
The captain lowered his head. "I get fired for screwing up."
"No, I'll get fired. And then I'll kill you."
"Not unless Schmidt gets to me first."
"Then I'll kill him. I've had dibs on killing you since the day Erskine dragged your sorry ass onto my army base."
Rogers chuckled quietly to himself. "I just wish I could be there." He said softly, after a few moments had passed. "She saved my life. I wanted to be the one to save hers. Pay the debt."
"You can't save everybody, Rogers. Sooner or later, you're going to have to accept that. Besides, until we know for sure that this kid's trustworthy, I'm viewing it as capture and imprisonment. Your conscience is the last thing I need screwing up my operation. Now get the hell out of my sight, will you? You've got briefings to read over and I have a meeting with the leader of Dog Company."
"You mean I'm not invited to the party?"
Phillips rolled his eyes. "You and Leigh would get along too well for my liking. I can barely deal with one of you at a time – two's a crowd. Now get your ass back to barracks."
Rogers nodded reluctantly. "Yes, sir."
XXX
Berlin, Germany – 1943
Twilight – the sky a whimsical purplish blue, the silhouettes of stars sprinkled across the horizon. The wind funneled through the alleyway with a biting, ominous chill that seeped into her sweat-dampened skin and made her pounding heart clench. Blue light trickled from her fingertips and sparked at the ends of her damp curls, the reserve of power revitalizing her tired muscles, increasing her pace.
Every escape thus far had been a failure – yet with each attempt, she learned something new, gained yet another trick to hide in her sleeve. The din of voices, clattering and clashing together in an overwhelming cacophony of sound had faded to a distant hum at the back of her head. She no longer lost energy so quickly – with each attempt, she grew stronger, faster – more agile, able to reserve more strength. With each attempt, she made it farther and farther out of the city, and the HYDRA guards, regardless of their weaponry, grew tired. The punishments grew worse – the Red Skull cheerfully ordered her to run kilometers in the pouring rain, stumbling through muddy fields with a rifle held upright, hauled up onto her feet every time she fell. That was only the first time she had managed to escape.
Then, they began experimenting. She was drugged with silvery syringes, filled with liquids that left her temporarily paralyzed. Several times, syringes filled with prototype chemicals were injected into her skin, leaving her violently ill. Compared to reciting odysseys in Greek whilst practicing piano arpeggios, the punishments of her childhood, these were a hellish sort of cruelty that she had never before experienced. The vicious, unrelenting animosity of the Red Skull only made itself more clear with every escape attempt – yet, she did not dare give in. The Red Skull had ensured her that he would stop at nothing to achieve his goals, even if it meant crushing her every effort. She would challenge him to that.
She upped her pace, the muscles in her legs silently crying out in both agony and exhilaration. She could hear the hollow clop of jackboots striking the cobblestones, growing louder with every passing second. She willed an orb of electrified blue light to bloom from her open palms, and with a swift backward motion, she flung the light at the soldiers. An earsplitting crack rippled through the air and the screams of HYDRA soldiers punctured the gusty wind like thunder. She cast a quick glance over her shoulder, her stomach lurching as the smell of scorched flesh flooded her nostrils. Two down… seven to go. The hum of a bullet whizzing past her rang crystal clear in her ears, the searing heat of its speed present against her skin, the bullet only narrowly missing its target. It was some solace that the soldiers were forbidden to use tesseract-powered weapons against her – what good would she be to HYDRA if she was not but a speck of dust, vaporized by the sheer force of their guns?
She steadied her breathing in an effort to preserve the remaining shreds of her energy, focusing her gaze forward, blocking out the noise of the HYDRA soldiers behind her. She sensed that she only had a few moments left of precious power, before her body finally crumbled under the toll of strain and fatigue. The soft din of voices, rich and multi-layered, grew louder with every step, her movements magnified, they pounded in her ears. Her muscles cried out in protest as she forced herself to move faster, her throat ragged as the cool night air filtered into her lungs in short gasps. She heard the razor-sharp buzzing of a bullet behind her, felt its presence only seconds behind her –
Searing pain and heat crippled her leg, her knees buckling and her body falling forward onto the hard stone pavers, her body taking the sudden realization of its weight, limp and lifeless. She lifted her head just slightly to look down at her leg, a bullet embedded in her calf, blood pouring from the wound. She let her head roll back, hitting the ground with a solid thunk. Her eyes gazed blurrily at the twighlight, the sky a greyish purple, dotted with tiny, crystalline stars. A blackness, like velvet, slowly crept in from the corners of her eyes, flooding faster now, like a cascade, until there was not but darkness and a single sentence resounding like a distant echo.
Rise up, rise up, rise up.
XXX
The American Barracks
London, England – 1943
2100 Hours
Robert E. Leigh nervously fingered his new rank tab, a pair of silver bars pinned to the shoulder of his beige uniform. In the past months, he'd seen more carnage than any of his beloved comics could muster, their brilliantly colored pages nothing compared to the vivid crimson of blood, the blurry silver of flying shrapnel. At nineteen years, his superiors considered him a very unlikely candidate for his position, much less his rank, but the new captain was used to defying odds. He let his fingers falter from his shoulder, reaching up to ghost the rough surface of a thin scar, just peeking out from his hairline. His father had smashed a lamp against his skull in a state of drunken rage, when he was but thirteen years old. The bone cracked, he'd bled until his younger sister found him unconscious on the floor, beside his father, he too unconscious, the intoxication catching up to him.
Bitterly, Leigh let his hand drop to his side, listless and limp. He shouldn't have survived that. He shouldn't have survived a Nazi bullet to the thigh, but he had. Beginner's luck, perhaps. A few months on the frontlines in Italy had taught him to never dwell on a lucky break – you could survive a gunshot wound one day, and end up stepping square on a landmine the next. Do yourself a favor, let bygones be bygones. Focus on staying alive long enough for the new day.
He felt a tap on the shoulder, a scrawny Corporal clearing his throat beside him.
"Captain Leigh, sir, the Colonel is ready to see you now."
Leigh eyed him glassily for a moment, still unused to being referred to as "sir". Hell, the soldier was probably older than him. He nodded silently and turned for the Colonel's office.
Of course, it wasn't really an office – more like a cinderblock storage closet, with a dented metal desk, a dusty light bulb hanging from an electrical wire, a gigantic furnace taking up the better half of the cramped room. At the desk, the colonel had his head bent, a cigarette held between his lips, grey-blue smoke curling from his lips. An itch began at the back of the captain's throat, longing for the soothing smoke of one of the Pall Mall's resting in his back pocket.
The colonel glanced up at him, his eyes narrowed, his lips pulled downward in a taut frown. He removed the cigarette from his mouth, keeping his gaze steady on the young captain, and held it between his fingers.
"Leigh," The word punctuated the dull roar of the furnace like a spark. "Sit down. You look like you could use a drink."
"I've been meanin' to lay off the whiskey for a while…" Leigh answered absently, adding a stern "sir" after a moment of silence for good measure.
Phillips eyed him levelly before taking a swig from his own flask. "You've read your briefings, I'm assuming."
Leigh nodded. "Yes sir."
"Alright. We've got a recon team in Berlin, tracking subject Athena's every move – and the HYDRA detail's every move. We've documented roughly fifteen escape attempts, including one that occurred about an hour ago."
"She successfully broke out of the grounds?"
"One or way another, yes. She's smart – she changes up her routine every time – a different exit, a different situation; sometimes when she's out and about, sometime's she's breaking loose from Schmidt's residence. If she's off the grounds, she's accompanied by a civilian detail – most likely so she doesn't attract any unwanted attention. Schmidt's not on good standing with the Nazis and he's sure as hell not on good terms with us. Now from our observations, it's riskier for her to break loose if she's wandering around town – too many possible observers and the HYDRA guards are already on her tail – they can easily catch up to her. Her favored routes seem to be out of a basement window, usually between dusk and around one or two in the morning."
"So she attempted a breakout today?"
