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Chapter 10

Skull and Bones

Manhattan

The pleasant aroma of coffee wafted into the room, pulling Steve gently out of sleep. He sat up, looking at the pillow next to his. He reached out and touched the imprint of her head, smelling the lilac of her hair. How long since she last shared his bed? Six months, longer? The only thing to blame was his stubborn pride. Maybe now he was ready to change that. All it took was getting a terminal disease.

He flinched at a nasty bite of pain in his shoulder, what he imagined arthritis would feel like. He felt it in his hands, too, like on the flight home. Moving his arm in circles to work the stiffness out, he got up and headed to the shower.

Minutes later, he walked out to find Sharon at the kitchen table, working on her laptop. She looked better than the coffee smelled.

"Morning," he said, brushing the hair from her forehead and kissing her.

"Morning yourself. Coffee's brewed. Got scrambled eggs on the stove, and Danish on the counter."

"Wow. You've been busy. When did you get up?"

"About six."

Steve gave a sheepish look. "Sorry to sleep in so late."

"Well, you needed your rest. You were a busy fella last night."

Steve poured coffee and grabbed a Danish, sitting as Sharon spoke.

"I've been doing some snooping. Hank Pym and Reed Richards are requesting information on Project Super Soldier, but someone in high places doesn't want to cooperate. I'll give you two guesses who."

"I don't need to guess. It's Holder."

Sharon nodded. "I can't figure out his strategy. Eventually, he'll have to help."

"Oh, he's offering help…provided I come to his people for treatment."

Sharon closed her laptop. "What was your answer?"

"The same one I gave six years ago, when the Supreme Court decided in my favor. I won't help in his crusade to restart the Super Soldier program. My body belongs to me, not the government."

"I can imagine how much he enjoyed hearing that. I don't know who he hates more, you or Fury."

"He doesn't hate me," Steve said between swallows of coffee. "He resents me. Fury on the other hand, he hates."

"Holder's has the President's ear, and most of congress," Sharon said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "The only way to fight him is to take him out at the knees. Your friends need to change their tactics."

"They're making progress."

"Not quickly enough. Washington's a small town, and there's gossip floating around the beltway about the company Holder keeps. The gender of that company."

"No."

"It's ugly, I know, but—"

"No," Steve said, setting his coffee down. "End of discussion."

Sharon fell quiet for a moment, showing a depth of feeling and vulnerability she rarely displayed. "Steve…you are a decent, good man. It's what I've always loved most about you."

"But?"

"But you're fighting for your life now."

"That's why it matters. It's easy to do the right thing when there's nothing on the line. I won't engage in gutter tactics, not even against someone like Holder."

"Then you need to make this a public fight," Sharon said, sidestepping debate. "Go before the American people. Tell them about your illness, let them know their government is refusing to help you."

"I won't turn this into a sideshow."

"I'd never ask you to," Sharon said, resting her hand on his. "Captain America is one of the most trusted and beloved figures the nation's ever had. If you just appeal to them, just ask for their help…"

Steve pulled his hand away, his tone darkening. "I see. Should I practice crying on cue? Maybe get a toll-free number, so people can phone in donations?"

"Steve…"

"No checks, please—cash or credit card only."

"Christ! You're being ridiculous."

"Why? Because I have principles?"

"No, because you're letting those principles kill you!"

"Some principles are worth dying for."

"Here we go," Sharon said, shaking her head. "It's Madrid, all over again. You would have let that terrorist kill you for your damned principles."

"No, I wouldn't. I would have disarmed him."

"Maybe, but you weren't just risking your life. You were risking the lives of every passenger on that plane. The odds were against you reaching him before he could press that detonator."

"The odds are always against me. I would have disarmed him…only we'll never know, will we?"

"I was doing my job."

"I've seen how you do your job. The answer to every problem is a bullet."

"That's right, I put a round in his head, like I've been trained," Sharon said, her face cool, her words crisp and deliberate. "I don't have superhuman powers. I don't have an invincible shield or the soul of a saint. The rest of us mere mortals can't live up to your principles. And this time, neither can you."

Steve stood up. "I have places to be. You can let yourself out."

"Hmm, the famous Steve Rogers brush off, right on cue. God, I've been doing this dance for fifteen years…reaching out, thinking maybe this time you'll open your heart to me. Only it's a little crowded in there, isn't it? Is that another of your principles, staying faithful to a woman you can never have?"

