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Chapter 7

A Shadow Rises

Falsworth manor, England

Despite having stayed awake deep into the night chatting with Steve and Namor, Jacqueline awoke early, eager to start the day. After breakfast with Steve, she would prepare for the arrival of her family later in the day. But as Trilby brought the morning paper and tea, she received a surprise.

"Gone, did you say?"

"Yes ma'am. The gentleman departed before I awoke. He left this on the mantle."

Trilby set the envelope on the serving tray, next to the tea, and left the room. Jackie reached for her glasses, and then opened the envelope and read.

Dear Jackie,
Sorry to run. Some Avengers business has come up. Hope I didn't put a crimp in your birthday celebration. Tell everyone I said hello, especially Emily. She has your eyes. I'll be in touch soon. Take care, my Darling Girl…
Love, S

She set the note on her nightstand, next to Steve's lilies. His duties as Captain America were demanding… yet she didn't believe his excuse. Something went unspoken yesterday, a weighty issue hovering below the surface of their light conversation. Steve was never able to hide his feelings from her. It pained her to think how easily she kept secrets from him. Several times she felt he was about to open up, but the moment always passed. She remembered something from last night, at the time blaming it on the darkness and her failing sight. As Steve and Namor came in from the garden, she saw, for a fleeting instant, something about Namor's eyes…

"Tears," she whispered. "Namor was weeping."

She was sure of it, and that meant something was indeed wrong. Namor was a man of great passions, his emotions always just below the surface. But tears? Never. He was too prideful for that. Something was wrong with Steve.

Jacqueline bowed her head, a calm settling over her, banishing all uncertainty. A decision she had long put off was suddenly here, and her choice was clear. She pulled the velvet rope hanging at her bedside. Trilby appeared moments later.

"You called, ma'am?"

"Yes. Telephone my family and tell them the party is off. With apologies."

Trilby paused. "Very well, but what reason shall I give?"

"I trust you will think of something appropriate. Be sure to tell them I am fine, that it's not my health."

"Then you wish me to lie?"

Jackie glowered. "I wish for you to do as I ask—and be quick about it. Call everyone…except Emily." With some effort, Jackie stood and drew her nightgown around her, gathering her strength for the task ahead. "I need you to drive me to Oxford. I must speak with my granddaughter."

. . .

Steve approached the outskirts of London, feeling like a heel for running out on Jackie. His flimsy excuse of a note wouldn't cover it. He'd have to make it right later. What he couldn't do was share his bad news with her, not after how things went with Namor. An emotional scene like that with Jackie was more than he could deal with. Steve caught his reflection in the rear-view mirror.

"You're a coward."

And so he was. This was something he was unaccustomed to, lying and being afraid. It wasn't death he feared; he'd faced that prospect too many times for it to have any real hold on him now, but facing the people he loved, and telling them he was dying took more courage than he realized. He felt as if he were quitting somehow, deserting his post. Absurd, but that's how it felt. He had to believe a cure was coming. If life taught him anything, it was that nothing was impossible—his very existence today was proof of that. He thought of Hank Pym and Reed Richards, the two old friends who were heading the search for a cure. Boys, he thought, I pray you're as smart as we all think you are.

He set his concerns aside and concentrated on the drive. The London traffic was heavy, and he would have been lost without GPS. He used to know this sprawling city well, but so much had changed. This area bordering the east bank of the River Thames used to be nothing but factories and warehouses, most of which were destroyed in the Blitz. Today, all remnants of that era were gone. This was a bright, modern development, full of housing, shops and restaurants. Steve wasn't sure if he didn't prefer it the old way. It was ridiculous, romanticizing a bunch of rundown old factories, many dating back to the Industrial Revolution, but at least they felt like London somehow. This place, nice as it was, could easily be a suburb of San Francisco, Baltimore, or even Moscow. There was getting to be a 'sameness' to the world that Steve found troubling. Progress didn't always mean improvement.

He arrived at his destination. The house sat on a small cul-de-sac, situated on the river's edge. Very modern, not really his taste, but certainly nice. Steve walked up to the door and knocked.