"Yes. According to what's been documented, she broke out of an attic window at the top floor of the house. Jumped to a tree branch at the eastern side – swung herself up onto a branch in the neighboring property – hit ground from there and managed to get about 1.6 kilometers into the city before the HYDRA detail caught up to her."
"Did she kill any of the HYDRA guards?"
"Roughly ten out of a thirty-man squadron. Fifteen other guards remained at the residence."
"You mean Schmidt's got forty-five men guarding this broad?"
Phillips smiled grimly. "He started out at about twenty men. She's turning into a threat. Or a pain in the ass, I suppose."
"Or both. Hell, if I were her, I'd be leaning toward being a pain in the ass more than anything. If I were her, the only thing keeping me sane would be lighting a fire under Schmidt's ass. I wouldn't have the resources or the man-power to really pose as a threat – just an annoyance."
"I figure that's what she's aiming to do. But, whatever the hell she's aiming at doesn't interest me. What interests me is that we get her before Schmidt decides to move her to a different location – I reckon that if she continues to be making fairly public escape attempts, Schmidt will have no choice but to move her somewhere more isolated. The last thing he needs is unwanted publicity on HYDRA, given that they're really not popular with anybody at the moment. Now, if everything on my agenda goes as planned, Dog Company will be shipping out to Berlin in 24 hours."
Leigh nodded.
"Now, if everything goes smoothly, Dog Company will take the following positions. Sixty of your men will be positioned at intervals around the city, dressed in civilian SS attire; they will be all armed, and will reinforce the operation should you give the signal. An armed civilian truck will be waiting approximately a block from the property to transport subject Athena, yourself, and the ten of your men who will follow you onto the immediate property. Ten other men will be positioned surrounding the property; they'll be the first reinforcements to get to you if anything goes wrong. Your objective is to blend in to the HYDRA troops; your weapons will be silenced, and you will all be outfitted with tranquilizers that Stark's developed in our labs. When that raid siren goes off, you and your men run. Grab that girl; sedate her, and get the hell out of there. The reinforcements will be on that property or damn near it as soon as that siren sounds – you will be covered and you will have plenty of support. Do you understand, Captain?"
"Yes, sir."
Phillips sighed heavily. "I've gotten a lot of bullshit from my commanding officers for having you head up this mission, Leigh. They say you're just a kid."
"So was David when he struck down Goliath." Leigh answered quietly. "I won't fail you, Colonel. I'll get that girl – bring the whole city of Berlin crashing down behind me if I have to."
Phillips inhaled sharply, eyeing the young captain grimly.
"I expect nothing less. Go brief your men."
XXX
Berlin, Germany – 1943
Evening of the American Attack on Johann Schmidt's Berlin Home
2300 Hours
She stared up at the moulded ceiling, pupils glassy, a dull throbbing beginning at the back of her eye sockets. The blankets lay strewn across the end of the bed, tossed off to relieve her aching muscles of the oppressive late spring heat. Her back throbbed, long, jagged scabs stretching at an angle across her back, like slash marks. They itched and burned as the skin tightened around them, still pink as the wounds healed. Her left leg lay propped on a pillow, packed and wrapped with gauze. She could feel the crater the HYDRA bullet had left, sending pangs of raw, fiery pain up her leg with even the slightest movement. She glanced over at her night table, a silvery spent bullet lying lonely in the moonlight. She had asked the physician to disinfect for her, after removing it, along with a hefty chunk of flesh, from her leg – so that she might keep it. The doctor had given her quite a queer expression – a mixture of horror and skepticism. She replied softly that she wished to keep it as a reminder of who her enemies were, garnering a further dismayed look from the physician. Reluctantly, he agreed. So there it sat, all alone on her night table. Her last escape had not fared her well, although in truth, none of them had.
This time though, had been particularly painful. The Red Skull, phoned immediately after the occurrence, ordered that she be whipped until her flesh broke, leaving bloody, jagged slashes across her back – as if a tiger had clawed at her. The soldiers that attended her beating, for once, removed their masks so that she could stare into their icy blue eyes and grow enraged at their haughty smirks. Herr Skull had ordered that Johann's riding crop be used as the weapon of choice; once used to gently stir his prized black mare, the crop was now used as a weapon of torture against his niece. Her wounded leg had buckled beneath her at the impact, but they would haul her up again and again, laughing, blowing clouds of cigarette smoke in her eyes, cackling and cursing at her. They called her bitch and freak and monster and whore.
As she lay in bed now, the thought of what Johann would have done to the soldiers for treating her so brutally did not even ghost across her mind. She didn't care what he would have done, what he would have said. She found it hard to care about anything now. Her life revolved around planning and attempting to flee, only to be dragged back and to be beaten and bloodied and taunted.
"Perhaps I should kill myself." She whispered. "It would be easy. I could do it – no weapons – just the power. Keep going until I can't anymore – until the power consumes me."
She felt tears prick her dry eyes, but she did not wipe them away. Her shame and anguish were written across her flesh – every HYDRA guard could see her suffering. She no longer cared what they thought of her – she no longer cared about escaping, about living, about anything. It had all become part of the routine, the daily agenda. Lifeless movements, carried out only because she felt they had to be.
Johann's letters kept coming. It had been months since she had responded to one, until just that week, when finally, she felt that the one lingering thought on her mind had to be said.
I want to die. Please, let me die.
Johann did not respond.
And so, lying there in the shadows of the waning moonlight, she came to the conclusion.
Her next attempt would not be an attempt, an attempt at escaping, an attempt at freedom. She had one goal in mind, and it would be simple to fulfill.
She closed her eyes, faintly hoping that Death would open its gates to her, that the loving arms of her parents would welcome her into the quiet silence of decease.
The howling of an air raid alarm pierced the silence, the rumble of bomber jets weighting down the silent skies with a heavy roar.
She blinked once, before letting her eyes close. The guards would drag her out in a moment or two – why should she feel compelled to rush? It didn't matter if the timbers of the house came crashing down on her – nothing would be as painful as what she had suffered.
XXX
Captain Leigh eyed his work solemnly, the body of young HYDRA guard, the skull punctured by his bullet. Another body lay beside it, also shot by his bullet. Leigh glanced over at the officer beside him and nodded silently, giving the signal. With swift and silent motions, they donned the masks of the two guards, completing their HYDRA regalia, and tucked the bodies behind a thick row of hedges. They were still on the perimeter of the property, hidden by darkness and a wall of bushes and thick-trunked trees from the watchful gaze of HYDRA personnel. Their luck had been rich – the bright beams of HYDRA torches had been extinguished some days before – pesky neighbors had complained of the invasive lights, allowing Dog Company a welcome cover of blackness. With silent, measured steps, the two Americans made their way to their positions at the iron fence to the side of the property. The two soldiers they had killed had been coming off of their break to change shifts. Like clockwork, Leigh and the other man fell into their places with a certain ease.
Leigh swallowed hard. It couldn't be that easy. Or could it? They weren't outmanned – if anything, they had more men than the HYDRA detail. But still – HYDRA had weapons capable of vaporizing a man in seconds. Leigh had his bullets and whatever luck he could manage to salvage. With hope and good timing, the air raid would cause enough noise and chaos to make their mission simple. The alarm would go off – ten men would move in, machine guns at the ready and with reinforcements rapidly filling in the gaps. Leigh and a handful of others would move in close to the girl – grab her, sedate her, and move while the reinforcements covered their backs. Move her to the truck – get the hell out. It sounded simple enough. Or was he simply trying to rationalize the fear that had worked its way into the pit of his stomach?
As if on cue, the heavens seemed to explode with light and fire and smoke – the iron bellies of the bomber jets unloading their volatile cargo onto a city of sleeping Gestapo men, Nazis – perhaps even Hitler himself. He dared not think – he willed his legs to sprint forward, matching the pace of the other HYDRA guards, blending in, keeping silent and alert. The guards ahead of him flanked the back exit, as if welcoming their prisoner into the din. He fell into the line of soldiers, his heart pounding in his ears as he waited and waited for what seemed like forever. What the hell's taking them? He thought anxiously. Did the girl wanna take her curlers out or something? Put on her Sunday best, go out in style? A few precious seconds longer – it felt like years – and the pale, bony figure of a young woman appeared, dragged by HYDRA guards as if she were not but a rotting corpse to be thrown in a pit and buried. He laid eyes on her for a split second, taking in her almost emaciated form, her limp hair, her grey complexion – she looked like death warmed over, not but maybe sixteen or seventeen years – a child still – not much younger than himself. But he couldn't gawk any longer – he had a mission, he had to move or all would be lost.
