A/N: Hey again! This chapter was supposed to be broken into two shorter ones, but I realized how kind of pointless it was for me to drag out what happens in the first half (though it does probably need some more editing down the line when I'm not ready to claw my eyes out from reading and rereading it over and over), so I kind of summarized it into a few paragraphs. Those are in past tense because Sam's reflecting on it, then it'll be back in present tense once we catch up. Hope that's not too confusing.
But yay more action! Which is so fun for me to write, and I hope y'all like it too!
There were several red flags throughout their raid of the small, mostly fake hair salon the next night. The building itself wasn't in fantastic shape, though it looked like it definitely belonged in the part of Ipanema they'd discovered it in. But that wasn't what caused alarm bells in Sam's head. Security wasn't nearly as tight as they'd planned for. The men there—which had Sandy making an off-hand remark about how it's only been male goons that they've been running into—seemed like the cheapest money could by. They were totally unprepared; most of them were watching soccer in what could be considered their break room, and it took Frank all of five seconds to take care of them. No roof sentries, and only one guard stationed near the front. Sam knew his team was efficient, but this was too easy. In the moment, he'd chalked it up to the fact that the weapons stash they were guarding was small: two crates of semi-automatic shotguns with the most basic of upgrades. Not DNA or fingerprint encoded like Sam's starting to suspect they'll run into eventually. So there was no reason for them to expect an attack.
The intel they'd gathered from Letícia led them to believe the "presents" she'd alluded were in this building were something along the lines of more high-tech equipment, guns, the latest as-of-yet unreleased iPhone, whatever. It couldn't have been the shotguns, because in no way did that make up for the vibranium bombs. They came to the conclusion that the weapons were just meant as an emergency stash for the men there, not to be distributed to god knows where and definitely not an appeasement for Markoff.
As they continued searching for secret compartments and more heavily guarded rooms, of which there were none, Sam started to wonder what the hell was going on.
What they actually found in a poorly lit, unconcealed, too small room at the very back left Sam horrified and enraged.
A large group of battered, shaking, scantily clad women, eyes wide as saucers and huddled up together on cots at the far end of the room. They looked terrified of the new arrivals. At least until they saw Sam's uniform and shield. Then they began crying in broken Portuguese, and Sam was too stunned to ask for a translation. He did catch what sounded like Captain America and thank you as they grabbed his hand with their own too-cold ones. It wasn't until he got a closer look at them that he realized some couldn't be older than eighteen. One of the younger ones was at least two months pregnant. And none of them looked like they'd had a decent meal or restful sleep in a while.
Sam couldn't decide which of the nasty emotions he was feeling was strongest, but heartbroken was definitely a contender. And when he looked at his friends, he knew he wasn't the only one feeling that way.
Before the other three could, Sandy took the initiative and led the women out of the building. She kept her tone as warm and calming as she could while showed them the fastest escape route and where to find the proper authorities, ones she and Sam verified weren't on the Magnate's payroll beforehand. This wasn't what they'd planned on using those police stations for, but Sam's eternally grateful Sandy suggested it.
Bucky had handed the two oldest and strongest looking women guns just in case. Sam gave him a look, to which he explained, in a broken voice, that he also told them to ditch the guns in the nearest gutter once they get close enough to the police station. They needed protection from any of the Magnate's people they might run into (god forbid), but they also didn't need to walk into a police station armed. Sam's team risked being spotted if they escorted the women there, so he conceded easily and quietly.
Sandy went to work on pulling out relevant data from the computers left behind as soon as the women had left, and other than simple directions and confirmations, not much else was said. Unsurprisingly, Frank had been the most silent, though the clenched jaw and hard look on his face spoke volumes.
When they finally arrive back at the safety of their apartment after a tense and silent car ride, everyone suddenly has something to say.
"This was already the plan, but I'm gonna fucking kill every fucking one of them and make it hurt."
"I should have killed that bitch before we left the party. She knew about this."
"God damned monsters."
