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Chapter 16

Snakes and Ladders

Hydra Base Alpha-1,
In the hours before Captain America's address

The Skull awoke refreshed. He rarely slept; often going days without seeing a bed, a few hours of silent meditation maintaining him for a week or more. But occasionally a deep weariness would come upon him, reminding him of his past life of flesh and blood. At such times, only sleep sufficed to revive him. He was revived now, strong again.

He called Viper to meet him in an hour to watch his brother's press conference over a light meal. Like sleep, food was a thing he no longer truly required. No more than he needed air to breathe. Yet he still did these things—all of them—if only because it pleased him. These were the links to his past life, pleasures in which, somehow, he could still partake. Viper was a pleasure he could still partake of as well. His flesh had perished many long years ago, but not his hunger for the flesh, and the pleasures it alone could provide.

Sometimes he mourned his flesh, even six decades gone. Other times, he scarcely remembered it at all. Once, he forgot he ever was a man. It was strange, but one day he realized he could not remember his face. Or even his name. He gazed into a mirror, but the only image it revealed was blank, featureless bone, red as a scalded wound, red as flame. Only it was a cold flame, the antithesis of heat. Warmth was for the living. And as he stood peering into the hollow, black sockets of his long vanished eyes, he thought he would go mad…

But the moment passed, and he became himself again. Strong, adamant, unyielding. He remembered his former name; Schmidt. Yes, he had been Schmidt. He was Schmidt still…only he was more. He was now the nameless fear that reason denies but which the heart apprehends, the fate forged of its own will, the iron fist holding man's destiny. He was the Red Skull. Forevermore.

The Skull slipped into an elegant dinner jacket, smoothing the lines in the mirror. Style was important, it set a tone. He never let himself be seen unkempt. Plucking a white rose from the vase, he affixed it to his lapel and headed out of his chambers. The guards posted outside the door came to attention, snapping off a crisp salute. The Skull, almost imperceptibly, nodded in recognition, a reaction he learned from that absurd Austrian demagogue. Hitler was a fool; a gifted fool to be sure, a fool of singular vision, but a fool nonetheless. Still, he understood the importance of image and pageantry as few ever had. The Fuhrer would accept the idolatry of the masses with such casual indifference that it made them grovel all the more, the way a whipped dog licked its master's hand. This was the reward for style.

The Skull's driver was waiting, and soon he was at the far side of the island. He entered the cavernous lab, filled with row upon row of machines and monitors. Dozens of scientists were busy at work, but he quickly spotted the man he was looking for.

"Doctor Lerner," the Skull called out. "I've yet to receive your report. What news do you have concerning the spy?"

"None, I'm afraid," Lerner answered, not looking up from his computer screen. The Skull summoned his calm. No one other than Lerner dared speak to him so. He walked over to where the man stood.

"I shall ask again. What news have you concerning the spy? Answer carefully, doctor."

"I am sorry, Mr. Schmidt, but I have no news to give. I activated Modok, as you requested. He detected no spy in the compound. If you want a scan of all our bases, it will take considerably longer. Do you want me to do this?"

"…No. But repeat the search of this compound tomorrow. The spy is here. Find him."

"Wouldn't this be better suited for your intelligence division? Every second I spend on this task is a second I lose from my true work."

The Skull shook his head. "Only you have the necessary technical expertise. This spy has evaded our normal safeguards. He should not be able to evade the Modok. Try again tomorrow."

"Of course, sir. By the way, we are making excellent progress on the Primary Mission. I can predict delivery of the first batch of soldiers within six weeks."

"I told you I needed them by the end of the month, Doctor."

Schmidt adjusted his glasses. "I thought I had explained. It is impossible to meet that deadline. My people are working around the clock, cutting every corner we can. However, we cannot change the basic physics involved. We need more time."

The Skull remained perfectly still, staring at the little man in the white lab coat. Lerner showed not a single sign of worry or concern. This reaction always derailed the Skull, at least somewhat. He was unused to it.

"The end of the month. I cannot stress that enough."

"We will continue to try. I make no guarantee. May I ask why this sudden change in the timetable?"