Without a thought, he dashed – and his movements were but a faint blur from there on. He could feel his gloved hands clasp onto the girl's frail arm – so frail it nearly slipped from his grasp. Before him, the other American had her other arm, a needle sinking into her flesh – within moments the girl's body was limp in their arms, barely a squeaked scream escaping her lips. Flashes of blue light erupted around them, coupled with the rattle of machine-gun fire. American troops flooded the grounds, clashing with HYDRA guards – yelling in English and German barely audible over the din of the bomber jets above. The two officers sprinted, the girl awkwardly lifted above their shoulders, a dead weight that was slowing them down. Without a word, Leigh hefted the frail body from the other man's arms, swinging her up and over his shoulders.
"Move, Lieutenant!" he barked at the other man and dashed for the gates. He threw a nervous glance back to see another American officer clash with a blinding wall of blue light, his body vaporized in less than a moment, his ragged scream still echoing on the air. Blue fire was everywhere, blinding and alien – he knew what it could do, the carnage it could create in moments. But he'd never seen it before, with his own eyes, so close and so real. It was only ever described to him – rarely captured in photographs. What he saw now left him in a mixture of awe and horror. Above them, the air war raged, sleek German fighter aircrafts rising up with stealth and speed to meet the American bombers. The siren wailed over and over, deafening when coupled with the roar of exploding missiles. He glanced back again the Lieutenant covering his back, pistols at the ready – he glanced to the side to see an American soldier with a machine gun rattling off at the pursuing HYDRA guards. It can't be this easy.
Out of nowhere, a HYDRA guard sprang up, as if from thin air – running at him, rifle ready –
Why the hell isn't he shooting?
The lieutenant behind him fired his gun, the HYDRA soldier falling backward with a stifled yelp.
"Why aren't they shooting?" he yelled over his shoulder. "Why the hell aren't they shooting at us? We've got their prisoner, damn it!"
"They can't shoot at us unless they wanna risk shooting at her!" The Lieutenant yelled. "She's a weapon – if they kill her, Schmidt'll have their asses!"
Leigh sucked in his breath, his throat like sandpaper, silently thanking God for the cover. They were rapidly nearing the border of the property, with HYDRA guards still in hot pursuit. The transport vehicle was at the edge, ready and waiting for their cargo. His breaths were short and ragged, but he upped his pace, his legs on fire as he sprinted for the truck. His body hit the side, colliding with the metal, and the waiting soldiers were prying the girl from his arms, swinging her up and in. He clung to the side of the truck, the other two men jumping on, and the driver floored the gas.
Hellfire broke out behind – Blue light blazed from the HYDRA weapons and the roar of engines deafened the smoky air; soldiers were running, diving into vehicles, surging forward. They could fire at will now, the girl hidden – a blaze of blue grazed the roof of the truck, a serpentine hissing erupting from the metal. Leigh flung himself into the back of the truck, falling hard against the metal floor as an explosion rocked the vehicle. Nearly thrown out of alignment, the truck swerved violently, a gaping, smoking hole in the metal roof.
"Jesus Christ," a soldier moaned beside him, his hands feverishly working to strap the girl to a stretcher.
"Keep her stable." Leigh snapped. "We want her in one piece." He glanced over at the other soldiers, guarding the back entrance, some clinging to the sides of the vehicle, guns cocked. "Open fire, soldiers! Reserve what ammo you can but get those HYDRA guards off our tails." His eyes darted forward to the driver. "Do anything you can to get 'em off our path – take detours, swerve, speed – anything! Lieutenant, where are the grenades that Stark developed?"
"Got 'em, sir. Working on it now." He handed off two of the grenades. "Throw them on my count – one – two – now!"
Another explosion rocked the vehicle, a blinding vortex of orange light swirling from the detonated grenades. Only seconds later, a flash of vivid cobalt blue and aquamarine light blazed through the truck, violently twisting and wrenching at the armored walls. The inhuman howls of the soldiers clinging to the sides were cut sickeningly short – a silence so dead and cold that he could barely keep from vomiting. His back pressed against the metal, Leigh felt the sear of heat blister his spine and he haplessly threw his body forward, gnashing into his lip at the pain. He felt the skin break, seared onto the metal, and he lay on his stomach, even the metal floor hot from the impact of the fire. He barely managed to mumble the other officer's name – his limp body barely a blur before his retinas, seared by the blinding light. He called out again, a yelp of agony and fear – knowing the man was dead. Another soldier whimpered beside him, his side bloodied, his uniform torn. Still, the truck raced forward, albeit on teetering tires. As long as they were still moving…
Sucking in his ragged breaths, Leigh hefted himself up onto his knees, the pain in his back like a fire so hot – hotter than hell. The Devil would have withered in that oppressive heat. A single grenade rolled precariously across the floor, the rickety surface throwing it left and right. With sweat-slicked hands, he grabbed onto it firmly, halting its movement, and with a shaky arm, he lobbed it forward, silently begging God for it to hit its mark….
Orange light swirled up in a luminous ball, the smell of gasoline and cooking flesh permeating the smoky air, the howls of dying men drowning out the roar of bomber jets in the silvery skies above. A gas tank in the back of HYDRA vehicle – with that shaky arm he'd hefted it far, hitting its target – blowing the HYDRA convoy into a vivid scarlet explosion of death and blood and smoke and metal and shrapnel.
His knees were like jelly beneath him and he buckled, falling to his floor, his stomach feeling as if a rocket were strapped to his back, pushing him down, the pain like no other.
He gasped at the driver to move like hell – and his eyes clamped shut. With a groggy movement, he slung his arm out, feeling the frail, unconscious body of Athena beneath him.
The world went slowly to blackness. He welcomed it.
XXX
Berlin, Germany
1943
24 Hours after the attack on Schmidt's Berlin Residence
"Herr Schmidt, there is news from the base – it is urgent!"
The officer's voice was barely audible to his ears – only music filled his mind, beautiful, poignant, tragic – enraged. His mind was on fire – he was like a raging, rabid beast, unleashed from its hellish cage, hungry and lustful for blood and for death and for misery of any kind. He lusted for, he longed for it – oh, how he could drink in the screams of his soldiers – but no, no they were his soldiers no longer. They were failures – all of them, damnable idiotic failures that deserved hell and suffering and grief and death.
"Would you be so careless to interrupt me if I were speaking, soldier?"
"Never, mein Herr."
"Then why would you interrupt my playing?"
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the soldier lower his head in shame, like a whipped child, and he grinned fiendishly.
"Never mind that. I sadly haven't the energy to kill you. You see, young man, I took such joy from killing those men – look at them – obliterated, destroyed, decaying shells of what they could have been. They failed me, soldier, they failed me as you will not. You will not fail me because you have seen what happens to failures – there is no time for petty apologies or forgiveness in this world, soldier, and nor will there time for such in HYDRA. You understand this?"
"Every word, Herr Schmidt – clearer than finely cut crystal."
He smiled grimly. "Tell me, soldier – what urgent news is there for me now, hmm? I have lost my most prized weapon. The American prances about Germany destroying my cargo trains and whatever else he can get his hands on that is of value to me. Tell me, soldier, what else is new? A change in the weather? Hitler is having a tea-party with Churchill? Eva Braun is having an affair with Douglas MacArthur?"
The soldier's Adam's apple bobbed nervously. "Dr. Zola – he – he – the Americans happened to attack the cargo train that Dr. Zola was on, sir. Heading to the main-base. He – he's been captured – by the Americans."
Johann flexed his long, crimson fingers as if he were readying to strangle the young soldier.
"That is the urgent news you have for me, soldier?"
"Y – yes, sir."