Sam stays silent as they openly fume. His mouth and throat are dry as a bone, so he quickly makes himself a glass of water and greedily sucks it down. He knows this type of bullshit is common among the people he's now used to hunting down, but he's been lucky enough that he hasn't come face to face with it until now. As he silently watches Sandy pace, water begins to materialize and form oblong shapes around her; she's seemingly doing this unconsciously. Frank aggressively runs his hands through his hair and over his face from his seat at the dining table. Suddenly, Sam realizes that, even though those two have rescued their fair share of victims from these circumstances, it'll never get easier. It means they care, which is a good sign, but it also means each time will mean adding another item onto each of their lists of nightmare fuel. Sam suspects that list will never stop growing.
"What the fuck?" Sam mumbles, more to himself than anything. He leans forward and splays his hands out on the counter. A deep breath helps steady his body, though his mind is still reeling. What would have happened to those women if they'd never gotten that clue?
"Nobody said this would be easy," Bucky answers. He's hunched over on the couch, face buried in his hands.
"No," Sam agrees. When Bucky lifts his head to meet Sam's gaze, he continues. "But yeah, I wasn't expecting this."
After he clears his throat, not for dramatic effect or anything, Frank fixes them with a hard look. "You weren't expecting this?" He scoffs and flicks his wrist between himself and Sandy. "See, this is the kind of shit we have to deal with all the time. Once you go down this road of hunting down pieces of shit, this is all there is. The weapons and shit are always just the beginning. Especially for rich fucks like him," he finishes, flexing his hand in agitation.
"This is why we do what we do," Sandy adds. She's stopped pacing and the water's disappeared. A sharp sigh leaves her lips as her arms fold across her chest. "It was stupid of me to think that maybe, just this once, we wouldn't have to run into this… but Frank's right. Weapons are never where it ends. Gotta keep your buyers happy." She shudders and almost vomits when the words leave her mouth.
"So forget our original plan. We need to move faster."
It surprises Sam only a little that that comes out of Bucky's mouth and not Frank's. However, he doesn't have to wait long for Frank's two cents.
"No more dragging our damn feet. Once they figure out these girls are gone, they'll just go find more."
Sandy nods. "The sooner Myers and his league of shit gibbons are dead, the more girls we save from this fate. The sooner we get back home."
Oh, Sam knows the exact reaction he'll get at his next words, but he knows they need to be said. "This won't put an end to sex trafficking here."
"Are you serious?"
There it is. From Frank predictably. And he's not going to let Sam finish, apparently, taking his words to mean something else.
"Sam...?" Bucky whispers incredulously. The disappointment and shock in his eyes pull painfully at Sam's heart. Don't they know each other well enough by now?
Sam opens his mouth, but Frank abruptly stands, eyes ablaze.
"So what, you just wanna ignore this? Keep hem hawing around, let them restock and go hide somewhere else, probably somewhere outside of Rio? This shit isn't high up on your fucking Accords list, so if we leave, the problem doesn't get solved. I don't like loose ends, and if that means ditching you and going by myself again, I'll do it in a heartbeat."
That's not what he meant at all. Sam visibly bristles and is about ready to die at the thought of sitting back and doing nothing. But apparently nobody's intent on letting him speak his own mind.
"Frank," Sandy warns. She's moved to stand in between Sam and Frank, hand pressed to the latter's chest to keep him still. "Most of the time you're a good listener, and I love you for it, but apparently not right now. Sit down and let Sam finish."
Her tone is incredibly serious, and scarily so; more than he's heard her get in a long time, so he doesn't question why there's no follow-up quip, or why Frank follows her instructions as easily as he does. His movements are slow, but that's the only resistance he offers. When he takes his eyes off Sam for a brief second to look at her face, there's a flicker of something unrecognizable in his eyes. It's gone too quick, but it Sam can tell it wasn't negative at least. And it's the only change in expression.