A youthful man in a faded Manchester United t-shirt opened the door, mopping his forehead with a towel. He was very fit, over six feet and a solid two hundred pounds. His hands were those of a fighter, hard and calloused, with thick, blunted knuckles. To anyone with an eye for such details, this was obviously a man who could handle himself in a tight spot. He looked at Steve, not recognizing him.

"Can I help you?"

"Hello, Joe. I was passing by and thought I'd stop for a quick visit. Is this a good time?"

Joey Chapman's eyes grew wide with recognition. "Yes, its fine Ca…" he trailed off. "Sorry, I'm a bit off kilter. I'm not really sure what to call you."

"I understand. And please, call me Steve."

Joey seemed unsure what to do with this information, as if it were a test to gauge his reaction. "Right," he said. "Steve it is. Come in, please."

Steve followed Joey in. It was spacious, lots of chrome and tile, with high ceilings and tall, narrow windows. The floor plan was open, with a small kitchen and dining area in the back, everything neat and efficient. The living room had been converted to a gymnasium: heavy bags and focus pads for sparring, free weights and a few machines, mostly for cardio. Floor mats covered the hardwood floor, and wooden targets lined the far wall, with various throwing knives sunk deep into them.

Joey walked over to the couch, almost the only piece of actual furniture there, and moved a stack of newspapers.

"Excuse the mess; bit of a slob I'm afraid. Can I get you anything? Tea, coffee? Got some pizza in the fridge, if you're hungry."

"Thanks, but no. I can't stay long. I'm catching a flight soon."

"Well. I'd show you around, but this is it actually. The downstairs is just storage space."

Joey sat on the edge of a weight bench holding an Olympic bar, loaded with about four hundred pounds Steve estimated—very respectable.

"Nice place, Joe. A little on the Spartan side, but nice."

Joey smiled ruefully. "It's a perk. I also get a car and a nice fat expense account. The British government takes good care of their agents. At least the ones who make the grade. I've been put on disciplinary leave. I imagine the Royal family had a say in that. What do you think; time to keep an eye out for a new flat?"

"That's why I stopped. I figured you might be dealing with some issues after Scotland."

"I see." Joey ran a hand through his short reddish hair. "Well, I appreciate the thought, Cap…"

"Steve."

"Okay then." Joey got up and walked over to the heavy bag. "I appreciate the thought, Steve…but I don't need anyone holding my hand. I bollixed it the other day." He began snapping punches into the canvas bag, making it sway. "Don't bother saying otherwise. I can handle the truth—without any pep talks."

Steve walked over to Joey. "I didn't come to give any pep talk. I came to give it to you straight. You need to get your act together. You screwed up the other day."

Joey turned around, his face red with anger and embarrassment. Steve continued.

"We're in a life or death profession, requiring split second decisions, with little room for error. If you can't get your head right, you have no business being in it. You should have spotted that sniper."

"Hey," Joey shouted, stepping toward Steve, pointing a finger in his face. "The bastard was wearing a refractor suit, in case you don't remember. He was bloody well invisible!"

"Hydra's had that technology for what, a year now? You've been briefed on it. And it's hardly true invisibility, especially in the dark, where it gives off a bluish glow. But you missed it. You're lucky I was there to pull your ass out of the fire."

"That the way it is, then? Is that the opinion of the Great Man himself, that I'm a washout?"

"I don't know. Are you a washout?"

White fury washed over Joey's face. He threw a wild haymaker that Steve batted aside. More punches came, thudding against Steve's arms and torso. Steve looked at Joey.

"You don't want to do this."

Joey pulled back, his expression cold rage. He sprang forward, spinning his leg in a tight crescent, the move blindingly fast. Joey Chapman was a black belt in SAS combat karate; his kicks could splinter oak beams. With an echoing 'whap', the kick landed against Steve's thigh. Steve stepped forward, closing the distance in a flash, extending his open palm into Joey's chest. Chapman flew back like a rag doll, crashing into a rack of barbells and weight plates with a clatter of steel. He scrambled to his feet, clutching an empty dumbbell in his fist like a club.