Johann stood, hands clasped behind his back, stepping over the corpses that littered his living-room, pacing about like a caged lion, deprived of meat. "I do not give a damn about what happens to our dear little Dr. Zola, soldier. I hope the Americans shoot the bumbling idiot."
"They have remanded him to Switzerland, sir. They are expecting you to negotiate his freedom, in return for HYDRA's full surrender and cooperation with the United States."
The Red Skull's laughter was like a monstrous howl, a raspy cackling noise that grated on the air. "Do they really think it will be that easy?" He scoffed, his tone almost fanatical through his laughter. "Do they really think I care about what happens to that simpleton? He is useless! His designs are second-rate – my weapons are what have brought us success! Zola is a pathetic excuse, desperate to please his Nazi masters. The only reason I kept him alive was so that I could flay him and mount his disgusting hide in my exhibits."
He paced back and forth, his heart racing with a mixture of rage and utter contempt. "Send a message to the main-base immediately. It is the central artery – with Zola in their grasp, the Americans probably think that they contain the doorway to all of my precious secrets. Of course, that could not possibly be farther from the truth, but no doubt the Americans have grown bolder. They will attack – soon. Have every entrance locked down and heavily reinforced. I want all soldiers armed and prepared for battle. And soldier – ready the aircraft for immediate take-off. I think I have a delightful little surprise for our star-spangled man."
"You mean to initiate the final strike, mein Herr."
Johann grinned. "Oh no, soldier, not yet. I cannot possibly get anything done with the good Captain waltzing about. No, no – I plan to send him on a flight he cannot possibly return from."
"And the tesseract, mein Herr. Where would you have us transport it?"
"Keep it here. Guarded, of course. The Americans have been here once – for all they know, they have achieved that which they came for. But I intend to set them reeling at a loss every bit as dreadful and tragic as mine. They took my niece from me. I will take their Star-spangled man from them. They will pay for what they have done. I will crush them under my heel, every one of them. When the world is HYDRA's, soldier – we will wipe that damnable country off the face of the earth."
XXX
The American Barracks
London, England – 1943
1000 Hours
She lay on a steel gurney, her frail frame quaking with ragged breaths. The leather straps that bound her to the stretcher were almost laughably futile – she was so thin and so bony, there was at least an inch of gaping space between her body and the bonds. Sensory patches dotted her ghostly skin – like fine porcelain, threaded through with spidery blue veins. A matted tangle of tawny curls fell from her fragile skull, her eyes closed tightly, her lips parted just slightly, twitching from time to time – as if in a silent language, murmuring dreams that only she could hear, that only she was privy to. He longed to speak to her – to tell her that all was right now, that she was safe, that nothing would happen to her. She had saved him from a fiery death in that factory, and now, he had repaid the debt. She was safe from HYDRA's iron grasp, from the Red Skull's far-reaching gaze.
But he hadn't repaid the debt. Someone else had – a mere kid, a nobody. Not the American hero. It shouldn't have been like this. He should have carried her out of the fire and smoke, to safety. It would have made Skull's disgusting skin crawl with fury.
Steven Rogers lowered his head, staring down at the concrete floor below him. He couldn't be like that – so arrogant and self-centered. The boys who had rescued this girl – if it could even be called that, so soon – had fought, many of them losing their lives – the others, horribly wounded. He had never met Robert Leigh, never spoken to him – but he'd stared at his comatose body, the hideous burns that gnarled his frame. He could only imagine the agony the boy had suffered to protect that girl and to bring her to safety.
He wished that a glass window wasn't separating him from the body of Athena – they were no better than HYDRA. They had her caged up like an alien, some foreign species to be dissected. He wondered what her real name was, what village or city she came from, and how in God's name she had ended up in HYDRA. What if Schmidt had taken her from her parents? What if he had wrenched her from the loving arms of innocent bystanders – what if he had taken her for himself, to use as an experiment, a pawn – material for his gruesome weapons. Schmidt had thoughtlessly drained the energy of hundreds of American soldiers – he'd set them toiling in his factories for days and days without food, without water – kept them in cages like circus animals. Who was this girl? What had she suffered? He desperately longed to know.
Hollow footsteps sounded behind him.
"Did Zola live up to your expectations?" he murmured quietly – almost bitterly.
Someone sighed behind him. "I bought that bastard a steak – little shit's a vegetarian."
"Isn't that the style nowadays in the Reich? Hitler wants his people to be kind to the animals and yet he treats millions of innocent people like they're milk-bones for his dachshunds."
"Well, HYDRA doesn't discriminate."
"What did Zola tell you?"
"Not a whole lot more than we already know. Schmidt's a space shot – thinks he's a god and has every intention of blowing the world to smithereens to prove his point."
"Did he tell you anything about her?" Rogers gazed forlornly at the girl beyond the glass.
"The guards are bringing him out now. I want him to see her for himself. He'll know then that we aren't playing anymore. If what you're saying is true – that HYDRA intended to use this girl as a weapon – then I'm sure as hell going to take advantage of whatever she has to offer."
The captain sighed and stared down at the floor. Even now, the clack of army-issue shoes hitting the concrete floor echoed into the wide mouth of the containment area.
Like clockwork, Phillips drew a black curtain across the viewing window, blocking the girl from sight. Rogers supposed that he meant to keep the girl concealed from Zola until the time was right.
Two guards escorted a hand-cuffed little scientist to the center of the viewing area, the girl contained just beyond the glass in a concrete cell, closely monitored. A thin layer of stubble had grown on the little man's pudgy cheeks; his blond hair was mussed, his glasses askew, his ridiculous polka-dot bowtie removed. Strangely enough, the man wore a decidedly smug scowl, rather than the frightened gaze that seemed to have been stitched to his face, when in the Red Skull's presence.
"Guten Abend, Captain. What a pleasure to finally be meeting you face to face."
Rogers stared at him grimly. "Hopefully your ugly mug won't be around for much longer." He muttered.
Zola smiled coyly. "I trust that it won't."
Phillips cleared his throat. "You've been a very good dog for us, Zola. If you answer this next question I might give you a bone – and really send you to Switzerland this time."
"I cannot help you anymore. I was not Schmidt's confidant. Merely his weapons designer. Whatever secrets he keeps I am not privy to."
"Well, that may be the case typically but, I really think this particular 'secret' would be hard to miss." Phillips replied somewhat saucily. He gestured to a guard to pull back the heavy curtain, obscuring their view.
Rogers watched in silence as Zola's face twisted – a mixture of shock and bewilderment – but he quickly forced it back into place, resuming a rigid stare. His lips were pursed, almost skeptically – but equally awestruck.
"Who is she?" Phillips demanded.
Zola was silent.
"Who. Is she?" The colonel grew impatient. "Now. Or your vacation in Switzerland's canceled permanently."
"So…" Zola whispered, stepping closer to the window, eyes glassy. "You have found her."
"I want a name, doctor."
Zola's eyes flickered back at Phillips, but he seemed distracted.
"Who is she, Zola?" Rogers asked quietly, keeping his voice measured.
"Her name is Wilhelmina Hofstadter."
"Good, that's a name. Now how did she end up in HYDRA?" Phillips urged.
"She is his niece." Zola answered quietly. "Her mother – a widower – she died some years ago. She was his sister. He took the girl in after her death. … She will be pleased, I imagine, that you captured her."
Rogers lifted an eyebrow. "You mean she doesn't support HYDRA and Schmidt?"
"Oh no… well, it is rather complicated I suppose. She supports her uncle, but… not the Red Skull. Or… so I would think."
"And that's supposed to mean what, exactly?" Phillips interjected.
Zola glanced up at him, his eyes still focused on the girl. "The girl was against HYDRA's endeavors – she viewed them as I suppose most would – she saw Herr Schmidt's endeavors as madness. However, she does not know that Herr Schmidt is in fact the Red Skull – Herr Schmidt had been meaning to reveal to her for quite some time his true identity but… never got to it. He revealed to her his alter-ego, but portrayed him as a separate entity from himself. Thus, she believes that the 'Red Skull' is the leader of HYDRA, and the engineer of HYDRA's plans. She believes Herr Schmidt, her uncle, rather, is simply a scientist, brainwashed by the 'Red Skull' into believing his idealistic views."