Before he continues, Sam offers Sandy a small nod of thanks. "What I meant was this: we all know this isn't Myers' first priority, otherwise we woulda found a lot more cases back in the states. So taking him out isn't gonna put an end to it like we'd all like it to." He holds up a hand quickly in case Frank wants to interrupt, then looks at Sandy. "We need to pull whatever info we can off those servers and the next place we hit that'll lead us to whatever other assholes these guys were working with. People are trickier than weapons, so he had to have help getting this set up." Sam crosses his arms over his chest. "We find out who that is, then maybe after we take care of our first problem, we see what else we can do."
"Sam." When Sam looks at him, eyebrows raised, Bucky says, "The Accords are gonna find some reason to try and call us back in sooner rather than later."
He knows Bucky hates playing devil's advocate in these situations. But he's right. Even if the Accords committee is much looser nowadays, the longer they stay away and off the grid, the more cagey the committee gets and the harder it'll be to keep Sandy and Frank out of the mess. "I know. I'm surprised nobody's come after us yet."
"And when you go, you'll be taking the quinjet with you," Sandy states matter-of-factly. She may be a hell of a good spy, but Sam knows her well enough to tell that the disappointment he sees isn't just because he'll be taking one of her favorite toys or the new companion she loves playfully torturing.
It's because he's leaving, again, which is something he's beginning to realize cut her deeper than she lets on. Something he intends on hashing out with her eventually, but not now.
"Which means if we stay and finish the job, we'll be stuck getting some sort of public transportation back home. And I hate public transport," she goes on, jutting out her lower lip for effect.
A decisive shake of the head, and Sam counters, "You can't stay here. We get called back, you have to come too. At that point, the most we can do is pass along the info to someone who can take over. Legally. Besides," he pauses, watching Frank carefully, "don't you two have a job to do back in New York?"
Frank's jaw ticks, and Sam knows he's got him. As far as he can tell, the only people truly after Frank and Sandy are under Myers' payroll. Barring them stepping on any toes other than ones he and Bucky are already planning on chasing down, anyway. Markoff will be first on the list most likely. And Sam's just fine with making it look like an accident so they don't get in trouble with the committee.
"We know people. It'll get taken care of, one way or another," assures Bucky.
If other government agencies stay true to form and act like this is beneath them or try to give he and Bucky shit about how they got the information, Nakia and some of the Dora would probably be more than happy to take the reins. Which is exactly what Bucky's thinking as he catches Sam's eye. Sam feels some of the tension leave his body, knowing they're back on the same wavelength again.
"They don't," Frank threatens, "I'll do it myself." He gives everyone a firm look, then stands back up and silently strides into one of the bedrooms.
None of the others say anything for a long moment until Sandy quietly sighs, "Thought I'd knocked that Lone Ranger streak out of him, but apparently not."
"Old habits are hard to break." Bucky offers Sandy a shrug and tight smile. "Take the bedroom tonight. I don't think I'll be sleeping."
"Me either," Sam admits. "I'll take sentry duties for a while. We'll talk more tomorrow. I think everybody needs a breather right now."
Bucky joins Sam on the roof a while later, where most of their night is spent in reflective silence. Their only exchange is one of minimal words, but it's plenty for the two of them.
"I'm sorry, Sam. Shouldn't have assumed..."
"It's okay, Buck. I know you."
Frank's stretched out on the couch and about halfway done with his shitty protein bar (where in the hell did Barnes even find these things?) when it happens.
A loud rumble, followed by a violent shockwave that tears through the building, reverberating through Frank's body and into his bones, leaving him momentarily off balance. Then, suddenly everything goes dark.
"What the hell was that?"
"Fuck," comes Sandy's shaky reply. "An EMP."
There's enough late afternoon sun coming in through the light-blocking blinds for Frank to see the pure panic on everyone's faces. Shit, this is not good. "An EMP?!"
"Did one of yours go off accidentally?" Sam asks, slightly hopeful.
Sandy starts stuffing what she can in the nearest bag. "No, that wasn't one of mine. Mine aren't that powerful."