Steve's face flushed white. He walked to the door, grabbing his keys.

"Go ahead, walk away, like you always do. Only this time, I'm not leaving you, do you hear me? I'm going to help you, whether you want me to or not!"

Steve walked out, slamming the door behind him. Sharon listened as his motorcycle faded in the distance, and only when she was certain he was gone did she let herself cry.

Steve pulled up to a storefront office on 131st street in Harlem. His earlier anger had settled into a dull hurt. No one could raise his passion, good and bad alike, like Sharon. She came offering help, and he threw it in her face. Sharon was right; his heart was crowded – with ghosts of the past, with regrets of things that never were, but mostly with stubborn, inflexible pride. Pride was small comfort during the long, lonely watches of the night.

He parked his Harley and headed to the community action center, InFlight. On his way, he passed two young men walking down the sidewalk. One of the youths looked his bike over with admiration.

"Damn, that big white boy's got some wheels. Wouldn't that look fine on me?"

"Hey, chill," his friend said. "I live in this neighborhood."

"I'm just fooling, you know me."

"Yeah, but you don't talk like that round here. Don't you know whose place that is?" he asked, pointing to the office. "That's Sam Wilson's place…and nobody fools with the Falcon!"

. . .

Stepping into the office, Steve walked up to the window. The receptionist greeted him with a smile.

"Can I help you, sir?"

"I was hoping to see Councilman Wilson. I'm afraid I don't have an appointment, but I—"

"Steven!"

Steve turned, a broad smile creasing his face as he saw the woman standing in the doorway behind him. Akiela Wilson hurried over, embracing him warmly. She looked at the receptionist.

"Michelle, this is Steven Rogers, an old and dear friend of my husband's. Whenever he comes to call, please welcome him as an honored guest." Akiela turned to Steve. "I am so pleased to see you again. I'm sorry Sam is not here. He is holding a meeting on tenant's rights, across town."

Steve grew quiet. "Is there some place we can talk?"

"Yes, in his office," the willowy beauty said. "Michelle, please hold the calls."

They stepped into the modest office. Steve politely refused the offer of coffee and proceeded to tell her the news. An ashen look came to Akiela's face, and her brown eyes filled with tears.

"Are you certain? Your doctors, are they absolutely certain of this?"

"Yes. In fact, I recently came from Wakanda. Your brother's own people confirmed it."

"T'Challa? But he's said nothing to me."

"He doesn't know. I didn't level with him about why I was there. I'm only just getting around to telling people. I've been worked up about this one, I can tell you. I didn't know if Sam would even want to talk to me, not after all this time."

"Don't be so foolish," Akiela snapped. "Of course he wants to talk with you. This ridiculous falling out between you two has gone on long enough. Each unwilling to make the first step, like two buffalo meeting on a narrow path. Pig headed and proud. Well I've had enough of it," she said, dabbing her eyes.

The door opened. It was Sam, standing there, surprised and still.

"Close the door, my husband," Akiela said. "There's something you need to hear."

. . .

An hour later, Steve was at Sam's and Akiela's apartment, drinking mango tea, and eating honeyed dates and roasted almonds, a dish from Akiela's homeland. The refreshments were a pleasure; the conversation was awkward. Two years ago, Sam retired as the Falcon, going public with his identity and announcing his candidacy for the United States Senate. When Steve declined to give the endorsement of Captain America, it caused a rift. They had not spoken for several weeks.

"Sam, I'm sorry. If I had it to do over again, I'd—"

Sam shook his head, slowly but emphatically. "No you wouldn't."

Steve let out an embarrassed laugh, groaning. "No, I probably wouldn't. God, what the hell is wrong with me? Me and my damned principles?"

"Yeah, well you and your principles were absolutely right, and we both know it. Your entire career you steered clear of politics, never letting Cap become a political football. I was asking you to compromise that. I was in the wrong, Steve, not you."

"This was different. We were partners. It looked bad, me not endorsing you. It probably cost you the election."

"Hey, Cap spoke to the media about a hundred times, offering praise, support, building me up. Everything short of an official endorsement. And I almost won that election. I will win it next time around," Sam said, looking his old friend in the eye. "Look, there are things we both regret. But they're over and done with, and our friendship stands strong. Sound cool?" Sam offered his hand.

"Sounds cool," Steve said, shaking on it. It was an awkward maneuver, causing them to laugh.