"A true leader offers no explanations. He gives his commands, and they are obeyed. But…perhaps I will tell you. It might serve to impress upon you the need for haste. You saw the news of Captain America's battle with our troops?"

Lerner nodded.

"There is more to the story, something few are aware of. The Captain is dying. If you do not succeed in accelerating the project, he will not witness my final triumph. Now do you understand? I need you, if I am to fulfill my destiny. Only you can make this happen."

"You have my word," Lerner said, visibly moved. "I will do everything in my power to meet the deadline. My work would not have been possible without you, Mr. Schmidt. Your contributions to science will be remembered forever. You are a benefactor to the human race."

The Skull smiled, his unyielding bony face somehow registering a look that was almost kindly. Ludicrous as Lerner's display was, it was also quite touching. In many ways, this demented fool was the closest thing he had to a friend. The Skull was enjoying this moment, a link to his past once again. A pleasure of the flesh.

"I know you will not fail me, Doctor. I go now to dine. Good day."

"Good day to you, Mr. Schmidt," Lerner replied. "But, you say that Captain America is dying? May I ask how?"

"My agents are still investigating, but it appears that he has contracted some mysterious disease. How this is so, I cannot say."

Lerner's generic face registered a look of puzzlement. "With his heightened immune system, illness should be impossible….unless…yes, Project Top-Shelf. They've actually done it. Fascinating."

A cold current flowed through the Skull. When he spoke, his voice was like the pale chime of a funeral bell. "What is 'Top Shelf'?"

"It was an inter-agency plan, between CIA and SHIELD. A contingency plan really, more theoretical than practical. As you know, I spent years trying to duplicate the Super Soldier serum, but without direct access to the Captain, I was unsuccessful. Top Shelf was designed to make that access possible, but I never thought—"

"How?" the Skull interrupted.

"By making him sick. I obtained a sample of the Captain's DNA, and was able to create a 'designer virus', utterly invisible to his own super-potent immune system. Once he was sick, he would have no choice but to turn to us for treatment."

"And you knew of this plan?"

"Of course. I headed the program."

"And never once, in four years' time, did you think to tell me?" Wrath poured from the Skull like wind through a cave. "Why? Answer me!"

"Because you never asked. As I said, it was only—"

The Skull reared back and struck Lerner in the center of his face with a great, pulverizing crack. His head burst with a wet splattering of bone, blood and brains, shattered teeth whizzing through the air. Lerner's lifeless body fell to the laboratory floor, as the Skull raged.

"You fool! You ignoramus! Du hast mich betrogen!" He kicked Lerner's body, sending it flying into a bank of computers, covering them in red. On the platform above that bloody spray, a scientist looked down, a mild look of annoyance creasing his face.

"I do wish you would be more careful, Mr. Schmidt," Dr. Lerner said. "This equipment is very sensitive."

"Yes," said another Dr. Lerner standing off to the left. "This loss of personnel will slow my progress considerably. I am down to only eleven."

A third Dr. Lerner walked over to the Skull. "The other scientists in our employ lack my knowledge and expertise. It really—"

"Silence!" the Skull shouted. "Listen to me, all of you. I want a report in my hands, tonight, detailing everything you know about this project 'Top-Shelf'. Omit nothing. Feel free to include any other interesting information you have neglected to share." The Skull's sarcasm dripped like bitter acid. "And as for the Primary Mission, it will be completed by the end of the month—do you hear me? Completed! I demand success! Provide it, or I shall drench this compound in your blood…all of you."

The Skull flicked his arm downward, flinging bits of pulp from his hand. He stormed out of the laboratory without another word. Dr. Lerner looked over at himself.

"That was most unpleasant. I've never seen him this upset."

Dr. Lerner nodded. "We must remember the pressure he is under. It can't be easy, carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. We must redouble our efforts."

"Agreed," Dr. Lerner answered. "Mr. Schmidt has done so much to assist in our work. I would truly hate to disappoint him."

"As would I," said yet another Dr. Lerner, coming down from the platform. "But keep in mind that Mr. Schmidt, like all men of genius, is somewhat… temperamental."

"Very true," replied Dr. Lerner. "But now that he thinks us understaffed, he might be less apt to fly off the handle."

