Chapter Ten

While the Storm-Clouds Gather

Fury still sat at the head of the table. He had described to them Loki's role in the Chitauri invasion, the dangerous mind-altering scepter he carried, and his frightening ability to manipulate people even without the scepter. When he had finished, they sat in silence for a moment.

The first one to speak was Booth. "Okay, so what do we do? How do we get this guy?"

"You don't," said Fury. "You let us take care of it. I wish we had the Avengers."

"What do you mean? Where are they?"

"They disbanded. Thor returned to Asgard. Ironman has given up his career, destroyed his suits, and returned to technological industries. Bruce Banner is nowhere to be found."

"And Steve Rogers?"

"He works for me. Occasionally."

"So call him in."

"You're being very authoritative, Agent Booth."

"Well, if he's the only guy who can deal with this Loki character, I don't see what alternative we have."

"I fully intend to contact Steve Rogers. But I want to make it clear that I'm the one calling the shots. You are here mainly as Doctor Brennan's partner. Do you understand?"

Temperance spoke up. "Booth is an excellent leader! He's also one of the bravest and most trustworthy—"

"Do you understand, Agent Booth?"

Booth said, "Yes." Then he added, "You sure are touchy about your authority. Director."

"If you'd seen what I have, you'd appreciate the importance of a chain of command."

Booth forced his mouth shut and satisfied himself with a glare at Fury. He folded his hands on the table to keep them in place.

Sherlock said, "This is all very interesting. Now, back to business. Fury, I need you to tell me what was hidden in the basement of the Pentagon."

"What makes you think I know?"

"Please. Do you think that you can insult my intelligence in that way? I need to know, if I'm going to assist you in this case."

"If we are going to," said John, including the others with his gaze.

Fury said, "We've already identified the killer, Loki. I don't see what other services we need you to perform."

"Oh, I don't know. Everything. How did Loki get word of this technology? Is he working alone or is he using a group of humans to help him? What's his plan? If you think that you can do a better job at detecting than me, then you wouldn't have called my brother in the first place."

Fury wasn't pleased, but he answered. "In the middle of the Pentagon basement is a special storage room, containing various items unfit for public knowledge."

"Such as?"

"Recovered extraterrestrial technology, new military secrets, the occasional master's thesis. Whatever can't be released, for reasons of public safety."

"The prototype for that teleporter which you're protecting?"

"It's possible."

"Quit playing around, Fury. Is it there or isn't it?"

"Yes, it's there. The original model of the teleporter is in that room."

"It's still there, then? Hasn't been stolen?"

"It's still there."

"Finally. Like pulling teeth. Well, it's perfectly obvious then. Loki was after that. Your agent was attempting to protect it. He got in the way, so Loki killed him. The question is, why didn't he take it? I doubt that a locked door or two could stop him."

"Definitely not," said Fury.

"So what was he doing? Was he interrupted, did he decide he had more important matters to do, could he not find the teleporter? But then, why break in unless he knew where to go?"

Temperance said, "If he was perfectly capable of apprehending the teleporter but did not do so, then it's most reasonable to suppose that he wasn't after the teleporter."

"But that's what this whole thing is about, isn't it? Was anything else of value taken from that room?"

"No," said Fury.

"And this agent's job was protecting the teleporter?"

"Among other things, yes."

Temperance said, "It's possible that Loki came for some other reason but that the SHIELD agent noticed him and attempted to protect the teleporter regardless of Loki's actual intentions. He may have been at the wrong place at the wrong time."

The Doctor said, "Just doing his duty and killed for it."

"No, no," said Sherlock, "doesn't make sense. Loki then went to different parts of the city to kill two other agents involved with the teleporter. That must be the connection!"

He banged his fist on the table with a tortured groan. The others looked at him with concern, except for John and Mary, who exchanged weary glances. Then, Sherlock stood up and adjusted his coat.

"I'm going for a walk," he said, "I can't think in this room." And then he left.

John looked at Mary. "Coming?"

"I'm going to stay here a bit," she said.