"You still can't do the black-man shake. Pitiful."

"For a ninety-seven-year-old white guy, I do okay."

Akiela called them into the dining room, having prepared a light supper. Over cups of coffee, they sat and visited, old friends making up for lost time.

Sharon slipped out of the brownstone, drawing her coat tight. An hour had passed since Steve stormed out, time she needed to pull herself together. Sharon Carter, the spy with ice-water in her veins. Professionally, it was true enough. In the field, she always knew what to do, no indecision, no hesitation—cool and in control. But when the issue was Steve Rogers, her poise and precision was gone. She was bereft of armor when dealing with Steve, just a woman with her heart lying open and bare. Invariably, that heart ended up getting kicked to the curb. And so it was again. But she needed to put that behind her; there was work to do.

She walked the sidewalk in brisk steps, heading towards the parking garage the next block over, where she left her car. Her agenda today was simple; learn the truth about Operation Top Shelf. Someone had worked very hard to wipe all evidence of Top Shelf from the records, but there were mentions of its existence scattered in the SHIELD database. Everywhere Captain America was mentioned, Sharon found hints of it. Her instincts told her Top Shelf held the key to Steve's problem. She had pried as deeply as her considerable skills could take her, but she needed to go deeper still. That meant a trip to New Jersey, to meet with Melvin Kirkshank, one of her most prized contacts.

Melvin was a thirty-two-year-old man who lived in his mother's basement and worked part time at the local comic book shop. He had the social skills of Attila the Hun, and almost as much personal hygiene, but he was also the most talented computer hacker on the east coast, maybe the entire country. For twenty years, the 'Evil Boll Weevil' had managed to evade federal scrutiny; not even SHIELD knew his identity. Sharon kept it that way, her own personal ace-in-the hole. If anyone could break into Fury's encrypted files, it was Melvin Kirkshank, the Evil Boll Weevil.

Sharon was turning over in her mind the things she needed to accomplish today, when she realized someone was following her. She slowed her pace, cursing her carelessness. Her shadow, trailing ten feet behind, had been following since she left Steve's brownstone. And like a wet-nosed cadet, she failed to pick up on it. As she stood at the crosswalk, something between instinct and intuition kicked in. An icy smile came to her lips as she spoke.

"Hello, Clay."

"Damn you're good, Carter."

Sharon started to turn her head.

"Just keep walking," Quartermain said. "Eyes forward."

The crosswalk light went green, and Sharon and Quartermain joined the stream of pedestrians. Sharon thought of the weapon in her purse. It would take at least two seconds to draw, turn and fire. Not an option. Yet.

"I should be flattered," Sharon said. "I knew Fury would send somebody. I just didn't know he'd send his best."

"Come on, 13. We both know you're his best."

"Where are we headed? Or do I get to know?"

"Just some place we can talk. That little pastry shop you were at earlier will do."

"Hmm. Been spying on me all morning I see. Maybe all night? See anything good Clay, anything juicy to share with the boys back at command?"

Clay did not answer. They crossed the street and walked into Simon's Pastry shop. Sharon got her first view of Quartermain. He was dressed inconspicuously, jeans, button down shirt, tan overcoat. In the crook of his arm was a small package. Keeping his right hand in his coat pocket, he motioned her to the counter.

"Well hello again," said the genial old man behind the register. "What'll it be this time, miss?"

"I'll take a machine gun, if you have one handy."

The man wrinkled his brow, confused.

"Coffee for the lady," Clay interjected. "I'll take a cappuccino, light on the cinnamon. And hold the automatic weapons."

The two SHIELD agents found a table in the corner. Sharon took her seat, but Clay remained standing.

"Leave your purse on the table."

Sharon tossed the bag on the table and Clay sat. His hand hadn't left his pocket.

"Very public place you've chosen," Sharon said, stirring her coffee. "I had you pegged as the deserted warehouse, dark alley type. The Jersey turnpike isn't far away, that's a popular spot."

Quartermain sighed. "Do you really think I'm here to kill you?"

Sharon laughed. "Clay, you've taped agents for Fury before. We both have, so let's cut the act."

"Double agents, bad actors who went rogue."

"Isn't that what they call me? Aren't I a rogue?"

"You take it close to the line," Quartermain said, sipping his drink. "You always have."

"Look, if you're not here to kill me, would you mind getting to the point? I have a busy day."

