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Chapter 26

Merchants of Spice

Manhattan

It was late when Cap piloted the sky-cycle back over the coastline, cruising high over the city. The new moon shone like silver in the black and cloudless sky, with stars glittering like diamonds against a jeweler's velvet. Below, the cityscape was lit up in all its glitz and glamor. He loved this town. London was tremendous, Paris too. Rome, Vienna, Hong Kong, all had their charm... but New York was in a class all her own. The Big Apple was America in microcosm; brash, young, always racing forward, yet always dragging its past behind, in a slipstream. She was tough, also like America. They both needed to be. There were predators in the black of night. Everywhere that man had managed to carve out a place of freedom and civilization, those predators lurked, hunting the shadows for easy prey. But tonight, Cap was putting the predators on alert.

He saw the building he was looking for, towering above the financial district, and brought the sky-cycle down to a secluded alley, hovering just low enough to jump to the ground. As he landed, a wave of weakness came over him, and he staggered, leaning against the brick wall. Taking an energy supplement pill from his belt, he popped it in his mouth. After a moment, the pain lancing his muscles lessened, but didn't leave entirely. He paused, considering his mission. He came here to confront the most dangerous crime lord in the country: was it wise to do so in this condition?

The hesitation lasted only a second. Cap programmed the cycle to hover safely above the building, until he called it. Straightening his posture, he strode through the entrance of Fisk Towers. Crossing the empty lobby, he spotted the security kiosk, where an astonished guard was calling for assistance over his phone. Cap approached the guard, flashing his Avengers Priority card.

"I'll make this simple. Get me up to the penthouse suite, or I'll take the stairs…and I'll drag you behind me as I go."

Moments later, Cap was in the lift, rising at a brisk clip. At the sixtieth floor, the doors opened and Cap stepped out. A group of nine men stood waiting to greet him, impeccably dressed in Armani, Louis Vuitton and other designer suits, which put only the thinnest veneer of civility over their cruel natures. Predators. Small ones, but dangerous, in their way. Eight of them were carrying weapons, though none drawn. The ninth man was different. Slight of build, unassuming in attire and manner, more an office manager than a mobster. He walked forward, stopping at a safe distance.

"My name is Collins," the balding man said. "I'm afraid the office is closed. Our hours are eight am to seven pm. Would you care to make an appointment?"

"This is my appointment," Cap replied, holding out his card.

"Impressive credentials...but no search warrant. I'm afraid you are trespassing. So, unless you have probable cause?"

"My probable cause is right behind those doors." Cap said, pointing to the imposing oaken doors at the end of the hall, bearing the nameplate: 'W. Fisk, CEO'

The little man grimaced. He seemed genuinely troubled. "Captain, I have the utmost respect for you. You are an American hero, I grew up reading all about you. I have no wish for this confrontation to…escalate. But business hours are over."

"Just what is your business?"

"Fisk Limited engages in a variety of endeavors. Real-estate, construction, import-export, interstate trucking. It's all in our prospectus."

"I've been getting the runaround all day," Cap said, "so I'm a little short on patients. I'm here to see the Kingpin, with or without your blessing."

Collins sighed, and moved aside. From an adjoining room, a man stepped forward, big, with fists the size of hams. He was dressed for the streets, black leather, medallions, rings on his fingers, a hard leer carved into his face. Black hair, blacker eyes. He walked up to Cap, standing a few inches taller than his own six foot five.

"You don't look so tough to me," the thug said, sneering into Cap's face. "Mister Collins axed you once. Now I'm sayin' it plain. Haul ass out of here, or we carry you out."

Collins turned to the big man. "Remember, Marko, no weapons."

"No problem."

Marko eyed Cap, his fists raised, bobbing like a fighter shadowboxing. "I always wanted to wail on on one of you sooperheroes. I've been trained by the Gracie's, grandpa, got a lot of nice things to show you."

Cap shook his head. "Say goodnight, Gracie."

A second later, Marko's unconscious body crashed through the heavy doors, a 300 pound cannonball. The other men charged Cap, falling as quickly as Marko had. Only Collins was left standing, taking cover behind a potted fern in the corner.

"I'll let myself in," Cap said.