John kissed her on the cheek and then followed Sherlock.

"Sherlock, where are we going?" Sherlock didn't reply. "You aren't just going for a walk, you have somewhere in mind. You drove out of SHIELD headquarters and back into this city. You must be looking for a place in the city. But I don't see how, since you've never been here before."

"I'm looking for a place without many lights, where I can talk to whoever's been following us all day."

"What?"

"Don't turn around! Two men have been following us ever since we got off the plane. One of them followed us until we were taken to SHIELD headquarters. Must have been waiting for us to return, because he found us almost as soon as we got out of the car."

"But who? Why? Does he work for that—that Loki character?"

"Probably. If I can just find a place to corner him, we might get some answers. Where's a good dark alley when you need one?"

"There's one up ahead, about three streets down."

"That should do. Ready?"

"For answers? Oh yes."

They walked up to the alley and then turned into it. It was quite narrow, so they had gone only a few paces down it when they noticed how much harder it was to see. The city was noisy, but this part of town was quiet enough, so they could hear the footsteps of a man as he approached the entrance to the alley.

Already, Sherlock had scanned the length of the alley. A fire-escape on one side, though the building had no windows. A dumpster on the other. No time for one person to scale the fire-escape, which meant no chance to have each of them hiding in different locations. The dumpster it was, then.

"Behind the dumpster," he said to John. "I'll keep walking. Once we've both passed you and the dumpster, come from behind and pull out your gun."

"Sherlock, I'm not used to this gun. It's one that Fury gave me when we went to SHIELD."

"It'll do, now hurry!"

John quickly hid behind the dumpster. He almost gagged from the smell. This was clearly not a nice part of town, if the dumpsters smelled this bad. He crouched while trying to make sure that he didn't step in anything too disgusting. He was not normally squeamish, but he knew very little about the sanitary practices of Americans. And he was a doctor, after all. As he tried to preserve his health, he pulled out the small pistol which Fury had given him. He wondered whether the exchange of pistols was ordinary practice within American law enforcement. He had heard that they were madly in love with firearms.

He could see Sherlock, past the dumpster now, not turning around. It looked as if he were texting someone. John rolled his eyes. Then, he noticed that the footsteps were very close. It reminded him, as it always did, of playing hide-and-seek with his sister. Footsteps approaching while you crouched in a hiding place. He always felt sure that he would be caught. He felt sure of it even now.

But the footsteps continued, and then he saw a dark trench coat, grayish slacks (gray in this light, at least), and some kind of decrepit slouch hat. Almost as soon as he saw the man, the man began turning around. He was clearly expert at this. He was going to see where Sherlock's walking companion had gone, and he would find out any second.

John leapt up and pointed the pistol at the man. "Don't move," he said evenly. "Raise your hands."

The man complied. "What is this?" he asked angrily.

Sherlock, with his keen hearing, had heard John and had turned around. He walked rapidly back toward the dumpster. He, too, pulled out a gun. "I have another gun aimed at you," he said, "so I would advise you to give up any ideas of escaping. Now then, who are you and why are you following me?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, bud. Maybe it's different over in England, but over here I can walk wherever I want. Quit pointing that thing at me. And you, come around from behind me. I don't talk to people I can't see."

Sherlock said, "You're very calm in the face of death. Not too worried that two men are pointing guns at you?"

"I was in the armed forces. I saw combat like you wouldn't believe."

"Yes, I know you were."

"How could you—"

"But I find it curious that a man hired as a sniper in Iraq would be so calm in a situation more characteristic of the front lines. This is a new situation for you. You're used to being hidden on top of a building."

"How do you know anything about me? Who—"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes, and it's obvious. Now why are you following me?"

The man reached one of his upraised hands to scratch his head. John moved the gun slightly to remind him not to try anything. But the man didn't try anything. He scratched his head and chuckled.

"He was right about you. Famous Sherlock Holmes! You really are something. Did you like being dead, Mister Holmes? You might find out what it's really like this time."

"Who are you working for? What's the plan? Tell me!"