The woman at the nearest table seemed to react to Sharon's words, discomforting Quartermain. He placed the package on the table.

"It's from the Director. He knows you're planning something, and he's prepared to back you, to a point. Remember who your friends are."

"I didn't know I had any friends left in the Division."

"I'm your friend, if you'll only be smart enough to realize it."

"All right, Clay, one friend to another…what do you know about Top Shelf? And don't say 'nothing', because I know that's a lie."

Clay sat quietly. He looked off to his side before answering. "I'm not at liberty to discuss what I do or don't know on that subject."

"Bravo, agent Quartermain! A brilliant piece of double-speak. What you do or do not know. How utterly SHIELD you are."

"Keep your voice down."

"Why? Afraid the barista might be a spy?" Sharon leaned over to the middle-aged woman at the table next to them. "Excuse me, but you wouldn't happen to be a Hydra operative, would you?"

"I… I'm a legal secretary," the startled woman replied.

"You see, Clay? She's clean. So why don't you just tell me what you know about Top Shelf?"

Quartermain smiled. "You always were a hard-ass Carter. All right, if it's going to keep you quiet, I will tell you something. What's happening to Rogers? It's not us. The Division's hands are clean on that, I promise you."

"Then who?"

"I honestly don't know. The Colonel does. Maybe he's ready to tell you," Clay said, tapping the package.

"More cloak and dagger," Sharon said. "It's all just one big spy game to you, isn't it?"

"No, as a matter of fact. Look, the man saved my life two years ago. I owe him, don't you think I know that? Hell, every man, woman and child in this country owes him—a dozen times over. I'm trying to help. So is the Colonel. He's doing everything he can, but he has to protect the Division while doing it. That's his first responsibility."

"Luckily, that's a responsibility I'm not burdened with. My only concern in this matter is Steve Rogers. I'll do whatever's necessary to save him. You can tell the Director I said so."

Clay finished his cappuccino and stood up. "I'll give him your message."

He took his hand from his pocket. There was no gun, only a business card, which he handed to Sharon. The address was for a warehouse on Long Island, Waid Construction. There was no Waid Construction. The business was a front for a SHIELD ordnance and supply hub—one of several such facilities scattered throughout the country. Sharon knew it well.

"Show up tonight at nine," Clay said. "Ask for Danny Hu, he's a friend, owes me a favor. He'll give you whatever you need, no questions asked. I know you have your own sources, but you're going to find things getting tight pretty soon. And just so you know…I'm the one who's supposed to bring you in, if it comes to that. Don't let it come to that, Sharon. Please."

Sharon shook her head softly, tucking the card into her purse. "You're a real son-of-a bitch, Clay. Thanks."

"What are friends for? Good luck, 13."

Quartermain stepped out of the shop. Sharon finished her coffee. She still couldn't believe she had been sloppy enough to pick up a tail without noticing, but then Quartermain was better than she gave him credit for. Maybe he always was. She took the package and headed to the parking garage, curious what Fury had sent her. One way or the other, she would get to the bottom of this…and God help anyone who got in her way.

With the late afternoon sun shining through the dining room window, Steve eased back from the table. "Akiela, that was absolutely delicious."

"Thank you. I so rarely get compliments on my cooking," she said, frowning in mock anger at her husband.

"Maybe we should have you over more often," Sam said. "My African Princess doesn't cook like this when it's just me."

Steve rose to help clear the dishes, but Akiela slapped his wrist, shooing him away.

"Don't you dare, you are a guest, one long missed. You and Sam go relax." She headed for the kitchen, but stopped and turned, smiling coyly. "Tell me Steven, do I not look different to you?"

"Not that I notice."

She turned, running her hand down her slim belly. "Nothing at all?" she asked, smiling.

Steve broke into a huge grin. "No…a baby?"

"Yes! Two months along."

Steve jumped up and hugged her. "This is wonderful! Is it a boy or a girl?"

"It's a little early for that. Besides, Sam wants it to be a surprise."

"If it's a girl, we're thinking of Akiesha, after her mother," Sam said. "Kenneth if it's a boy, after my father."

"I like Steven," Akiela said. A somber silence fell over the room. "I want his uncle to be there when he is christened."

"I want that too," Steve said. "Very much."

Akiela turned and hurried out of the room. Sam stood up, rubbing his face.

"Steve…what are we going to do about this thing?"