"That means…"
Oh, Frank is very uneasy now.
Everyone begins scrambling and following Sandy's lead, grabbing necessary gear that, thankfully, they've been careful to leave easily accessible. They need to leave now.
There's the sound of a fist slamming on a table, followed by a frustrated, "My wings are shot. God dammit. Bucky?"
"My arm's fine." He tries to sound calm, but the alarm is definitely there.
"It operates on a frequency so different from any that I've ever seen, so he'll be fine." Sandy's voice carries from the kitchen. A sigh of relief. "My glasses are fine, too."
Holstering his now fully loaded gun, Frank asks, "What do you see?"
Besides the sounds of frantic packing of guns and equipment, the apartment is eerily silent. Until, after a few beats, Sandy breathes, "They found us." Muttered curses follow, and not just from her. Her head jerks around as she surveys the area. "There's a ton of them coming from below. Some on the roof. This seems like a really stupid idea. It'd be so much smarter to just send a rocket and blow up this building."
"Don't give them any ideas!" Sam hisses. "This is so fucking bad. I can't provide any air support with my wings fried."
"I can fix that." Sandy is suddenly much closer to Frank than he remembered. Sometimes he forgets how quietly she can move when she wants, she's so damn vocal all the time. She places a hand on Frank's chest a second later and meets his gaze, that familiar fire in her eyes. "But I need time that these guys aren't going to give me."
He knows immediately what she's asking. This would go a whole lot faster if she could join him, but he knows they aren't all going to get to safety without those wings. "How long?"
"As long as you can give me, dear." A coy smile. She won't take long, but it'll be long enough for Frank to have a little fun. Good. After yesterday's blood-boiling discovery, he's rearing to let out a lot of pent-up rage.
"I'm going with you."
Frank studies Barnes for a few beats before agreeing. "Yeah, okay. Back stairwell. I've got front."
"Sam, stay here with me," Sandy commands. She's pulled out her toolkit and is already getting to work on rebooting the wings. "I need to concentrate on this and there's people on the roof." She tosses her glasses at him. "Use these and keep them off us." She turns back to Frank and Barnes, who have just finished loading themselves with available weapons. "This isn't local law enforcement."
Wilson adds, "So have at them, you two."
Frank scoffs, tightening the straps on his vest. "I don't need your permission." He hadn't meant for it to come out so tense, but circumstances considered, he doesn't have time to apologize and clarify his intention. And he figures—hopes—Wilson won't take it to heart. Especially after last night. "Be fast." One last meaningful glance at the two, and he's gone, Barnes hot on his tail.
Keep each other safe.
"Fourth floor?" Barnes asks. When he receives a nod, he darts off towards the outside emergency stairwell. It's sturdier than a typical wrought iron New York fire escape, so Frank can't suggest that Barnes just use his super strength and rip the thing apart. Whatever, he'll make do. He's smart enough.
Even though he doesn't have the advantage of the Sandy's glasses, Frank's easily able to tell where the targets are. The inner staircase is fairly narrow and, typically poorly lit, which works to his advantage. A few slow, deep breaths bring his heart rate down to a more manageable level. It's always so much easier when he doesn't need to consider other people in his immediate vicinity. The others can handle themselves just fine, but that doesn't stop the fear from rattling around in his chest, all the ways this can go terribly wrong flashing before his eyes.
The footsteps and ill-advised muttering are closer now.
Focus.
The familiar click of the safety, a steady exhale…
Six well-aimed bullets to the heads, and the first wave of men go down. But Frank can't stay there; he's lost his element of surprise. So has Barnes, judging by the sounds of gunfire and impact of bodies against the walls. The kid better not be holding back...
Frank slips down a few steps, crouching to hide himself in the low light. More men scurry up the stairs, faster now. And carrying semi-automatics. The smart thing to do would be to just litter the area with bullets. They'd surely hit Frank somewhere important.
Luckily, they aren't smart.
