Rogers believed, with conviction, that Buc wasn't a liar. That he had been claiming innocence with a clean conscience. And he wished that it was that simple.
The hospital chair by Widow's bed was hard blue plastic and too small. The fluorescent lights flickered intermittently, teasing a curious, frustrated anger out of him.
"Sam was right," Rogers said, staring bleakly at the idiotic piece of artwork on the opposite wall. A bas-relief fish-tank-styled assemblage.
"Don't start, Steve."
Rogers looked blank. "I can't even begin to understand." He searched for more words, then shrugged. "I can't."
"Then get help."
The Winter Soldier watched through the infrared rifle scope. His shoulders tensed as the target stood, facing away from the window. It was a clear shot to the chest. The Soldier's hand tensed.
No, Barnes objected.
The Soldier by design was efficient, responding with logical retribution. But Barnes tasted revenge like acid in his throat. He had his own ways of working.
Barnes set the rifle down against the lip of the building's roof and swung a leg over the retaining fence, softly descending to the fire escape.
It was a short jump to the lower roof, and the door there came open with a satisfyingly brutal wrenching of metal.
There was only one apartment on the fourth floor. Barnes stopped before the door and questioned. The hall was dark. He knocked.
On the other side he heard movement, but there was no motion at the door. He knocked again, and aimed his handgun at the peephole. "Doctor," he said, softly. "Your door is not going to keep me out."
After a moment, the doorknob unbolted and turned. Barnes pushed his way in, forcing the man back, and quickly closed it behind them, crushing the knob in his metal hand.
He flicked on the light switch. Doctor Andrew Jenkins stood in lumberjack-plaid pajama bottoms and a grey heathered t-shirt with a look of dread seeping along the tired lines of his face. It was three am. The man kept a clean apartment. Like Steve. There were dishes in the sink though.
"This is why we don't go inside," the Soldier said in rough-edged English.
Barnes gave the Soldier a dismissive glare and turned to Jenkins. "I don't care if you called the police. They are ineffective."
Jenkin's face twitched, and Barnes smiled, relieved by the man's fear.
The Soldier paced the kitchen area, peering down one hall, then the other, where he discovered the living room. "The chair, Jenkins." Barnes directed, taking a seat on the couch across from the doctor.
Barnes savored fear in man's demeanor and waited for him to speak. Coward.
"Well? Mission report."
The Soldier opened his mouth in confusion. Barnes felt his control slipping as his other half struggled in thought. No - that's not how-
"Mission report, Soldier."
"The targets have been..." Barnes fought to stand, to find his gun, and the Soldier slid in muddy Russian, holding on to the couch. "You're," Barnes squinted and found his handgun. He aimed. "The last one." But the Soldier's fingers were weak in the trigger.
"Tiger," the Doctor's voice cracked.
Barnes stilled with creeping apprehension at what the word's effect might be - and then the lights flicked on. In the kitchen - Rogers, a seven gun backup and a robot.
"That's enough," Steve said. "Disengage."
Barnes watched, horrified, as the Soldier lowered the gun. Steve didn't understand. Steve couldn't know what this man was. Steve was protecting Jenkins. Steve was using the Soldier.