"Not much to do. The guys with all the PhD's after their names are doing the real work. I'll take any prayers you have lying around."

"You got them," Sam said, putting his hand on Steve's shoulder.

A slight beeping came from Steve's pocket. He pulled out his Avengers com-link and opened the connection. After a brief conversation, he then hung up.

"Avengers business?" Sam asked.

"No, NYPD. There's a hostage situation at Brand Laboratories in Queen's, a robbery gone wrong. The hostage taker is offering to surrender, but only to Captain America."

"Want some company?"

Steve looked at his friend. "I thought you'd retired, Sam."

"Yeah, well so did Michael Jordan, about nine times."

"You have a baby on the way. Maybe it's not such a good idea."

"Steve, let me put it this way; I'm coming."

"I can't argue with logic like that," Steve said, smiling. "I've got my gear stowed on my bike. I'll see you outside in five minutes."

Steve headed to the garage. Following a routine he started in the spring of 1940, when his uniform was assigned to him, he inspected the individual garments, ensuring everything was intact and functional. He put on his under-shirt, a long-sleeved blend of white cotton and silk, strong but lightweight. Over that came his armored tunic, short sleeved, cut just above the elbow so as not to restrict his arms. It was deep blue, with a white star emblazoned on the chest. The tunic was composed of hundreds of small, interlocking scales, giving the appearance of chain mail. Each scale was composed of high-impact Kevlar, interwoven with threads of pure Vibranium, making it bulletproof and highly resistant to energy weapons. The tunic stopped midway down the torso, where a pattern of vertical red and white stripes picked up.

He pulled on his trousers next, marine blue with red piping, fitted with thin Kevlar panels, bullet proof and extremely tough. His belt was leather, with a plain army style buckle, gunmetal gray. Next, he fastened on his boots and gauntlets, dark red leather. His blue cowl was a lightweight flexible helmet, with thin Vibranium plating. The mask was designed to allow for ease of speech, hearing, and breathing, and the eyeholes were wide for unimpaired vision. Centered on the mask was a proud letter 'A', sewn with brilliant white threads of pure Vibranium.

Finally, he reached for the metal disc famed the world over as the shield of Captain America. An alloy of titanium and Vibranium, the wonder metal found only in the African Kingdom of Wakanda, the shield was forged in a process never duplicated, giving it twice the strength of adamantium. Vibranium imparted the shield with several unique characteristics, allowing it to absorb, dissipate, and deflect kinetic energy at a rate of 99.8%, and transferring virtually no impact to the wearer. Perfectly aerodynamic, the shield ricochets from one object to another when thrown, losing less than 1% of its forward momentum while delivering a tremendous impact. Its tensile strength can withstand pressures of more than 500,000 pounds per-square inch without structural damage, making it all but indestructible.

Straddling his bike, he caught his reflection in the windshield of Sam's Lexus, and breathed a little easier than he had all day. The world always made a little more sense to him seen through the lens of Captain America. It wasn't ideal, but it was the way it was. Affixing the hands-free com-unit to his ear, Cap spoke.

"I'm ready, Sam. How're you coming?"

"Suited up and ready to fly. Good to be rolling with you again, brother. Falc out."

A group of children on a nearby playground cheered wildly as Captain America and the Falcon blazed into action. In the apartment, Akiela Wilson stood in the darkness of her bedroom, running her hand up and down her belly, praying for a safe return. Evening had begun to fall.

. . .

Cap brought his bike rumbling to a stop outside a police blockade in northeast Queens. Falcon had arrived minutes earlier, and was speaking with a group of S.W.A.T. officers. Cap walked over, a crowd of onlookers cheering his appearance. The media had begun to arrive.

"Cap, glad you could make it," the commanding officer said. "I've just been filling in Falcon—by the way, good to see you two together again. New York could use more of it."

"Thanks, commander. Now what's the lowdown?"

"Got a guy up there," he said, pointing to the third floor of the complex. A bank of police spotlights lit up a row of windows shattered by gunfire. "He's in the genetics lab, armed with at least one .45 automatic, got one of my men hostage. Swears he'll give up peaceably, but only to you, says he has to talk to Captain America first. Some crazy Frenchman, funny sounding name."

Cap looked over to Falcon, surprised.

"Yep," Falcon said, holding up a police radio. "It's Batroc. They have his gang in lock-up, the rest are a straight Hydra crew. Apparently, Batroc and his mercenaries were along for backup."