"That does complicate things." Rogers murmured.
Phillips continued, nonplussed. "What did Schmidt intend to use her for?"
"As a weapon, of course." Zola replied, as if the answer was obvious. "She is the most powerful asset Schmidt possesses – er…. Possessed."
"How is that?"
"Well she is… she managed to imbue the power of the tesseract into her own physical form – we have only achieved such with weapons but she surpassed all odds in surviving such a strenuous process."
"And Schmidt forced her to endure that process?"
Zola adjusted his glasses. "No, no – she did it all on her own. Well, accidentally, I suppose. She managed to somehow find her way to the main-base – Herr Schmidt was quite secretive of his work – very protective of her, did not want to reveal the gravity of his work to her so soon – she was apparently drawn to the tesseract, the tesseract itself responded to her energy and granted her endless power. It was all the result of a lucky instance. None of it was engineered. Of course, the power took its time in fully imbuing its essence within her – it was not until, one evening in the factory – that the tesseract finally answered our pleas for completion."
"That night in the factory." Rogers said softly. "That attack – they were right in the middle of an experiment – she threw out that force-field – that must have been when she fully took on the power. Does Schmidt intend to use her for his plans? You said he's targeting the entire planet – does he plan to have her initiate this?"
Zola shook his head. "Schmidt knew that she rejected his plans – she would not go along with HYDRA's cause unless he somehow proved to her that it was a worthwhile one, a humane one. Or – he could destroy enough forces and enough people to convince her that there was nowhere else to run – that she would have no choice but to submit to his plans. She attempted escape so many times – it was obvious that she was seeking to find an ally somewhere; Schmidt feared that she would seek you out." Zola nodded at Rogers. "The last time I communicated with Schmidt, he made it clear that he intended to initiate his strike on the United States – you do, after all, currently possess the most powerful military in the world. He intends to completely destroy you, if nothing else than to prove to his niece that there is no safe haven for her to flee to. She must submit to his will."
Phillips was grim. "Thank you for your cooperation, doctor. Men, remove him to his cell."
"I wish you luck in your endeavors, Colonel." Zola called as the guards guided him back. "Herr Schmidt will no doubt exact his revenge on you, for taking his niece from him. I suggest you tread carefully."
His words faded to silence, leaving the captain and the colonel in a still, eerie quiet.
Rogers broke the silence. "We don't have any choice, do we? We have to get Schmidt before he gets us – and Zola seemed pretty clear that Schmidt intends to do just that."
Phillips sighed heavily. "So I wasted half of a company on a capture mission for a girl that isn't going to do us any good. We're too late."
Rogers stood up. "If we take out HYDRA, there's still the Nazis to worry about, sir. Besides, if we hadn't gotten the girl – there could always be a chance that we don't stop him today or tomorrow or the next day – but each day that he's without that girl, is a few precious hours for us to finally beat him. I've seen what that girl can do – she could destroy all of us if Schmidt ordered her to."
Phillips eyed him levelly. "The fact that there's s till a chance that we won't beat him, regardless of whether or not he has the girl, still concerns me. Let's go brief your men."
XXX
HYDRA Base
The Alps – 1943
Johann reclined in his chair, long legs stretch out, booted feet crossed at the ankles and resting on his desk. He had a map sprawled across his lap, his cigarette holder held lazily between two long, gloved fingers.
"Eighty men will remain here to guard the entrances and to stall the American forces, not including the crewmen aboard the airship. The bombs have been set to detonate specifically on my command, yes?"
"Yes, Herr Schmidt, just as you ordered. They will only respond to your touch – a foreign fingerprint will cause the aircraft to self-destruct instantly." An officer rattled off with instant precision.
Johann took a long drag on his cigarette, blowing a spiral of grey-blue smoke into the air.
"Excellent. Now," he stroked his chin thoughtfully. "The remainder of our men have been evacuated to the bases in France, Belgium, and the Netherlands. All weaponry has been removed, all blueprints either disposed of or previously transported. Now, all that is left to do is to wait and to be ready whenever that simpleton strikes."
"Sir, if I may – speak frankly,"
He sighed and gestured impatiently at the young officer. "You may."
"I understand that this is all essentially a ruse – for the Americans to find our facilities all but abandoned but – the airship – I don't understand – why do you plan to have them fly it? Would it not be a waste of time and equipment to use it for essentially nothing but a distraction?"
Johann grinned wickedly. "Ah but you see, it is not merely a distraction. It is my ticket to a peacefully uninterrupted apocalypse. I cannot achieve anything with that damned American waltzing about Europe destroying whatever progress we make. He is the only thing that the American military has that is comparable to my level of strength and power – rather unfortunately for them, his intellect is severely lacking. Yet, he still proves to be a maddening nuisance. But, if I can get rid of him quickly and quietly, while securing my own 'security', HYDRA's agenda will progress on course. You see, Zola knows that I had planned to launch my initiative on the United States, prior to my niece suffering a slight mishap on the part of the Americans, fools that they are. Zola, now undoubtedly being in their custody, must have told them something – and the only information he would know of to tell them would be that I was, indeed, planning to attack their country. So, no doubt the Americans will respond accordingly by attempting to attack HYDRA's central artery, here. In expecting that, I have a rather elaborate disappearing act that will send our dear Captain America on a flight to his death. Once the Americans are tragically deprived of their key weapon, they will be powerless against HYDRA's might. After that, I can easily take care of the issue regarding my niece. But as long as the ridiculous star-spangled man lives, our plans will be forced to a standstill."
He stood up, stretching languidly. "While the common American soldier will be kept busy pursuing our soldiers, Captain Rogers will undoubtedly take it upon himself to pursue me, since I suppose I am his most hated enemy. I, of course, will be rushing to the aircraft in the hopes of getting it off the ground successfully before the Captain can reach me, so that I might destroy his beloved country while he stands powerless, on the ground. But therein lies my little scheme – of course, it will require some effort on my part, but the results should be marvelous, considering Rogers is stupid enough to fall for it. I shall disappear into the airfield, long before Rogers has any idea where I've vanished – the aircraft, being the largest and most obvious place for me to go will be dead-center. Rogers will undoubtedly 'pursue' me in the location he thinks best – and, of course, if you were a nonsensical little hero pursuing the dastardly villain, wouldn't you say your chances of catching him would be better if you were to jump into the beastly looking machine rather than running off into an obscure side tunnel? Now, once he's boarded the plane, the crews will start the engines and initiate take-off – once he's in the air, he can fight his way through the crewmen to find that the cockpit itself is sadly, not graced by my presence. And our poor, tragic little captain will find himself on an empty plane with a dozen deadly bombs set to detonate should he dare tamper with the controls. From there on, the choice is his. Attempt to disable to the bombs or risk blowing the entire craft to pieces by trying to reset any of the controls. Either way, he'll end up dead and I'll be happily on my way to France."
He lifted his cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply. "Of course, the Americans will have no way of telling where I disappeared to – they'll probably think I'm dead. All the better. They'll stay out of my way if they no longer consider me a threat. With Rogers eliminated, the Americans will be helpless against us. There will be no imbecilic hero attempting to protect my niece. I will deal with the rest of them once he has been done away with. They will suffer hell for taking her from me. They will have nowhere to run, nowhere to hide – Erskine and his formula are long gone. Their weapons are powerless against us. I will make each and every one of them pay for the trouble they have caused me. And when the world belongs to HYDRA, when humanity bows to the new world order, I will make sure that the United States is the first nation to be wiped from the planet completely."
He looked up at the soldier before him. The young man raised his fists above his head in a swift, staunch salute.
"Hail HYDRA!"
Johann grinned. "Hail HYDRA indeed."
XXX
The Alps, Southern Germany
1943
Steve Rogers' Perspective
The wind wicked through his sweat-soaked hair, pasted to his scalp beneath his helmet. Pine trees of lush bluish greens, tall enough to reach the skies, flew past him on either side, the dirt road endless before him. He was only a few kilometers away now, so close to death's door, so close to standing face to face with the man he so vehemently despised. But… his conscience tingled at the back of his mind, the slightest feeling of remorse, of guilt, for what he was about to do. Zola's words echoed ominously in his ears; "She is his niece."