He stepped over Marco and entered the plush office. In the heart of this dark space sat the man he came to see. If Marko was a mountain of a man, Fisk was a continent. Broad as he was tall, he had the body of a sumo wrestler, layers of fat concealing oceans of muscle. He was bald, and the features of his face seemed to vanish in the vastness of his head. The dim lights and swirling cigarette smoke served to obscure Fisk as he tapped ashes into a platinum urn.

"Was that really necessary?" he asked. "I would be well within my rights to call the police."

"Go ahead," Cap said. "There's the phone."

Fisk remained still behind the mesa of his desk. "I have visits from your fellow costumed adventurers from time to time. They prefer to come through the windows. They find it amusing. I find them amusing."

"This isn't a costume, fat man. It's a uniform, United States Army, special forces. And I'm not here on any adventure."

"Then why are you here?"

"Blue Line Trucking. That's one of your fronts, isn't it?"

"Blue Line is a reputable trucking company. I own it."

"Blue Line is phony," Cap said. "It pretends to haul freight. Instead, it hauls illegal toxic waste, stolen goods, and narcotics. Five years ago, the Federal government suspected Blue Line of transporting weapons and material for Hydra. I want to know if you're still in the terror business, Kingpin."

"I am in the business, business, Captain."

"You control all organized crime on the east coast, and you have plenty of say in the rest of the country. Don't play innocent with me."

"I am offended by that. I began my career as a humble importer of spice, which I parlayed into a thriving business empire. All legal." Fisk took a draw on his cigarette. He tented his bratwurst-sized fingers against his chin. "But let us suppose for a moment that I am the nefarious criminal you claim me to be. Why would I risk association with terrorist fanatics like Hydra?"

"The same reason you do anything. Money."

"Money, I have. Trouble, of the type Hydra brings? That I don't need. For the record, I am an American. The idea of a madman like the Skull being in charge repulses me. Besides which," Fisk said, with a corpulent smile, "he's bad for business."

"You didn't think so five years ago. Why the change?"

Fisk rose up from behind his desk, tectonic plates of muscle shifting beneath a mantle of blubber. Marko was beginning to stir, and Fisk reached down, grabbing him by the collar. With a shrug, he jerked the man to his feet.

"Go rouse the men, Marko."

"Boss…I'm sorry."

"Get out of my sight."

Marko scuttled out of the office and Fisk turned to Cap "Quality help is so hard to find. Now where were we? Ah, yes, five years ago. Let us continue with our suppositions. Suppose that a lieutenant of mine, an ambitious young man, had decided to freelance, using my resources for his secret dealings. If such a thing had happened, I assure you, I would have...removed him from my payroll, and canceled any future contracts he may have negotiated. Hydra is risky, Captain. I would never choose to do business with them. Assuming I was a criminal."

Fisk walked to the French doors of his private terrace, looking out on the city lights. "I am very protective of my city. If I knew of any threat by Hydra, I would tell you. Satisfied?"

"With you? Never. Maybe you haven't heard the song yet, but the lyrics go, 'This Land is OUR land," Cap said, pointing a finger in Fisk's face. "If you want to get on my bad side, call this your city again. There's no place for a leach like you here."

Fisk chuckled. "There are more America's than the one represented by that star on your chest. I represent an America you would like to ignore. The credo of my America is 'supply and demand'. I provide things people want. Get rid of me? Another like me will just take my place."

Fisk walked back behind his desk, snuffing out his cigarette. He leaned forward, resting the knuckles of each massive hand on the desktop. "I have answered your questions, and I have shown you courtesy. I think it is time for you to leave, Captain."

He pressed down on the desk, and a spider-web of cracks began to craze across the granite top. He smiled at his guest.

Cap walked over. Reaching out with his left hand, he gripped the side of the enormous desk and locked eyes with Fisk. With a single shrug, he hurled the desk to the side, sending it flying like a rocket sled. It crashed through the French doors, smashing to a stop against the brick wall of the terrace, traveling the distance in a flash. Fisk's smile faded; he rarely underestimated an opponent this way.

"Get the word out," Cap said, staring the crime lord down. "No one does business with Hydra. Not your Wall Street cronies, not your nickel-bag street hustlers. If I get even a whiff you're dealing under the table, I'll come for you. If not me, my friends. You don't want my friends breathing down your neck, believe me. Get the word out."