Steve's eyes narrowed, and for the first time he assumed something of a fighting stance. His voice was calm, but utterly serious.

"Don't make a mistake you'll regret, Joe. I came here as your friend."

Joey stood, breathing hard. With a grunt, he spun, throwing the bar into a mirror on the far wall, shattering it. He took a moment to regain his composure.

"You're right," he said quietly. "I missed the bastard. Because of my stupidity, the Prince almost lost his life. I am a washout."

Steve walked to a shelf and grabbed a fresh towel, handing it to the younger man.

"I've got something to tell you, and you need to listen up because I don't have time to repeat myself. For the record, I never called you a washout. Those were your words. In my opinion, you have everything it takes. You're strong, smart and skilled…not to mention you kick like a Missouri mule," he said, rubbing his thigh. "But what matters is what you think. Do you know why you missed that sniper?"

"I got sloppy," Joey muttered.

"No. You missed him because you ignored the first rule of guerrilla warfare. Always scan the field for potential ambush sites. I know damn well they teach that in the SAS. But you charged in blind, in a mad rush to be first. This was a rescue mission, not a contest."

"Easy for the winner to say."

"I didn't win anything. The team won."

Joey looked at him, haggard. "You really have no idea how hard it is, standing in your shadow. I saw how the men looked at you, like God himself had arrived. And why not? You're the best."

Steve walked to the mini-fridge and grabbed two bottles of water, tossing one to Chapman. "I'll let you in on a secret. Nobody is the best. The best is a myth."

"That's news to me. The way you took out ten Hydra agents to my one, crossing that platform under heavy crossfire, in the blink of an eye? Hell, I can't even think that fast, let alone move that fast. When we took their command center, I must have looked the right bloody fool, setting an explosive charge on that door. What a waste of time," Joey said, with a rueful smile. "You just kicked it in. Two-inch plate steel and you crumpled it like tin. That's not the best?"

Steve smiled. "Off the top of my head I can name a dozen men capable of shattering six-inch plate steel. A couple of women, too. Does that make them the best? I know others who move faster than the eye can follow—are they the best? What about the ones who can fly, or project energy from their hands? My point is, we all bring a different set of skills to the table—different strengths, different weaknesses. Don't get caught up in trying to be 'the best', whatever that even is. Just work to be the best that you can be. That's all any of us can do."

"Be the best you can be?" Joey said, wearily. "Bit corny, isn't it?"

"Maybe, but its good advice. If you go on chasing impossible standards, you'll only fail. That's what makes you press out there, and that's what leads to mistakes."

Steve looked at his watch and set his water down. "I have to be going. Look, Joe, I won't lie. Your window of opportunity is getting very narrow. Your C.O. wanted to suspend you from active duty indefinitely, not just a month. He wanted to revoke your status as a free agent."

"You've spoken with General Stonewell?"

"Stony's an old friend and he asked my opinion. I told him I thought you were the man for the job. He's giving you another opportunity to prove yourself as Union Jack. Now it's up to you."

"I…I didn't know that. Look, not to be an ungrateful little prat, but why put yourself out for me? I'm not even sure I believe in me. Why do you?"

Steve grew quiet. When he eventually spoke, there was a melancholy to his voice.

"Early in the war, before my country was even in it, I was here in Britain, hunting a Nazi spy who'd stolen vital Allied defense secrets. You could follow his path by the bodies in his wake. After weeks on his trail, I finally had him cornered… ironically enough, in Scotland, not far from where we were the other day. I moved in for the kill, only it turned out I was the pigeon that day. He ambushed me, shot me point blank in the chest. If not for my tunic and my healing ability, I would have died on the spot. He took the butt of his pistol and beat me to a pulp, dumping me in the ocean. Somehow, I made it to shore, as a U-Boat took him safely back to Germany. That spy was a Nazi colonel named Johann Schmidt. The Red Skull."

Chapman listened with fascination. He had known Cap for almost three years, but for the first time he was seeing him as a flesh and blood man, not some invincible icon. Cap continued.