Did he love her? Did he care about her? Could such a monster, who killed without a thought, who savagely massacred, all for his own benefit – could someone as purely evil as Schmidt be capable of love? Was he worried about her? Was he sick with concern for his niece, suddenly kidnapped from him – did she love him? Zola had said that she was unaware of Schmidt's … other half. She blamed the Red Skull for HYDRA's crimes. Perhaps she felt that Schmidt was redeemable – that he truly had been brainwashed, and that he was innocent – if he killed Schmidt there and then, that poor girl, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time – she would be violently thrust into reality, forced to accept the fact that her uncle and the monster that she believed was the Red Skull were one and the same. Rogers' stomach was in knots. He couldn't imagine what that sorrow would be like, how difficult it would be to bear. To think that someone you loved or cared about, someone you thought cared about you – to discover that they were the face that haunted your nightmares, that caused all this evil and death – how could one accept it?
Swallowing hard, he shook his head. He didn't know the girl – he didn't know who she was, how old she was, where she came from – for the longest time, he hadn't even known her name, but he'd been hell-bent on rescuing her. But what if she didn't want to be rescued? What if she woke up and rejected the Americans? What if Zola was lying – what if she was simply a HYDRA informant and Zola was covering her tracks? He couldn't let his emotions cloud his judgment – he had a mission to complete, a mission that would decide the fate of his countrymen. His entire life had been spent fantasizing about being a hero, about guts and glory – now was his time to prove himself. No matter what happened, no matter who the girl was, no matter what her ties to HYDRA were – Schmidt had to die. HYDRA had to be destroyed. There was no peaceful way, no easy solution, no bloodless outcome. He had made a promise to Erskine. Schmidt's man had killed Erskine, had destroyed the serum. Because of HYDRA, Erskine's dream of creating a new breed of super soldiers would never come to fruition. Because of HYDRA, Bucky, his best friend, was dead.
"I asked for an army and all I got was you. And you are not enough."
He had come so far – the Howling Commandos, hundreds of American soldiers – they were going to lay down their lives today for the sake of their country and for the safety of the world. He couldn't just turn around and quit because he felt guilty for some insane son of a bitch's orphaned niece. This wasn't about glory anymore – this wasn't a back alley anymore. This was war. People die. And today, the right person would die. The man who deserved death more than Adolf Hitler himself – and Steven Rogers would personally ensure that he suffered for his crimes.
The first volley of soldiers came into his glimpse. He lowered his goggles. The motorcycle brigade – equipped with grenades, flame-throwers – this wouldn't be his first tango with them. They were deadly, but so was he. It was every man for himself in this game.
Like a swarm of angry bees they darted out of the forest – he zipped past them, weaving in and out, between the trees, the rev of HYDRA engines hot on his trail. Blazing blue rays shot from their mounted guns, and he could feel their sharp impact against his shield strapped to his back. He dared to glance back just slightly, eyes darting forward, back on the path – they rode with a certain grace, the elegance of dancers – it was Schmidt's cruel way of demonstrating his assumed superiority, training his men to lash out with the sophistication of silent ninjas, to bite and rip with the rabidity of frothing dogs. But Rogers had a few tricks up his sleeve – mundane ones perhaps, tried and true – but they were deadly and very effective. He glanced down at the remote attached to his side-mirror – he switched two of the levers with a gloved thumb, the whizzing of a long metal wire like a delightful melody on the wind. The trip-wire – an absolute classic.
The first several pursuers were smart enough to duck – the last two, unfortunately, were a little late in the game. He could've smiled as he heard their yelps as they were thrown off of their bikes. Now for his next trick – the flame-thrower. HYDRA's fiery arsenal had left so many of his men, so many of his dearest friends incinerated – now it was his turn to return the gesture. Another switch of a lever and wall of orange fire burst from the tail-end of his bike. He threw a glance over his shoulder, just in time for a HYDRA soldier's bike to spiral to the side of the road, engulfed in flames – yet another hit a tree-stump, catapulted over the front-end and sent head-first into the dirt.
As he neared the clearing, two other motorcyclists swerved in from his left, flooring the gas, some twenty feet ahead of him. He revved up his own motors, rapidly closing the distance between them. As he neared their tail ends, he reached down, the silver pull-pin of a grenade glimmering before him. He yanked up in a fluid motion, holding the pin high over his head as if in a gesture of triumph and revved forward, the explosion behind me leaving his heart pounding with a mixture of exhilaration and relief.
But it was hardly over. The concrete pillars, each outfitted with cannons, of the entrance to the HYDRA compound loomed before him, a monstrous, black steel tank ready and waiting just a few yards ahead of him. Blazes of blue light erupted form the cannons to either side of him, the tank rumbling forward like an angered beast, awoken from its slumber. He set his shield down between the handlebars, a solid click resounding as it was secured. With another push of a button on the side-mirror, a huge blaze of orange light shot from the motorcycle, blowing the tank before him to mere shrapnel in a blinding explosion. He floored the gas, flying up the concrete pillars and soaring into the air before slamming hard against the ground. HYDRA soldiers swarmed about him – with a final push of a button, he dove off of the bike, sending the vehicle careening toward the heavily reinforced steel doors of the HYDRA base. He fell hard against the side of a tank, tucking and rolling off to the ground in a crouching position. A loud boom resonated off of the metal surfaces of the base entrance as his bike exploded, a thick plume of black smoke and steady flames erupting from the site.
He jumped up, flinging his shield hard like some freakish Frisbee, slamming hard into a soldier's gut before boomeranging back to him, caught in his sure fist. He flung it again and again, back and forth, back and forth – the movements steady, almost habitual. Soldiers came at him from every angle – he deftly caught their fists with his broad shield, sending them flying into the sky and slamming down hard onto their back – the crack of their spines as the connected solidly with the hard earth. He threw his shield, bouncing it off of the steel surface of a tank, hitting a man square in the jugular, allowing him a few precious moments to punch out the soldier before him before catching the shield in mid- air –
Only to have two HYDRA flame-throwers box him in, their walls of bright fire immune to the sharp slice of his shield. As their flames slowly wicked away, an army of guards swarmed in, surrounding him from all sides.
His eyes darted about feverishly. He pounded his shield against his thigh in anger.
"Shit. Shit. Shit."
The one word that could perfectly describe his mood.
XXX
HYDRA Base
Johann Schmidt's Laboratory – The Alps
1943
Johann's Perspective
The view from the huge panoramic window was blissful at this hour – grey-blue with gusts of snow and ice, chaotic and stormy and enraged – much like his current demeanor.
"Arrogance may not be a uniquely American trait, but I must say, you do it better than anyone." He narrowed his eyes as he turned on his heel, stalking towards the cocky American captain as if a jungle cat preparing to devour its prey. As he came to stand nearly toe to toe with the boy, he eyed him levelly, examining him closely for the first time. If it were not for the acute rage he experienced whenever he even heard the name of this imbecilic fool, he would have laughed out loud. He acted like an idiot and looked the part. He belonged in a circus show – the military was no place for childish clowns. His skin was pale, pock-marked, the ghost of adolescent spots – he was a child. Not a soldier.
He stared into his eyes, a clear blue, a haughty glint to them. He wanted to gouge them out with a scalpel and stitch them up into the bastard's conceited mouth. Never the less, he smoothed his tone, ever composed. "But there are limits, to what even you can do, Captain." He kept his words measured, melodic. "Or did Erskine tell you otherwise?"
"He told me you were insane." His voice was determined, a last-gasp effort at spunk and guts – it would not take long to break him.
He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Ah. He resented my genius and tried to deny me what was rightfully mine, but he gave you everything." The last word stung on his tongue, like a bitter tonic – the taste of it was enough to set his blood boiling. "So, what made you so special?" He spat the words like poison, watching the boy's steadfast gaze falter just slightly.