Dr. Lerner took a small controller from his pocket. His finger hovered over the keypad. "How many should we activate, do you think?"

The ten other Dr. Lerner's turned and spoke in unison:

"Three should be sufficient."

"Yes," Dr. Lerner replied, entering the number. He quietly adjusted his glasses. "That's just what I was thinking."

Kenton's Tool and Die,
Lower Manhattan

Hawkeye approached the deserted building with a look of severe disapproval on his face. He parked his cycle next to the front entrance, which bore a sign reading 'Closed. No Trespassing'. Finding the door locked, he moved onto the nearby shipping bay and swung the doors open. Over by a large defunct drill press, he spotted Sharon Carter, unpacking several wooden crates. He headed over, his disposition matching the dark blue and purple of his uniform.

"Jesus lady, this is your idea of a headquarters? Place is a dump."

Sharon looked up. She dropped the computer cables and stood, her own disposition grown purple. "You're in uniform. I specifically asked you to keep a low profile."

"I did. I left the sky-cycle, came on my bike," he said, thumbing towards the open bay door, at the customized Indian 450 motorcycle. Sharon's jaw tightened.

"I see. So instead of flying, you drove through the streets of Manhattan on a motorcycle. With a longbow across your chest, wearing that suit and mask. That's low profile to you?"

"Hey, this is Hawkeye you're talking to honey," he said, a little angry, mostly proud. "I'm an Avenger. I don't do this 'tippy-toe' spy bullshit. I thought you were kidding about that stuff."

"Is he for real?" Sharon said, looking past the archer's shoulder.

"Barely," Sam Wilson said, walking through the doors. "He grows on you, though. Kind of like a fungus."

Clint Barton pulled back his mask, a sardonic smirk on his face. "You two are a riot. Now if you're finished busting my chops, maybe we can get some work done."

"Fine," Sharon said. "First thing we do is go over the rules. This isn't the Avengers. Next time I say 'low profile', I mean 'low profile'. Got it?"

"All right already, I got it, I got it," Clint shouted. "Hell, you picked the most deserted spot in town—a bunch of boarded up old factories and empty lots. I didn't pass a single soul the last two blocks, so calm down."

"I'm not sure this is going to work. Maybe this isn't the right situation for a man of your…qualities."

"Get this straight, blondie. If Cap's in trouble, then I'm on board, period. As for my 'qualities'…"

Clint spun in a smooth blur of motion, pulling the bow from his chest, grabbing arrows from the quiver on his back, three at a time. The arrows flew out, slamming into an iron support beam some sixty yards away, forming a perfectly straight line, with less than a quarter inch space between them. He slung the bow back across his chest and spun to his left, drawing the colt revolver from his side, firing six lightning quick bursts towards the far end of the dimly lit building, three hundred yards away. Less than ten seconds had elapsed.

"And that was using my left arm," Clint said. "Twice as quick with my right."

"Impressive," Sharon admitted. "Only, what were you shooting at that last time?"

Clint squinted. "Calendar. Playboy, Miss July, 98. Six bull's-eyes, all where the sun don't shine. That quality enough for you?"

"It'll do." Sharon turned to Sam, who was grinning at her. "Like a fungus, huh?"

"Yeah, but a handy one."

Clint holstered the gun. "I take it you both saw Cap's press conference?"

Sam and Sharon nodded. "How is he?" Sharon asked.

"He's Cap. Everyone else falls apart, he stands tall. He's Cap." Clint turned to Sam. "He's been asking for you. He knows you're beating yourself up about last night."

"And you wouldn't?"

"Probably would. But I'd be wrong—and you'd be the first to tell me so. Like I'm telling you now. He wants to see you."

"I will, later. Today later," he added, seeing the look on Clint's face. "We have work to do first."

"I have our command center in place," Sharon said, pointing to the upper level, a row of concrete block rooms with windows looking out on the floor below. "Let's go."

The room held an impressive collection of equipment; several computers, a communication array complete with satellite uplink, optical scanners and many other devices. There were also weapons, cases of them, energy weapons as well as traditional firearms. Maps lined two of the walls. On the opposite wall were dozens of photographs—mainly black and white—of key figures in the Hydra hierarchy. In the center was a photo that needed no color. Even in muted sepia tone, the blood-red hue was apparent. It was a photograph of the Red Skull.