"If you can't recognize the master stroke, the painter won't talk to you."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. "What did you say?"

"What I was told to say. If you ever approached me asking questions, I was supposed to tell you that."

"Tell me more."

A new voice sounded from the mouth of the alley, the one which Sherlock had been walking toward. "Hey! Is there a problem here?"

John looked past Sherlock at the newcomer. He was standing in the light cast by the street lamps, so John could see him fairly clearly. A tall, muscular American in a bomber jacket.

John said, "No, no problem, just police. Move along, thank you."

The muscular American started walking down the alley. "Mind if I see your badge?"

"Sherlock," said John.

"I'll handle it. Keep your gun on this one." Then he turned around and pointed his gun at the newcomer. "Walk away."

"I don't think so," said the man. "Two against one? That's not gentlemanly at all, boys. Is there a problem here?"

"We are agents of the law."

"You're not police officers."

"I'm warning you one last time—"

But as Sherlock spoke, the man acted. He dashed at Sherlock, who was already reluctant to fire, and he made a zigzag pattern to avoid any shots. He came with shocking speed for someone with such a heavy frame, and before Sherlock knew it, the gun was on the ground and the big man had his arm pinned behind his back.

"Sherlock!" said John again. He was sweating now, unsure whether to protect Sherlock or keep the hostage. That's stupid, he thought to himself, protect Sherlock! So he pointed the gun away from their captive. He directed it at the big man.

"John, no!" said Sherlock.

But it was too late. The ex-sniper was running out of the alley. He turned around once to look at them. As he reached the main road, he held up his hand as if to wave goodbye. Sherlock cursed a brief but ugly curse.

"Let him go!" shouted John at the big man.

"What's going on here?" asked the newcomer.

"I said let him go!"

"I'm not going to hurt him." He let Sherlock go. "But I'm not going to stand by and let you hold an innocent man at gunpoint."

"He wasn't innocent, you twit," said Sherlock, "he's the agent of a dangerous spy ring trying to steal important military technology."

"Oh, yeah? And who are you?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

The man cocked his head. "Sherlock Holmes? Famous English detective? What are you doing over here?"

"Detecting," said Sherlock icily. "Or trying to, as I work around interference from idiots."

"Look, who are you, then?" said John. He lowered the gun. The man was clearly not an accomplice of the spy.

"My name is Steve Rogers," said the man.

After Sherlock left the room, Booth said, "So is he autistic or what?"

"I find his intellect quite stimulating," said Temperance, "but I did notice a severe deficit in his social intelligence."

Fury said, "If he's anything like his brother, then he's worth the trouble."

Then something attached to Fury's belt beeped. He pulled out a small phone and said, "Fury."

A woman's voice said, "Director Fury, some men from the IRS are here to see you."

"Excuse me, but did you say the IRS?"

"What's the IRS?" asked Rose.

Temperance and the Doctor said at once, "Internal Revenue Service." They looked at each other. The Doctor smiled and gestured toward Temperance. She went on, "It's a branch of the government which monitors tax collection."

"That's right, sir," said the woman's voice to Fury.

"This late? It must be seven o' clock by now." Fury looked around the room, as if scanning it for dangerous intruders.

"I told them to come back later, but they insist."

"And they want to speak to me?"

"They said they were here to see you."

"All right. Tell them I'll meet them in a minute." As he left, he dialed a number on his phone. A call he needed to make first.

Fury walked through a wooden door into a small, boring lobby. There was a glass door in one wall, through which visitors came. There were plastic chairs against the wall. That was all the furnishing in the room. Calm music was playing from a speaker in the wall.

I had another dream about lions at the door.

They weren't half as frightening as they were before,

But I'm thinking about eternity…

Three men were seated at the plastic chairs. The chairs were uncomfortable, so the men were happy to stand up when he entered.

One of them said, "Nicholas Fury?"

"Yes."

"My name is Charles Harris. I work for the Internal Revenue Service."

"How can I help you?"