The boy stifled a laugh. "Nothing." His eyes held an arrogant defiance – an emotion not alien to Johann. He had remembered wearing the same gaze in his own icy eyes as a young, inexperienced officer – it had punished him more often than it had rewarded him. This boy would be no different – he would learn. And the lesson would be a cruel, unforgiving one.
"I'm just a kid from Brooklyn."
A fiery raged seemed to ignite in Johann's core and he lashed out with his fist, catching the boy's jaw once – twice – and a third time, punching hard in the face, sending the boy to his knees, doubled over in pain. He inhaled sharply, drawing back his shoulders in rigid fury as he watched the boy cough and sputter.
Gasping, the boy lifted his head. "I could do this all day."
Johann smirked. "Oh of course you can, of course, but unfortunately I am on a tight schedule." He pulled out his pistol, the blue glow of the tesseract a beautiful sight to his cold and jaded eyes.
He tensed – several solid clicks echoed just beyond the panoramic window, and he stopped short, his gun cocked and ready to fire.
Blazing out of the dense snow were three Americans soldiers, zip lining straight for them – clever bastards – they deserved to be commended for their timeliness.
His eyes darted, throwing a cursory glance down at the young captain. "So am I," the American responded through gritted teeth. He shoved a soldier before him and without a thought, Johann shot the man, not thinking, his movements impulsive. Those bastards – they would suffer hell for wasting his precious time, distracting him from his agenda.
Within seconds, the glass before them exploded, the Americans crashing through, machine guns and pistols cocked.
Johann sprinted for the exit of the laboratory, eager to put distance between himself and that damned captain. He almost laughed, the adrenaline a welcome a burst of energy and exhilaration as he ran – no – fled. Fled from those horrifying, terrible beasts that were the American soldiers – those imbeciles, they would not know what had hit them. It was all part of the plan – those bastards were right on time – his scheme was progressing beautifully, if not ahead of schedule.
"Bravo, Captain." He whispered to himself, the thought of watching that simpleton fly to his death so real and so tantalizing that he could almost taste the smoke of the explosion, the stench of burnt flesh. That fool –no doubt he would go down in American history as the gallant, tragic hero that selflessly sacrificed his own life to save his country from that dastardly, damnable villain the Red Skull. Oh yes, he too would be mentioned in their textbooks – for in a few mere years, his name would be the one they feared – his gnarled, monstrous face would grace their nightmares, magnificent and pure on their poor, mundane psyches. And his dear Mina – her angelic face, frightened and lonely in a cinderblock cell somewhere in an American base – he thought of her now, as he moved fluidly, and a bright and fiery rage ignited in his core.
"I do this for you, and no one else."
He had made a promise to himself – to give her the perfect life, to give her all the luxuries and privileges that he had continuously been denied. Perhaps she hated him now – but he would show her the world as it was truly meant to be, and she would change.
He sprinted through the metal corridors – each twist and turn perfectly familiar to him, for he had designed every inch of his magnificent fortress.
A solid metal gong resounded through the tunnels – the metal walls vibrating with the sudden, hard impact of the vibranium of Rogers' shield. Johann ducked left – towards the airfield, closer and closer to the brilliant climax of his plot. Immediately past the aircraft was a small, hidden passage, initially used to vent the exhaust fumes of aircrafts taking off – closed off now and fallen into disrepair, it would serve as a discreet escape route, crafted for this singular purpose. It was guarded by a ventilation screen, easily unhinged and put back into place to disguise his location. Roughly 50 meters into the passage, a winding corridor by nature, an elevator would take him 155 meters below the surface, specifically to ground level to the east side of the mountains; coded to respond only to his touch, if the Americans were to find his location, they would have to rig an explosive to somehow break into it – a time-consuming process. Of course, fifty HYDRA guards were poised just within the passage, waiting for his entrance and securing the exit immediately after. The elevator was programmed to travel at over 96 kilometers – the journey would last only a few seconds before halting at his destination – yet another intricate tunnel that would lead him out into a smaller airfield equipped with a flat, land-based runway – and his own personal jet, virtually silent and built with a control system designed to interrupt any American radars – they would have no way of hearing, seeing, or feeling his movement once in the aircraft.
And from there, he would be safely onto France into heavily occupied Nazi territory. Not particularly ideal, for the Nazis no doubt would be quite disturbed by his sudden appearance – if they did not attempt to kill him first, which would not be wise – but no matter. A lavish chalet in Alsace had been just recently finished, and would now serve as a luxurious hideaway and planning facility – at least until the Americans were quite certain that he was either dead or not worth the wasted energy.
He smiled as whoosh of HYDRA flame-throwers echoed behind him – no doubt they would keep the good captain occupied for a little while. He upped his pace, all too impatient to be out in the gusty, chill air of the airfield – close to his final destination.
The adrenaline coursed through his veins as the nearly claustrophobic corridor opened up into the cavernous maw of the airfield – his beloved bomber jet looming like a steel beast above, roaring as the engines ignited. Yes, soon Rogers would meet his death – and HYDRA's course would finally progress uninterrupted – HYDRA would stand master of the world in a few mere months. And when the world was his – he could almost laugh at the thought – he would celebrate the day that that damned star-spangled man meant his death. He only wished that he could have the chance to kill him himself – but, no matter; a world without him was all too tantalizing to ignore. The sooner the American was finished – the better.
He ducked past the huge aircraft now, and is of on cue, several HYDRA soldiers ran for the ladder into the plane's cockpit – more still scurried towards it, guns thrust outward, awaiting the pursuing Americans in an elaborate, beautiful ruse.
The ventilation screen swung open, several guards peering out as he sprinted past, into the darkened hollow.
"Lock the gates and stand guard until my departure – rain fire upon those fools!" He barked amid the roar of the aircraft – he threw a glance over his shoulder, catching the beastly machine slowly churning with movement. The soldiers barked a staunch "Hail HYDRA", their voices muted by the din of the aircraft. He grinned wickedly – if only he could stay to watch. Hurriedly, he removed his glove and pressed his crimson palm to the sensor pad – the elevator doors glided open silently and he threw himself in.
Now for the journey downward – to blissful revolution. Just before the door slid closed, he barked at the guards, "Make damn sure that the American dies."
Again, the guards staunchly saluted, and the elevator doors glided gracefully to a close.
His heart pounded as the darkness of the elevator slowly began to glow with blue light arising from the sides. He turned to face the glass outer wall of the elevator, gazing down at the pitch-black, rocky crevices before him.
"Farewell, Captain America. Is it not intriguing, how the gallant hero always seems to fall into a pit of despair and failure, whilst the so-called villain remains untouched? Or, perhaps you were correct. Perhaps you are simply a mundane child from an American slum. We were not all too different – we could have been brothers in arms, but no – you chose the side of humanity. Humanity is a failing race – you'll soon learn. They will not remember your name. Not for long."
XXX
Steve Rogers barreled into the airfield – just in time to see a monstrous jet roaring to life, the wheels slowly turning as it began its take-off. He slung his shield onto his back and sprinted as fast he physically could, his muscles burning in fatigue, yet his heart pounded with a hungry adrenaline. HYDRA guards swarmed at him from left and right, but he batted them off like pesky mosquitos – he had more pressing issues to deal with, as much as he would have loved to beat the living hell out of each and every one of them. HYDRA guards were everywhere – clashing with the seemingly puny number of American troopers. Swinging himself up onto a wooden crate, he grabbed onto a metal pulley and swung forward, leaping into the air. He hit the ground running, sprinting, ever forward – but the plane was already far ahead of him, gaining speed with every second, while he seemed only to lose precious seconds as his body suffered. He upped his pace, but the effort was futile. Behind him though – the revving of an engine caught his attention.
A monstrosity of glistening chrome and metal blazed up and slammed to a halt beside him.
"Get in!" Phillips barked at him – Peggy Carter beside him. Gratefully, Rogers obliged, and the vehicle revved forward.
What felt like years passed as the vehicle gained on the plane – the broad, hulking wings of the jet scraped at the hood of the car and his heart leapt into his throat. This was it – this was it – his final chance to kill Skull. Shield strapped to his back, he leapt onto the hood – so close to the plane that he could practically reach out and touch it. "Keep it steady!"