Cap turned and walked through the shattered doors of the terrace, side-stepping the remnants of the desk. As his sky-sled came hovering down from the chill night sky, he turned.

"You know something? It really is more fun going out through the window."

And Cap was gone.

Hydra Base Alpha-1

Crossbones entered his quarters feeling beat and wanting only to hit the sack. Then he saw Viper, sprawled across his bed, and he smiled; his destination had not changed, but it wasn't sleep he had on his mind now.

"Well well well. If I'd known you were waiting on me, I'd have gotten here sooner, babe."

Viper looked up from the magazine she was reading. "'Babe'," she said, shuddering. "What is it you imagine that word sounds like? Did you hear it in some Hollywood film as a teenager? Did you imagine it was something a woman would respond to?"

Rumlow slipped his mask off, running his hand over the stubble of his shaved head. "No, got it from 'Gilligan's Island'. And what women respond to? I got in spades."

He removed his weapons and kicked off his boots, heading to the small kitchen area. "Beer?" he called out, opening the refrigerator.

"Have you ever known me to drink that swill?"

"Okay, wine then."

Rumlow poured a glass for her, and came to the bed. He set the glass on the side table and peeled off his shirt. His body, muscled like a cartoon bodybuilder, was scored so heavily that it would be difficult to touch a spot on his torso that was unmarked by scars. He had one tattoo, a small one, on his right shoulder. A skull, red as ruin. Rumlow sat on the bed, cracking open his beer. Viper had returned to the magazine.

"You are such an American boy," she said, thumbing through the pages. "Still reading your sports magazines, still following the 'Home Team'."

"Damn straight. The Yanks are in a pennant race, got another shot at the Series."

"And when the Skull takes power, you actually think he will allow these little games to continue?"

Rumlow frowned. Damn broad. She was always bringing shit like this up. "Eventually, yeah. Things will come around. People need their down time, a little recreation. Boss knows that."

"And all the things you love will go on? Baseball, the Super Bowl, french-fries, brothels…you truly believe this?"

"Christ! You want to give me a break on that shit? Yeah, things will be different for a while. Can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs. The Skull's going to kick ass and crack heads, make the trains run on time. But things will settle down. People need their fun."

"Not him. He needs nothing, wants nothing. Except power, the power to mold the world into his instrument. I see no baseball cards in his designs. Neither do you. And yet still you serve him. Why?"

"Because he's the strongest! Because he's got the plan! He's going to win, and I'm going to be there and get my share!"

Viper looked at Rumlow with eyes of cold emerald. "But he does not share. The universe is not enough for him. He will cast you aside. Already, he plots your demise."

Rumlow howled in rage. He lunged, wrapping a massive hand around Viper's throat, pinning her down on the bed as he straddle her. "You friggin' whore! Why are you messing with my mind? You're supposed to be his woman, and you talk this traitorous shit!"

Rumlow froze. Viper had a stiletto poised at his throat, to sever his jugular vein. The witch was quicker than lightning, no way he could get her before she sliced him. He loosened his grip. Viper smiled as she spoke.

"I could be your woman. We could be one. One mind, one will. Together, we can do more than share the scraps of victory. Together, we can rule."

Rumlow's mind trembled. "I ain't no traitor. You got nothing I want," he said, unevenly.

Viper's smile broadened. She dropped the knife and ran her hand down Rumlow's chest, down past the waistband of his trousers, feeling his lie. "I have everything you want," she said, grabbing him.

Rumlow's resistance was as shaky as his thought was incoherent. "This…this kind of talk will get us killed. He's…he's too strong. Invincible."

"No. I have learned the secret of his power. It could be our power, Brock. You and I…one mind, one will. The world can be ours, if we but dare to take it. He would destroy the world, you know this. We can save it."

Rumlow's grip turned to nothing against Viper's throat. She rose, encircling his face with her hands, and moved to kiss him, pausing first to bite his bottom lip. All thought left Rumlow's mind, and he dove into the betrayal, devouring her. Viper smiled in rapture. She had him. She ran her nails down his shoulder, digging furrows across the vermilion tattoo there, drawing blood. First blood.