"Physically, I recovered quickly. But mentally? It was my first real defeat. It shook my confidence. That was when a man, whom I would come to respect very much, spoke to me. He gave it to me straight, no sugarcoating. He got me back on my feet and back in the fight. I asked how I could repay him, but he said there was no need—in our line of work, we back one another up. He told me someday I might find myself in a position to help someone as he helped me. That man was Sir Richard Falsworth."

Joey felt an electric charge run up his spine, making the hairs on his neck stand on end. He had to remind himself to breathe as Steve continued.

"Sir Richard was a good man, as was his son, Brian. You're a good man too, Joe. You remember that the next time you wear those colors…and you do them proud."

It was a moment before Joey's voice came to him. "Thank you, Cap," he said, offering his hand. "For everything."

"No need for thanks," he said, taking his hand. "That's what we do in our line, we back each other up. And I told you, it's Steve."

Joey smiled. "That's going to take some getting used to. Is that your real name?"

Steve laughed. "It is. Hey, if you can't trust a friend with a secret, who can you trust?"

Joey slapped his hand across Steve's back and walked him to the door. When they got there, Steve paused for a moment, as if mulling something over in his mind.

"I'm getting together with a few friends next Friday, a little standing poker game we have. Do you play?"

"Yeah, a little," Chapman answered modestly. "Where's the game?"

"Avengers Mansion."

Joey froze. "Avengers…Mansion?"

Steve pulled a business card from his wallet. "It's a friendly game—mostly small stakes. No one goes home too busted. If it sounds good to you, call this number," Steve said, handing Joey a card. "He'll arrange your transportation."

With a smile, Steve walked his car and headed off. For a long time, Joey Chapman stood in his doorway, reading and re-reading the card, shaking his head in wonder:

Avengers Mansion Security Team
Col. John Jameson, pilot (U.S.A.F., retired)
1-8Avengers (1-888-3276)
Flight Crew
. . .

Forty minutes later, Steve was aboard the Quinjet, the Avengers private transport. As the engines throttled for takeoff, he settled into his seat feeling good, as if he just rinsed his mouth of a foul taste. Self-pity was a sickening brew and he'd been drinking from that cup far too long. This afternoon was a reminder of what was truly important in life: purpose. There was still work to do. He'd lost sight of that recently, but Joe helped him see it again. His guiding principles had always been duty, honor, and above all, purpose. As long as he held to that, there was reason to hope.

He had reached a decision: it was time to open up about his illness. He bungled things with Jackie, badly, a mistake he wouldn't repeat. It was time to be honest with his friends and the public. Steve Rogers had a right to privacy like anyone, but Captain America was a public figure, and the American people deserved to know the truth. He simply had to find a way to balance his personal wishes against his public duty. There was a lot on his to-do list.

In the stand by his seat, Steve found a copy of the morning edition of The Daily Bugle. He scanned the front page, surprised to see news of Scotland had already leaked. He grew more concerned as he read: there were nine other Hydra offensives carried out that same day, all over the globe—a coordinated campaign. The intelligentsia believed Hydra wasn't capable of such a thing. SHIELD, Interpol, NATO, CIA—all insisted Hydra's command structure collapsed two years ago, alongside the man who created the organization…the Red Skull.

Experience taught him to trust nothing where the Skull was concerned, death least of all. Cap led the strike against the Hydra fortress that day, high in the Ural Mountains. As Falcon and a squadron of SHIELD agents engaged the Hydra troops, Captain America met the Red Skull in personal combat. Sometimes it seemed he'd been battling the Skull all his life. Perhaps he had.

The conflict raged, a near thing, as it always was. Several times the Skull nearly gained the upper hand, but the tide turned; the Hydra forces fell back in disarray, as a series of explosions rocked the fortress. The platform where he and the Skull fought buckled and tore loose from the main structure. At the last instant, Cap grasped a piece of shattered railing and pulled himself to safety. He watched the platform tumble down the mountain chasm, the Skull flailing amidst the flames and twisted steel, spitting out his hate upon the world even as he fell to his death. He watched it…but he didn't believe it.