Sharon pulled up a computer file. "Two years ago, the Skull was seen falling to his death. A few shattered bone fragments were recovered, scraps of clothing, but nothing conclusive. Hydra seemed to evaporate overnight. The consensus was they lost their operational capacity, but SHIELD never agreed with that assessment. We think…"

"We?" Sam said.

"Hard habit to break. Let me rephrase. SHIELD thinks Hydra went to ground, as they've done before, to lick their wounds and regroup. They've been utterly silent and invisible until ten weeks ago, when there was a spike in the chatter. The indicators point to HYDRA mounting a major offensive."

"If SHIELD can track their communications," Hawkeye interrupted, "why can't they find their base? Put the kibosh on 'em?"

"It's never that easy with Hydra," Sam said. "The Skull keeps his assets mobile and efficient, with multiple bases. At the first sign of trouble, they bug out. What they can't take, they destroy."

Sharon nodded. "Say what you want about the former Colonel Schmidt, but the man runs a tight ship. Making things rougher yet, Hydra has formed a loose allegiance with several rogue nations. Afghanistan, Angola, Somalia, Libya, among others. Where support can't be found, they buy it. Where it can't be bought, they take it."

"Yeah, but I still don't see how this ties in with Cap," Hawkeye said. "Last night you said that Cap's illness was some secret operation by the CIA. How's that connect with Hydra?"

Sharon brought up another file. "Doctor Horatio Linus Lerner. For several years, a top scientist for the CIA, working to recreate the Super Soldier Serum. Lerner was a key ally of Holder's, and I suspect he was involved in causing Steve's illness…"

Sharon paused, wrestling with the issue of SHIELD's early involvement in this plot, unsure what, if anything, to disclose. Quartermain's words of advice (or of warning) came to mind:

'Remember who your friends are.'

Sharon went on with her briefing, leaving aside the issue of SHIELD. For now.

"Lerner supposedly died four years ago. SHIELD recently uncovered evidence that the good doctor is alive and working for none other than the Red Skull."

Hawkeye flared at this news, like a brush fire in a strong breeze. "You're saying Holder is working for the Skull? Oh, that's it, he's dead meat! I'm gonna—"

"Slow down, Robin Hood, that's not what I said. Oliver Holder is a piece of work, I grant you. But he's not working for the Skull."

"You just said his man Lerner is. Why one but not the other?"

"Over the years, Dr. Lerner became increasingly…erratic. That's when Holder gave orders for him to have a little accident. It appears his assassins failed."

"And that's what drove this Lerner to go over to the Skull?" Sam asked.

"That and the fact that he's insane."

Hawkeye snorted. "I still think Holder smells fishy."

"Like the seafood market on Boston bay," Sharon offered. "Oliver Holder is a lot of things, most of them bad. But not the kind of bad that makes a person side with a nightmare like the Skull. Holder's house of cards is beginning to crumble. He just resigned as head of the NSA."

"Is that supposed to a win for our side?" Sam asked. "He needs to be held accountable, along with all his people. I want the man to do time."

"Agreed," Sharon said. "But right now, our main concern is Steve. Hopefully, the information I supplied Dr. Pym yesterday will help undo the damage Holder's done. But until Steve is cured, we need to provide him backup and protection."

"Protection?" Hawkeye blurted. "You sure you really know the man? Cap won't stand for having any babysitters, sick or not. He'd kick our asses for even talking about it."

"I'm aware," Sharon said, looking at Hawkeye with her best sardonic smile. "That's why we're going to be discreet. You know, 'tippy-toe spy bullshit'?"

Hawkeye grinned, taking his lumps in good fashion. Sharon went on.

"I propose we form a small, covert cell, separate from the Avengers. We need to be able to act freely and quickly when the Skull strikes. Sick or not, Captain America will be in the thick of it. And I won't allow him to stand alone."

"The Avengers will never let that happen," Hawkeye said. "We'll always have his back."

"Really? What about two years ago?"

"We were there."

"For the mop-up. What about the start of the offensive?"

"There was another emergency going on, I think. Yeah, that problem on the NASA space station. We were dealing with that."