Another man spoke. "Sir, I'm a police officer. We're here to arrest you for tax evasion. You have the right to remain—"

"Hold on. Tax evasion? Really? That's the best they could come up with?"

"Sir, you have the right—"

"You can't come to my place of work at this hour of the night and arrest me without any warning."

"Sir, the evidence against you is sufficient to warrant arrest. We were advised that you have avoided law enforcement before, so we didn't announce our intentions to your secretary. And we did leave a notice at your residence earlier this afternoon. If you'll let me finish reading you your rights—"

"This is ridiculous. Who are you? Are you really police?"

The man pulled out a badge. "Yes, sir. I'm a plainclothesman. Now—"

Fury stepped away from the men, to the other side of the room. He pulled out a gun. "Stay away from me."

"Sir!" said the man, in a voice suddenly loud and rather anxious. "Put the gun down!" He whipped out his own gun and pointed it at Fury. The third man, evidently another plainclothesman, did the same. "There's no need to make this difficult."

Fury fired one shot at the glass door on the opposite wall, shattering it. "On the floor!" he shouted. "On the floor, or this man's life is in danger!" He pointed the gun at the IRS agent, who dropped to the floor instantly in panic.

"Sir!" The plainclothesman was sweating. His hand started shaking. But he didn't go to the floor. Fury swore in his mind. If this kid panicked and shot him… Or was it an act, so that Fury would lower his defenses? He had seen better acts before.

"On the floor!"

"Put the gun down!"

The door which Fury had come through opened again. All eyes focused on it as the Doctor walked through. He was carrying an empty paper cup, looking around him as if searching for a water cooler. When he saw the guns, his eyes widened.

"Hullo! What's this?" he said.

"Stand back, this is an arrest!" shouted the police officer.

"I can see that," said the Doctor, walking farther into the room at a leisurely pace. He dropped the cup on the floor and held up his hands. "But I think it'd be better if we put the guns down and talked this over like the rational animals we are. Don't you agree?"

"Stay out of this, Doctor," said Fury. He was now pointing the gun at the officer who had been speaking. "They have a bogus charge against me. They clearly want me out of the game. It's most likely that, if I go with them, I'll be taken to prison and quietly murdered there."

The plainclothesman's face was covered in sweat. Whether or not he had heard of Fury before, Fury's manner was clearly unnerving him. He probably couldn't tell whether Fury was insane. "Sir, we're just doing our jobs. Nothing is going to happen to you. Put the gun down."

"These are just their pawns, Fury," said the Doctor calmly. "These men don't know anything about the technology, the murders, any of it. They got a weird assignment, they're already nervous, and you're making it worse. That man on the floor isn't even with the police. He probably came along so they could say they were with the IRS."

The plainclothesman who had first spoken to Fury tried to steady his shaking hands. "Sir…" he said, but he couldn't say anything else.

"Put down your gun, son," said the Doctor to the police officer. "It's all right, you can put down your gun."

The man started to lower his gun. The other officer did, too. Fury kept his gun up, but he did relax considerably.

And then the second police officer shot Fury in the shoulder. With a very knowing smile.

Fury's gun dropped as he let out a cry of pain. But, almost as soon as he was done screaming, he had raced toward the door which he and the Doctor had come through. He shoved the Doctor forward in front of him, and then he used his good arm to slam the door. Once it was shut, he locked it. Then he jumped forward into the Doctor, knocking them both to the floor. Another bullet came through the wooden door just as he did so.

The Doctor groaned. "Not much of a door for a top-secret headquarters," he said.

"Wait and see," said Fury. He rolled over onto his back, groaning as he did so. The Doctor could hear the officer banging against the door and trying to force the knob. Fury pulled a small panel off of the wall. The Doctor saw a large green button, which Fury punched as hard as he could. From the walls and ceiling, three thick metal panels met in front of the door with surprising speed. They fit together nicely. The room behind them was now isolated from the hallway.

As the metal panels came down, alarms began sounding. They drowned out the calm music playing in the lobby. They were announcing that the headquarters was under attack.