"Hmm. I don't know who the more desperate party is; Hydra, for working with outsiders, or Batroc, for throwing in with murderous fanatics."

Cap and Falcon huddled with the Police and quickly arrived at a plan. The police pulled back, as Falcon flew up to a nearby building, providing him a birds-eye view.

"I'm in position if you need me, Cap."

Cap made his way into the building. This caper was strange, but all of Hydra's latest moves were hard to figure: kidnapping the second-in-line for the British throne; another kidnapping attempt of the Russian Deputy Defense Minister; a laboratory theft in India of obscure but expensive chemical isotopes— with no known weaponry applications. What they hoped to gain from such moves was puzzling, but Hydra never acted without good reason. Or bad intent.

Cap found the genetics lab. The lights were out, but with his superior eyesight, he could see well enough. The place was a shambles; tables overturned, files strewn about. This wasn't theft. They were looking for something. Cap cupped his hand to his mouth.

"Batroc! This is Captain America. Release the hostage, and we'll talk."

A colorfully costumed man inched around the corner, holding a police officer about the neck, using him as a human shield. He released the man, kicking him in the backside.

"Run off, coppair; zee Capi'tan and I must speak."

As the police officer dashed to safety, Cap squared off with Batroc.

"Drop the gun."

"S'ertainly," the Frenchman replied. He ejected the clip, cleared the chamber, and dropped the gun to the floor, kicking it aside. "I am a man of my w'rd."

Cap walked closer. "What's the story, Georges?"

"What can I zay? Hydra offaired my crew good monay, and like a fool, I take it. Nevair again! Zees bastairds killed 'tree of my men! Zey tried to kill me…but I fought zem off."

Batroc's stylized uniform, bearing the quasi-military emblems of his own private army, was torn and bloody. Cap was well aware how much of a fight the man could put up. Batroc went on.

"Believe it or not, I 'ave standards. A little honest thieving is well and good, but what Hydra is planning is monstrous. And, mon Capi'tan, …it involve you."

"Okay," Cap answered with a trace of skepticism, "I'll bite. What is it?"

Batroc smiled. "Before I say more, you will of course 'elp 'wit this little fix I am in. Oui?"

Cap shook his head. "If you're straight with me, I'll let the authorities know you've been cooperative. That's the best I'll offer."

"…Alright Avengair, I accept. Hydra is—"

An explosion of red blotted out Batroc's head, and he flew backwards. Cap was already diving for cover when the shot rang out milliseconds later.

"Falcon, Shots! Southwest—look for the tallest building!"

"I'm on it!"

Cap scrambled over to Batroc to administer first aid. It was too late. He'd fought this man a handful of times, a troublemaker, sometimes a big troublemaker, but he didn't deserve this. Gunfire erupted outside; Falcon was drawing the assassin's fire. His shield Raised, Cap raced forward, crashing through the window like a rocket, and sailing to the ground sixty feet below. Shaking off the impact, he rolled to his feet, charging towards the twelve story office building across the street.

. . .

Falcon saw the flash of gunfire and was already in flight when Cap's call came over the com-link. "I'm on it!" he shouted.

He was at top speed when the first round whizzed by his head. He executed a series of barrel rolls, corkscrewing to his right. The shooter was good; zeroing in on him. Falcon dropped into a power dive—straight down, cutting off the shooter's angle. For a fleeting second, he was safe, but the ground was coming at ninety miles an hour. He pulled up just enough to keep from pancaking. Bouncing off the pavement, he leapt back into flight. To his left, he saw Cap tearing across the boulevard like a locomotive.

Falcon soared around to the back of the building, looking to surprise the shooter. Popping up over the roof's edge, he saw the shooter with his rifle raised. He jerked hard right, narrowly avoiding death as the slug tore through his left wing, destroying it. He tumbled hard to the roof.

"Got you," the shooter said, taking aim. Falcon raised his arm, pressing the stud on his wrist band. A volley of small steel barbs sprayed the assassin, who let out a string of obscenities as his rifle clattered to the roof.

. . .

Cap smashed through the glass-plated entrance of the deserted office building. Bypassing the elevators, he took the stairs, bounding up them six at a time. He hit the top floor seconds later, seeing the exit to the roof at the far right. Lying slumped by the door, in a pool of blood, was the night watchmen. Cap checked for a pulse, but the man was dead. He tried the door, but it was chained from the outside. Cap slammed his boot heel into the steel door. The chain held, but the concrete around the doorframe cracked. A second kick and the door burst out onto the roof.