Steve went to set the paper back in the stand, but it fell from his hand. He tried to pick it up, but the movement was slow and weak, his fingers refusing to work. Then his hand began to tremble, like an elderly man struck with palsy. Taking a breath, he clenched his hand into a fist, and slowly the trembling stopped. The weakness faded, but not entirely.

The intercom buzzed, Jameson, calling from the cockpit.

"Cap, you interested in getting any fly-time?"

"Not…today, John," he said, staring at his hand. "I think I'll get some shut eye. By the way, I'm sorry for calling you a day early."

"No problem. We've got the wind at our tail, figure we'll be home in maybe four hours. Happy dreams."

Steve was already asleep, and would not awake until the Quinjet touched down.

Hydra Base Alpha-1

On a small island three hundred miles off the west coast of Africa, Elvin Gibb was experiencing a moment of transcendent joy. Everything he had striven towards these past dozen years was coming to fruition. His tireless work, the countless sacrifices, his total, unwavering devotion…all about to crystallize in a moment of triumph. Triumph for himself, and for the cause. For a moment he thought he might weep. Seeing no one near his workstation, he stood and slid the documents into the envelope, clutching it tightly. He called his subordinate over the intercom.

"Blake, man the station. I'm expecting a contact from our Washington bureau. I should be back in time to take it, but if not, call me."

"Yes sir."

As intelligence chief for the eastern seaboard of the United States, he had a staff of thirty, with two hundred agents in the field. It was a lofty position—a lifetime away from the dusty back roads of West Virginia, from the angry and confused young man who once painted swastikas on highway signs and smashed windows in the dark of night, imagining he was accomplishing something. He had come far, but had farther yet to go. After today he would rise to the inner circle of power: the Great One would reward him for his diligent work. It was his destiny, and Elvin Gibb headed off to meet it.

As he approached the command center, Elvin's superior officer moved to intercept him.

"Where are you headed, Gibb?"

"I have important information, Commander. I need to see…him."

This brought an indignant laugh. "First, no one sees him unannounced. Second, if you have information, bring it to me. Follow your chain of command, Section Chief."

"I don't think so," Elvin said, holding up the envelope. "You're not taking credit for my work this time, Thorpe. I put these facts together, I connected the dots. This wasn't part of my assigned duties. I took the initiative… and I expect the reward."

"You insubordinate little…I'm going to run you out of Hydra, Gibb. Tomorrow morning you'll be back in Dirtwater USA, passing out handbills at white power rallies."

Elvin's thin lips curled with anger. The Appalachia he had worked so hard to remove from his accent began to creep back. "Tomorrow morning? I'll be head of global intelligence. And you'll be bringing my coffee."

As the two men stood nose to nose, a voice came over the intercom speaker above the door.

"What's the problem here?"

"This is Section Chief Gibb," Elvin blurted. "I have important news. I must speak with our Leader immediately."

Elvin and Thorpe began arguing, but stopped as the doors swung open.

"Chief Gibb, report to the security desk. Alone."

Elvin crossed the threshold, taking exquisite pleasure at the look on Thorpe's face. He had to pass through two security checkpoints, each time holding his ground, insisting he deliver his news personally. Finally, he was directed to the elevators which led to the upper levels of the well-hidden jungle base. He was met by a woman all Hydra personnel knew, for her influence reached all quarters of the organization. This was the closest he'd ever been to her, and he found it impossible not to stare. Her features were a striking blend of Asian and European, though exactly what her ancestry was, no one knew. Her long black hair, like skeins of silk, hung across the left side of her face, concealing a knot of scars that only accentuated her severe beauty. Her green leather bodysuit and matching lipstick gave her an appearance to match her name: Viper.

"Chief Gibb," said Viper, her voice soft and insouciant. "I understand you have news for our Supreme Commander?"

"Yes, ma'am. It's of vital importance that I speak to him."

"For your sake, I hope so. Follow me."