"Wait!"
Peggy's voice echoed in the back of his mind, but she pulled him in for a quick kiss just before he could even respond. "Go get him!" Her voice was like stone. Shocked at the gesture, he turned to Phillips, who offered him an impatient scowl.
"I'm not kissin' ya." He replied flatly – as if they weren't hurtling for the end of an airstrip in a madman's car. Snapping back into action, Rogers crept forward on the hood, the bottom of the jet scraping his shield, nearly throwing him forward. Sparks flew off the metal surface – the pristine white of the alpine sky ahead of him was frighteningly close. He gritted his teeth and inched forward – forward – and with a final gasp of strength, he threw himself at the jet.
He slammed into the bottom wheel, holding tight just as it began to retract, into the bowels of the plane. And they were in the air – just him, a crew of deadly HYDRA gunmen, and the Red Skull himself – hundreds of thousands of feet above the ground.
Schmidt's car was merely a tiny, insolent dot at the very edge of the airstrip – clinging on just barely. But Phillips and Peggy were alive. And he had a mission to complete.
The wheel swung up into bowels of the aircraft, closing off the plane with a solid click. His eyes darted about, surveying for guards, and he swung himself up onto the ramp.
Looking around, he caught sight of a at least six small, queer looking aircraft – each bearing the name of a major American city, written in bright white paint.
So these were the bombs that Schmidt intended to destroy his country with. But that would only be the first wave – what sort of apocalypse was the creature dreaming up? What carnage did he hunger to unleash onto millions of innocents? He heard the metallic clang of a hatch slamming shut and he ducked out of sight – swinging himself back up onto one of the huge wheels. He waited silently as at least four HYDRA guards filed out onto the ramps, no doubt preparing to man the bombs. One got barely an inch or so past him before he swung down, kicking the man hard in the back, knocking the wind out of him. Startled by the sudden commotion, the other guards whirled around, one slipping a knife from his uniform.
The one with the knife came at him, but Steve knocked him aside, taking out the next guard with a swift kick to the chest. The other guard whirled and sprinted away, but Steve grabbed the knife from the guard behind him and lobbed it into the air, stabbing the fleeing guard in the spine. He whirled back on the other HYDRA guard just beside him, recovering from his injuries. As Steve met his punches, the other remaining guard hurried for one of the bombs, prying open the hatch of the tiny cockpit at its rear. Steve pushed his opponent aside, dashing for the control panels of the bomb. With an experimental push of a button, the bomb doors swung open, the gusty winds swallowing the bomb and dropping the guard atop it into the open air, plummeting to his death.
Steve swung around, grabbing the HYDRA guard just beside him and flung him through the bomb doors, he too falling to his death.
Three down – one to go. The last remaining HYDRA guard clambered into his designated bomb, slamming the hatch down and the bomb doors slowly opened. Steve hurled himself onto the bomb – only to have yet another HYDRA guard appear behind him, heaving his body on top of Steve, punching and jabbing at him.
His stomach leapt into his throat as the bomb plunged into the icy air – the wind sucking at his uniform, the HYDRA guard atop him wrenching him back and forth, relentlessly trying to pry him from the little craft.
Seeing the two men atop his bomb, the soldier piloting the little plane wrenched the lever from side to side, jerking the bomb and sending Steve's lower-half careening across the metal surface. The plane swooped up and down, sending Steve and the other guard sliding back towards the rotors. Grabbing onto the top wing, Steve halted just before the deadly propellers – the HYDRA guard was not so lucky.
His body was sucked into the propellers, disappearing in a fine spray of blood. Inching forward, Steve grabbed the lever that opened the cockpit hatch, reaching down before the soldier inside could react and yanking on the ejector. With a shocked yowl, the pilot flew out into the air and Steve slid inside, shutting the glass hatch above him. Regaining control of the craft, Steve soared forward, aiming for the tail-end of the hulking aircraft.
A blaze of blue light shot before him, followed by another and another still – Schmidt must have seen him on his radar, for blazes of blue shot past him, one striking the back wing and jarring the little aircraft forward. He smelled smoke and he revved the craft forward, circling back around and aiming squarely for the fuel vents.
With a crashing impact, he flew right into the aircraft's back end, grinding to a precarious halt.
He lay back in his seat, breathing heavily before sliding open the hatch and leaping out, back into the bowels of the aircraft. With a heavy sigh of fear or fatigue – or both, he spotted his shield, strapped it to his arm, and headed for the main cockpit.
Dead ahead of him was the heavy steel door.
Gingerly, he eased the heavy door back, peaking into the control room.
Empty. He swung open the door, shield thrust about for him.
He crept in, inching forward, eyes darting about.
No one.
Where the hell was Schmidt?
He stood in the center of the cockpit now, swiveling around frantically.
"I know you're here, Schmidt!" He yelled, almost desperately. "Come on! Are you afraid? I'm just a kid from Brooklyn, damn it! Come out and fight me! We were interrupted last time – why don't you come out and finish the game, huh?
Seconds past – minutes.
No one appeared. He darted about the cockpit, moving furiously – every inch – was empty.
Frantically, he dashed for the controls – the bombs were still loaded – the plane was operating on auto-pilot.
He's not here, he thought. That bastard's not even here. What the hell is this?
He stared at the controls – each button glowed dimly in the center. He pressed down onto the bomb-door button – maybe he could reset it.
"Zugriff verweigert." A robotic voice intoned in German. He could make out bits and pieces of it. Access denied. "Please – correct fingerprint – or self-destruct – initiate – five minutes."
"Son of a bitch," he moaned. He couldn't touch the bombs – they were programmed to Schmidt's fingerprint – if he touched them, he'd set off all of the bombs. He might have been in the middle of nowhere thousands of feet above sea-level – but what was the nature of the bombs? They were powered by some freak cube – how far would the radiation levels reach? The shockwaves could trigger earthquakes, volcanoes – the thoughts sounded ludicrous now but…
The bastard had completely failsafe-d the entire aircraft. No matter who or what attempted to thwart the aircraft's destination, the system itself would automatically resume control, making HYDRA's initiative impossible to defeat.
He felt hot, angry, desperate tears prick his eyes.
There was no way out. He had no choice. He either crashed the plane in the water or let the aircraft run its course – his first stop would be New York City, and the thought of millions of people dying because of a conceited madman who hadn't even shown up to his final moment was simply too much for Steve to bear.
It wasn't supposed to end like this. Not like this. He was supposed to kill Schmidt. Now, who knew where the bastard was? Bucky was dead. Erskine was dead. Who knew how many American troops had lost their lives today. All for nothing.
He wiped a gloved hand across his eyes and shook his head. Phillips would find Schmidt and destroy him. He could count on that. Dog Company – they had captured Athena – they would find that bastard and make him suffer.
"I asked for an army and all I got was you."
The world would move on without the star-spangled man. The war could still be won by the right people – and once Hitler was defeated, Schmidt would have nowhere to run.
Steven Rogers might die today, but Johann Schmidt would soon follow him. And as long as that bastard suffered, Captain America would happily die for his country.
"Save a spot for me in heaven, eh Bucky?" he whispered through his tears. "We'll ride all the coasters at Coney Island up in the clouds, just you and me, just us good pals."
And, with a silent prayer, Captain Steve Rogers wrenched the throttle of the plane forward and, the aircraft dropped down, down, down into the black, cold abyss below.
Several Days Later…
Johann Schmidt's Private Chalet
Alsace France – 1943
He sipped a fine Schnapps from a crystal goblet, jackboots propped up on the cherry-wood desk, lazily reclining, watching the sunset of the wooded hills. Mozart's The Marriage of Figaro played softly in the background.
"Herr Schmidt,"
He kept his gaze steadfast on the setting sun before him, but his heart fluttered just slightly in his chest.
"Speak." He answered coldly.
"The American has been pronounced dead."
A smile gnarled his crimson features, and for the first time in days, an unbridled joy flooded his heart.
"Excellent."