"And the time before?" Sharon pinned the archer with a sharp look. He had no reply. "The Skull has mounted five major operations in the past fifteen years, each time pushing the world to the brink of disaster. And each time, all of the big players—the Avengers, the FF, the X-Men, SHIELD, along with the US armed forces and other world powers—were occupied with some other crisis. Rather convenient for the Skull."

Sharon pulled up a new file on the computer. Clint and Sam read the data, dumfounded.

"The prevailing wisdom is that Hydra was taking advantage of unrelated events in order to maximize their chances for success. I disagree. I think Hydra was behind each of these events—the disaster on the space station, the revolution in Iraq, the near overthrow of Doom in Latveria, the nuclear standoff with Russia ten years ago. Even 911 has the Skull's fingerprints."

"Read that on the internet," Hawkeye said. "Bunch of crazy conspiracy nuts."

"Even the nuts get it right once and awhile. Nothing is too audacious for Schmidt. After the war, the Army poured through the Nazi records. The man is a genius, tested off the charts on strategic planning. He's also a sociopath, with an unrivaled talent for terror and mayhem. Whatever he's planning, you can be sure it involves Steve. Schmidt wants to prove his superiority over Captain America, for the entire world to see."

"She's right," Sam said. "I've seen the Skull up close as he and Cap fought. His obsession, his hatred…it's what drives him. The Skull would trade the world and everything in it for one clean victory over Cap. He's had opportunities to kill him. He's never taken them. He wants to beat him."

"Okay," Hawkeye said. "I'm convinced. We form a group. Keep it small, people who can peel off from the main body of the Avengers. I'm in."

"Good," Sharon said. "…I think." She picked up two files from the desk, handing them to the others.

"You'll find everything we covered in these dossiers. Familiarize yourself with this info. If you have any questions, we can discuss it tonight."

Hawkeye lifted the files, a dubious look on his face. "Jeez. Kind of thick. Couldn't you just do it up in bullet points? I'm not much of a reader."

Sharon put her hand to her head, massaging her temple. "Barton, how in God's name did you ever make it into the Avengers?"

Hawkeye laughed. "Relax blondie, I'm just yankin' your chain. Don't get your panties in a bunch."

Sharon looked at Sam.

"Honest," he said. "He grows on you."

"Yes, I'm sure his female friends find him charming."

Hawkeye grinned. "Don't kid yourself sweetheart. The ladies love the Hawk."

"On that stomach churning note, I take my leave." Sharon checked her watch. "Let's meet back here at midnight."

The others nodded in agreement. As Sharon reached the door, Hawkeye called out.

"Where are you off to Carter?"

"New Jersey. I have a meeting with the Evil Boll Weevil. He hates it when you're late."

With a quick smile, Sharon Carter was in her car and gone. Clint turned to Sam, mystified.

"The Evil Bo..? You ever hear of this guy?" Sam shrugged. Hawkeye scratched his head. "Huh. Leave it to Jersey to have such a lame sounding super-guy."

Avengers Mansion

Hank Pym watched Steve's face as he took in the news, processing the truth about his illness. He expected Steve to be shattered by the revelation, angered at the very least. Instead, he seemed to take it in stride.

"I should have suspected this," Steve said matter-of-factly. "Holder's been obsessed with me from day one of my return. My radar should have gone up when he was so quick to offer his services—at a price, of course. In hindsight, he seemed remarkably unsurprised by the news. Now I know why."

"I thought you might take this a bit harder. Frankly, I've taken it pretty damned hard. This plot against you is despicable. It's more than illegal, it's immoral. Maybe I'm being naïve, but I still can't believe the government was responsible."

"Democracy isn't perfect, Hank. Sometimes we lose the reigns to people like Holder, people who overreach, who twist and even break the law. We lose our way sometimes, as a nation. But we always find it again. Don't let this sour you on your country."

Hank smiled and shook his head. "Now you're consoling me. But if it's okay with you, I'm still furious over this thing."

"What, you think I'm not? Frankly, if he were here in this room right now, I'm not sure I could restrain myself from breaking his neck."

Steve suddenly broke into a chain of hoarse, racking coughs. He cleared his throat and wiped his nose. He saw Hank staring at him. "What?"