She led him down a long corridor, leading to a massive door flanked by armed guards. They entered the room. The floor was granite, the walls mahogany, and the furniture was upholstered with leather, dyed ox-blood red. A massive desk of carved teak and polished marble sat in the center of the room, and behind it was something unreal and haunting, like the reflection of a blood-red moon in a raven's eye. Elvin's breath caught in his throat as he beheld a man most of the world believed to be dead; a man who had taken the mantle of leadership from Adolf Hitler, and who would soon take the world itself. Gathering his composure, Elvin spoke, his voice tremulous with awe.

"This is the greatest honor of my life."

"Undoubtedly," the Red Skull replied, setting aside the report he was reading. He was dressed luxuriously. Over a cashmere shirt he wore a jacket, black as ink, woven of fine Egyptian cotton. A ring of ruby and pure gold adorned his right hand. He exuded an air of patience, to a point…and menace as bottomless as the sea. Gibb stared, unable to find his words.

"While this is all very pleasant," the Skull said, "the demands on my time are great. Perhaps you should deliver your pressing news, and we might visit some other time?"

Gibb opened his envelope. "Two weeks ago, some puzzling information crossed my desk. I looked into the matter further, and made a glorious discovery."

With immense pride, Elvin laid the documents before the Skull's gloved hands.

"Herr Skull, your great enemy, the traitor to his race and servant of the international Zionists, Captain America…is dying."

The Skull's face, if it could be said he had one at all, registered a look of disbelief and shock.

"I've confirmed it with our agents in American intelligence," Elvin continued. "He's contracted a disease of unknown origin. According to his own doctors, Captain America has but weeks to live. Your greatness endures."

The Skull sat in silence, scanning the report. He stood and walked to a large window overlooking the jungle canopy, staring off to the distance. Elvin noticed Viper slowly retreating from his side, and became uneasy.

"My Lord, I…I thought you'd be pleased."

"Did you?" The Skull turned around, his disposition that of a dark and gathering thundercloud, causing Elvin to take an involuntary step back. "That was your first mistake. Who gave you permission to think?"

"I…I don't understand…"

"Yes, clearly you do not. I shall explain. You are a functionary, Mr. Gibb. I employ you to gather intelligence, to pass it onto those above you. I do not ask you to think. Yet here you stand, thinking, daring to presume you might know my mind!"

Sweat poured down Elvin's face in rivulets and his knees went weak. The Skull advanced, his approach like the sudden chill of midnight. Had Elvin's mind not been numb with terror, he might have found this curious, for the Skull's bony face had only grown redder, like bricks fresh from the kiln.

"Decades before you were born, I battled my brother for the fate of this world. He is a titan, his only equal being me. And you, a worm not fit to lick his boot heels, come before me, smiling with stupid satisfaction, daring to take glee in his doom? His life is mine to take!"

Elvin had no time to even gasp. Faster than woe, the Skull clutched his throat, talon-like fingers cutting his flesh, slicing his windpipe. As his lifeblood spurted from severed arteries, Elvin felt a stony hand close about his spine, crushing it, all while the Skull raged.

"My brother will die by my hand—fate has decreed it! Disease? Illness? I will not allow it! The universe will not allow it!"

Viper walked forward. "I'm afraid he cannot hear you, my love."

The Skull looked at the bloody meat in his hand. He opened his fist, and the body fell to the floor, its head held on by strands of flesh, spilling pools of blood across the cold granite. At long last, Elvin Gibb had found his destiny.

"Come," Viper said.

She led The Skull to his private bathroom, all gleaming marble and granite. They stepped into the shower, the water raising clouds of steam. She peeled off his clothing, dropping his bloody gloves to the floor, turning the water at their feet red. Rinsing his hand, she sucked his skeletal fingers into her mouth one by one. An invisible field of energy surrounded his bones, when he wished it, and it caused Viper's mouth to tingle. Not even the heat of the shower could quell the cold radiating from his touch. It was excruciating, and it never failed to thrill her; the very touch of dread, tasting of frozen tears. She ran her hands down the translucent shape of his body, made visible by the steam and water. A ghostly echo of humanity long vanished. Stripping off her clothing, she put his hands on her, in her, and pressed her mouth to his grinning smile, moaning as he took her.