He's found a dark enough corner that the first man doesn't notice him until it's too late. Frank's knife is already embedded in his throat, twisting until the man goes limp. His own face is covered in blood now, but he doesn't care. He never does. Using the man's body as a shield, Frank descends a few steps, lands directly in front of the rest of the goons. He pokes his gun around the side of the body and pulls the trigger. Two bullets land squarely in two exposed throats, and two men go down, gurgling and choking on their own blood. They'll suffocate soon. Good, but there's more men still coming. Frank drops his meat shield and lets the body clunk to the floor unceremoniously. The others are too far below, and he will not drag around literally dead weight.
His keen eye catches them before they see him. He crouches again and quickly gets into position. Just two more floors and he'll be at the rendezvous point. Hopefully Sandy and Sam will be done by then.
A few more pulls of the trigger, and the next round of men are down. Bloodier than tactically necessary again, but not quite enough to satisfy Frank. Worry about your anger issues later, he tells himself. He can still hear more coming up his stairwell, and echoes of Barnes' descent faintly register in his ears. Guess the Magnate has no shortage of idiots at his disposal. As per usual with rich people.
The sound of gunfire below erupts and pulls Frank back to the matter at hand. Apparently now they're getting smart. He presses his back into the wall as hard as he can. A bullet goes clean through his shoulder and Frank bites back a cry of pain. It's not too bad, shallow and didn't hit anything major as far as he can tell, but it'll sure as hell need stitches and a good cleaning later. Unfortunately, it's his right shoulder, which already creaks and groans with old wounds on good days.
The shooting stops, and Frank uses the opening to spring into action, staying low to the ground. He's always hated when stairwells become fighting grounds; even though it's easy to knock his opponents over the edge if he gets close enough, it's also easy for him to take that same nasty fall. But not today.
Frank slices the back of the first man's ankle. Then, he pulls the man's other leg out from under him, causing him to land flat on his back in front of Frank, screaming bloody murder. Frank uses the opening to fire two bullets into the next man, who stumbles backwards into another goon. In the ensuing chaos, Frank, still staying low, wretches the goon on the ground's gun from his hand, but not before cracking his wrist and shooting him in the head with it. The third lackey, who is having trouble getting the second one out of his way, drops his gun, which leaves Frank an opportunity. He releases his signature war cry and plows into them. They fall down the next flight of stairs rather violently. Frank's sure he hears the gratifying snap of broken bones somewhere between their strangled howls.
Using the railings to steady himself, Frank vaults down to the landing where they've dropped. The one man left alive attempts to stand. Frank stomps down roughly on the side of the head. He's not getting back up.
The stairwell is silent. Frank knows there are still more men around somewhere, but he can't pinpoint them yet. It's too dark, and they're smartly staying quiet now. Slightly frustrated, he shrinks back against the wall and makes his way to the fourth floor landing. He barely has time to react to the figure that suddenly appears in front of him a few seconds after his feet hit the landing.
Frank's gun jams into Barnes' open vibranium hand. They share a look—Frank reads surprise and possibly disgust on Barnes, probably because of all the blood, though it can't be the grossest thing Barnes has ever seen—and lower their arms, only to raise them again a half a moment later. More men have reappeared on each other's backside. Frank snarls. Shit. Some of them had been hiding in the apartments. Perfectly in sync, they both glide past each other to get a better aim at their respective targets. Frank efficiently takes down his targets, but he's not able to keep them from firing back first.
Despite the fact that he positioned himself in front of Barnes' back so that any bullets would likely hit his vest, one bullet sneaks past and lands squarely in Barnes' ass cheek. He lets out a pained yelp, but stays standing. His own targets are already dead on the upper landing.
Frank's own body reacts unpleasantly with the memory of a very similar injury. It sucked. "Hey, you all right?"
Barnes growls through clenched teeth, "Yeah, I'll be fine. Eventually."
"Come on, kid." He catches Barnes' eye roll and smirks. He trusts the soldier's super hearing to detect if they're going to run into any trouble on the way down. They don't.