"I've known you for almost fifteen years. This is the first time I've ever seen you with a runny nose." Hank walked over and put his hand to Steve's forehead. "You have a fever. Let's go to the lab, I want to…"

Steve pushed Hank's hand down. "No tests, not today. These past four months, I've been poked, prodded, tested and injected more than I have in my entire life. It's a fever, I'll survive. It's one more thing to nail Holder for when I drag him into court. Now, what's our course of action? How do we undo what Holder's people did?"

Hank picked up his I-Pad and patched into the laboratory computer. He checked the readings, shaking his head.

"Much as it pains me to admit it, their plan was brilliant. By using your own DNA against you, it was impossible for me to pin down what was happening. There was no foreign agent, no virus to isolate…just a mutated sample of your own genetic material, attempting to overwrite your own DNA. Your immune system has been fighting it all along, but the DNA they created is insidious, constantly seeking new pathways."

"But now you can shut it down?"

"I'm very hopeful. Keeping you alive was part of Holder's plan—once he had what he wanted. They created a counter agent, to eliminate the 'bad' DNA, but I want to run a battery of tests before we proceed. We have to be absolutely positive the formula is safe. We're only going to have one shot at this; we have to make it count."

"When do we start? I don't mean to pressure you, Hank, but…"

"The diagnostic computer is crunching the numbers now. Should have the results in about ten hours. I want to review the findings with Reed and Henry McCoy. Just hold on a little longer, Steve."

Steve smiled. "You took the words right out of my mouth."

On his way out of the exam room, Steve ran into Jan.

"Hank told me he's onto a cure. It's wonderful news," she said, hugging him. She pulled back, taking in his reserved expression. "You don't seem very encouraged."

"Let's just say I'm guardedly optimistic. Hank is still running tests. Let's wait and see what he finds before we throw any parties."

"Well I'm hopeful, anyway," Jan offered. "Now for the hard stuff. People have been rolling in all morning. They're all asking to see you."

Steve shook his head, exasperated. "Jan, not now, please. Let's do it at the poker game, it's only two days away. Can you just tell them I'm not up for it right now?"

"Okay. That's not exactly a lie, either. You look rough." She felt his forehead. "You have a fever."

"It's karma, seventy years of colds catching up with me. I'd forgotten what it's like being sick."

Jan grabbed her com-link and punched in a message. "I'm having Jarvis make his chicken soup. Go get some rest."

Jan stretched on her toes and planted a kiss on Steve's cheek. "It is good news. I just know it."

Steve squeezed her hand, and headed off to his quarters. It would accomplish nothing to douse her optimism by telling of the growing certainty he felt that he would not win this battle. He wasn't conceding the fight; maybe Hank would cure this thing. God knows Captain America had beaten the odds before. Cheating death was part and parcel of being a superhero. But this was real life, not a Saturday morning adventure serial. Buck Rogers always lived to fight another day, but Steve Rogers was fast running out of time. This certainty was pooling in the deep recesses of his heart, where the truth likes to hunker. But it would serve nothing to share this with Jan or the others.

When he arrived at his room he found a crock of chicken soup waiting at the door. How Jarvis managed to whip it together so fast was a mystery. Steve often suspected the man had superpowers himself. After putting the soup in the fridge, he grabbed a book from the nightstand, 'The Temple of the Moon', and lay down to read. By the third chapter, heaviness settled over his eyes. Steve drifted off to sleep, still searching for the clue that would help him defeat the Red Skull. The secret eluded him.

Hydra Base Alpha-1

Viper sat in silence. Without appearing to, she kept a watchful eye on Hydra's Supreme Commander, a talent she had perfected. His mood after meeting with Lerner was foul, but now, after viewing Captain America's press conference, he was as quiet and morose as a fresh grave. Dealing with him at such times required the utmost skill and tact, as a poorly chosen word could mean death. For more than an hour, she watched as he sat motionless, replaying again and again the footage of the news conference.

"…To the people I fought last night—to all those who seek to do evil and enforce their will on others—I say this; my fight goes on. I will oppose you with my last breath. When I fall, others will take my place. We will not cower in fear. We will not surrender. We will not stop until victory is ours…"

As he moved his hand to the controller to replay the speech, Viper judged the time was right to speak.