When he was sated, Viper led the Skull to his chamber, drying and dressing him. He lit a cigarette as she knelt to tie his boots.

"I must know if that fool's information was correct."

"I will attend to it."

"Make it your top priority. I must know."

Viper rose, kissing his rough and cold cheek. As she walked to the door, the Skull called out

"My dear...have you not forgotten something?" He extended his right hand, displaying his empty finger. "My ring."

She walked to him, producing the ring from her pocket. "Forgive me. In the heat of your embrace I—"

The words froze in her throat. The Skull reached out, almost lovingly, and cupped her chin. Slowly, he began to squeeze.

"Place the ring upon my finger."

Viper slid the golden ring onto his fourth finger. Despite the pain of his grip, and the fear in her heart, she met his eyeless gaze, refusing to waver.

"Your pride is strong," he said, releasing his grip. "It pleases me. I would say pride and audacity are your most comely attributes. Indeed, they almost match your lust for power. See they do not overcome your better judgment. My embrace, dear girl, is ice. Take care, lest you discover just how cold it can be. Go."

. . .

Viper returned to the office, rubbing the raw divots in her face, smiling. The Skull's anger was like the storm; it came and went. She had learned to ride the waves. A force before combining her organization with Hydra, her power had only increased upon becoming his woman. Now she was poised to become Empress of the world. She had many plans on how to wield the power soon to be hers…and they did not include bending her knee to any man. Gingerly, she stepped around the bloody carnage and activated the intercom.

"Send in a cleaning crew."

The crew arrived in minutes, equipped with hazmat suits, a body bag, and industrial strength cleaners. Finishing with practiced speed, they headed towards the rear exit, when a tone sounded. Viper unzipped the bag and retrieved the communicator from the dead man's pocket, putting it to her ear.

"Chief Gibb cannot come to the phone. He has been…dismissed. I promote you to his position. Congratulations, Section Chief Blake. I'll be down shortly with a special assignment."

Viper dropped the phone into the bag and left the office, now perfectly in order, showing no trace of the slaughter.

. . .

In his private quarters, the Red Skull sat brooding. How could this be? His brother, taken at the moment of his greatest triumph… not even God could be so cruel, surely. Yet, it felt true. He had a sense of these things. This news changed everything. How could he achieve his final victory if Rogers was not there to witness it? He would make him be there. Neither heaven nor hell would prevent it. The Skull reached for his communicator.

"Ernst, bring my car around."

Minutes later, he was at the research and development complex, on the opposite end of the island. Like the Command Center, the bulk of R&D was below-ground, the upper portion hidden by holographic camouflage. The Skull boarded a waiting tram, and speeded off to the main lab. After passing through the sterilizing field, he entered the lab, looking with pride at the work his people had done. This was the most expensive project of his career, all but tapping out his resources. It was as it should be; an all-or-nothing throw of the dice. He thought of his old acquaintance, Field Marshal Erwin Rommel. The man had been too concerned with honor and rules to achieve true greatness, but as a tactician, he was brilliant. Rommel understood what so few ever did, that to win all, one must be willing to lose all. It was an axiom the Skull lived by. Soon, the mightiest army in history would be his, and this world would finally come to heel at its master's call.

His head scientist approached, a brilliant man without whom this project would not have been possible. He was an odd man, of the sort the Skull understood well—a man of unblinking ambition, and blank morality.

"Greetings, Dr. Lerner. How goes your work?"

"Quite well," the little man answered. "The project is on schedule."

"Yes, well… I am afraid that is about to change. You must accelerate your timetable, and be finished by the end of the month."

Lerner stared through his thick glass lenses. "That's impossible," he said, simply.

The Skull put his hand on Lerner's shoulder. Almost lovingly.

"I do not believe in impossible. There are only those things which have not yet been accomplished, waiting on a man of vision to do them. Tell your staff that there will be a bonus of one million dollars per-person if they succeed. I need not tell you what they shall receive if they fail."

The Skull spun on his heels and headed for the door. "It is all or nothing, Doctor," he shouted. "Take heart! Fate favors the bold!"