At least, not until they reach the dark lobby. Guess it was just the ones leading the charge that were stupid.
They're suddenly surrounded by a dozen men with semi-automatics. He and Barnes share another look, this one full of exasperation. Fuck. Should've seen this coming.
"Looks like you're shit outta luck," the man front and center goads in an American accent. Jersey, more specifically. That asshole will be Frank's first target. "Some Punisher and Winter Soldier you are."
Frank hears several guns cock, and Barnes' metal arm whirs faintly. There's no way they'll be able to get out of this without sustaining more injuries. The vibranium shield only covers his front, and the second Frank moves to cover Bucky's back, the men will begin firing. With both of them sustaining gunshot wounds, the odds heavily favor the Magnate's men.
It's gonna be a shit show. All Frank can hope for at this point is that they can get back to their partners, at the very least, alive.
At least, until the familiar glistening tendrils of water on the floor catch Frank's attention. Before they can react, sharp spirals of water shoot up from under the men, vaulting them into the ceiling, hard. Several go limp on impact. Those that don't are shot, but not by Frank or Bucky.
They both whirl around at the same time to find Sandy and Sam running up to them from the far hallway, carrying all the bags they'd been loading up beforehand. Sam has his goggles—now fully functional—over his eyes, wings strapped securely in place, and both shield and gun at the ready. Both Sandy and Sam visibly flinch at the sheer contrast in the state of their friends. Barnes is mostly clean except for a few small spatters of enemy blood on his shirt and his own blood now covering the seat of his pants, while Frank's front is completely soaked.
After the worry drains quickly from her face, Sandy fixes Frank with that look, hand hovering over his chest. "You're so gross right now but I'm also really feeling it."
He's not sure he'll ever really get used to that in times like this. "For the love of Christ, can we please just go?"
"We don't have time for that," Sam cuts in, waving a finger at Sandy. His hand slowly drops away from Barnes' shoulder. "We're leaving. Now." There's no room for argument in his voice.
"Our exit's clear," she confirms.
They all start for the back exit.
"You were right, Bucky. Guess he didn't take too kindly at all to us threatening his wife, huh? Or freeing those girls."
"Guess not," he grunts back. "But this begs the question…"
Sam pauses at the back door, reading the display on his goggles, and finishes, "How the hell did they find us?"
"We both had nano masks on, and Bucky was able to scrap any footage of us from before or after the party," she points out.
"We'll figure it out later." Frank has to redirect them. "We need to split up for now."
"Right," Sam agrees. "Buck, let's go."
"Air and ground routine?" Sandy asks.
A nod, and everyone makes their way through the door. Frank watches as Sam launches two small drones from his wing pack. After they've risen into the air high enough, the two drones cloak themselves in identical images of Sam decked out in full uniform, wings outstretched. Wilson thinks of everything.
Frank vaguely makes out that the projections show Sam holding someone in his arms, though the decoys are too far away and go off in different directions before he can figure out exactly who it's supposed to be.
That question is answered when he hears Sam's grumble of, "I hate this. You're so heavy," as he loops his arms under Barnes' and around his chest.
"Yeah, well, you're not the only one. I don't like being suspended in the air. And I'm not wearing my vest," is Bucky's equally unhappy reply.
Ignoring Sandy's knowing side eye (he's said multiple times how much he hates flying and hopes to God Sam never has to air lift him), Frank starts out for their predetermined location. He hears the loud whir of Sam's wings, then those two are gone.
"Well…" Sandy looks as though she's going to loop her arm around Frank's midsection, but she pauses and pulls back, face contorted in a curious way. "I honestly have no idea how you don't have some sort of blood borne disease by now."
"Thought you said you were really feeling it?"
"I also said you're really gross right now. I have standards, you know. I'm not touching you until you get a shower. Not that you'd really let me anyway."
Frank grunts noncommittally, and her eyebrows shoot up. "Come on. The sooner we get there, the better."
And the sooner he can end this conversation and properly deal with the painful throbbing in his shoulder.