"You knew it could not remain secret forever," she said. The Skull's finger lingered over the button and he turned to her.

"Yes. But I did not think it would be so soon. He is a private man. I thought he would keep his silence for as long as possible. Again, he has surprised me."

"Perhaps it is better this way. Now there can be no doubt as to the truth."

"There was no doubt. I knew he was dying. I had seen it."

The Skull stabbed at the controller, turning off the video monitor. Viper smiled inwardly; her judgment was correct. He stood from the table, where his dinner lay untouched. Viper's own plate was equally intact. She listened as he mused.

"In retrospect, I should have known. It is not his nature to deceive. In this, we are much alike." He smiled at Vipers unconcealed skepticism. "You doubt me?"

"Nothing so harsh. But I know you. Your plans are deceptive and cunning. I would think that is your true nature."

"Deception is a tool I employ, as do all prudent leaders. But I do not lie about my nature, nor do I deny my destiny. Here my brother and I differ. He blinds himself to the fact that we are superior beings. Born to rule as surely as the cattle are born to die. Nature births only a few such as we, and our coming marks the beginning of a new epoch."

Viper poured fresh wine, her expression innocent as she spoke.

"I don't understand why you insist on placing him on your level. He is formidable, I grant you, a great fighter, a leader who inspires confidence…but far below your station. Look at all you have created," she said, sweeping her arm around her. "Think of all you soon will accomplish. He pales against your brilliance."

"Flattery, my dear," the Skull said, taking the offered glass. "How artfully you coat your poison in words of sweet honey. What man could resist your fatal charms?"

"You are no mere man."

"Neither is my brother." The Skull drained his wine. "You call him formidable. I tell you he is possibly the greatest warrior this world has ever known—a gifted strategist, and a tactical genius. In unarmed combat, he is without compare. You call him a leader of men. I tell you, had he but stretched out his hand, the reins of power would be his. The American people would have fallen over themselves to elect him their ruler. What a conqueror he would have made, with the might of the capitalist juggernaut behind him. It was his fate—his duty—to command. Instead, he chose the comforting illusion of freedom and equality. Equality! How laughable. He has no equal."

"Except for yourself, surely?"

"Surely," the Skull said, pinning her with an icy look. "What a sly one you are. It was wise to bring you into my counsel. But I sometimes wonder where your true loyalties lie."

"I have never deceived you, Johan," Viper said, using his given name, something she rarely did. It had the effect of drawing his deepest attention. "I want power, and I will take it, when and where I can. However, I recognize your strength, and I'm not foolish enough to oppose you. For your part, you recognize my value to your plans. We are good for each other. Those aren't honeyed words, nor am I being sly. I am as loyal to you as you are to me."

The Skull bowed. She had outfoxed him, and they both knew it. He picked up the controller, reactivating the video screen, linking it to the Hydra communication grid.

"Do you wish to be alone?" she asked.

"No. Stay. I am about to check the progress of the new compound. It must be completed soon, if I am to welcome my brother properly. Afterwards, I want you to reach out to those prized contacts of yours. Our Asian confederates must be notified. The countdown is on."

She walked to his side, smiling rapaciously. "You've set the time?"

"Yes. God created the world in six days. I will recreate it in five."

The Skull stood stock still as he spoke those words, giving the impression he was posing for his likeness to be carved in marble. Such likenesses would be placed on every city corner and in every town square. Banners would hang from government buildings and standards would fly in every thoroughfare, proclaiming the New World Order. The Skull had an entire division dedicated to the task of re-educating the world. It would dwarf the egotistical propaganda of Hitler, Stalin, Mao, and all past dictators combined. Viper found it repulsive and alluring in equal measure.

"That which you've worked for is almost yours," she said, looking into his vanished eyes.

"And that which you dream of is almost yours," the Skull replied, pulling her against his body. "If you can deliver as promised."

"I will not fail."

"Good. Let us seal our pact with a kiss."

He pressed the stony coldness of his face to her lips. Heat spread within her breast like liquid fire, coursing through her veins, fueling a lust that knew no bounds. Power was almost hers.