. . .

Falcon got his first good look at the shooter; a huge man, bigger than Cap, massively built and clad in black, except for a face mask with a white skull design. It was Crossbones, chief assassin and enforcer to the Red Skull. He went for his revolver, but Falcon kicked it out of his hand, A straight left from Crossbones sent him flying back.

"Well, lookie who it is. Step-n-Find it. Cappy going affirmative action again, is he? Lucky for you. I heard politics didn't work out so good."

"First of all asshole, it's Step-n-Fetchit," Falcon said, getting to his feet. "Second? The only reason I came back was to whip your ignorant ass."

"Yeah? You and what million-man army?"

They launched themselves, meeting in a whirl of action, punches and kicks flying, some blocked, many not. Despite his bulk, Crossbones was slightly the faster, and by far the stronger of the two. A devastating right hook caught Falcon flush, sending him across the tarred roof. He dropped, his senses reeling. Crossbones pulled a dagger from his boot and knelt, grabbing Falcon by the hair, his knife raised.

"I'm going to enjoy this."

Behind him, the door exploded. Captain America was there.

"Drop that knife—now!"

"Sure," Crossbones said, spinning and throwing the knife. Cap batted it aside with his shield, but Crossbones used the diversion to land a flying shoulder tackle, crashing them against the wall of the shattered doorway. Bones whipped his head up, slamming Cap's chin, and then hammered his midsection with a rain of punches. Cap kicked free, lacing the big man with a thunderous haymaker. Crossbones flew back, tumbling halfway across the roof. He activated his wrist communicator.

"Hey! Numbnuts! Where's that frickin' chopper?"

"On our way," came the reply, the distant sound of rotors growing closer.

"The only place you're headed is prison," Cap said, advancing. "I'm putting you away, Bones, once and for all."

Cap froze, a bolt of agonizing pain racking his body. He took a faltering step, and then fell, unconscious.

"What is this?" Bones said. "You playing possum?"

The chopper was overhead, dropping the ladder. Cautiously, Bones kicked Cap's foot. Nothing—the man was out. Bones weighed his options. He had no kill sanction on the flag-man: the boss was planning something major, wanted him for himself. The Skull was squirrelly when it came to the big A. He checked again. Still unconscious.

"Screw it," he said. "Accidents happen."

He'd tell the boss Cap tripped, and catch hell for it. So what? He'd never have this chance again. He grabbed Cap and heaved him overhead, and walked to the edge of the building. Falcon was coming to his senses, rising to his knees. Crossbones looked at him, smiling beneath his death's head mask.

"Oops."

He tossed Cap over the edge.

"No!" Falcon screamed, launching himself after Cap. Crossbones let out a satisfied bark of laughter, grabbed hold of the ladder, and rose into the night sky.

Falcon had seconds to act. He hit the switch to his impulse drive and shot forward, but speed wasn't his problem; control was. With his left wing shredded he was all over the place, flailing. Twice he stretched out, almost snagging Cap, but missing. The ground was only a dozen feet away when he caught Cap's wrist on the third try. Wrapping his arms around Cap, he pulled up with everything he had. His wing-gliders almost ripped from his suit, but he managed to level out at the last second, slowing just enough to avoid breaking his neck as he and Cap slammed into the Channel 9 News van. He rolled to the ground, stunned, hurting from head-to-toe, but alive. Pandemonium erupted; onlookers screaming, the cops pushing them back, reporters and cameramen everywhere, lights blazing. Overhead, a pair of police helicopters were trying, but failing, to keep pace with the escaping Hydra team.

Falcon staggered over to Cap, seeing he wasn't breathing. He checked, finding no pulse. Getting to his knees, he started chest compressions, counting off each press with a steady rhythm and desperate hope. He slammed his fist on Cap's chest, hammering his heart, but with his massive chest and ribcage, and with his tunic in place, it was like pounding on concrete. He began mouth-to-mouth, feeling for a pulse again. Again, there was nothing.

The police rushed across the boulevard as Falcon continued CPR. Cap had no heartbeat when the ambulance rushed him to the hospital minutes later. Reporters from the network and cable outlets delivered news that rocked the nation:

Captain America was feared dead.