They found a hollowed out shell of a building on the corner of Eighth Avenue. Smoke billowed from a ten by ten crater where the front entrance used to be. Whoever had been here was long gone, but given the lack of cooling bodies and the general disarray inside, they probably weren't out for blood. Rumlow found two desk chairs with only a single rip down the middle and dragged them over to a large computer desk. He swept books and papers aside, clearing a space for Skye to set down her equipment.
"Fucking stupid," Rumlow muttered, crumpling up a piece of blank looseleaf paper. "Don't they know banks move their money during the Purge?"
"Call it naive optimism," said Skye as she pushed aside a cracked monitor with a blade through it.
"I'll call it what it is: fucking stupid."
Skye giggled, and it was not unpleasant to his ears. Actually, she had a very nice laugh. Not that he was the best judge (he once cracked a smile at a joke five or six years ago) but if she happened to laugh at anything else he said, he wouldn't mind. He reclined his seat as far as it would go. A quick power nap would do him good, but every time he closed his eyes they were open again in seconds. He rubbed his arm, which had been bugging him since they got here. Catching a rip in the seams he pushed a finger inside and came up with blood running down his wrist.
"Were you hit?"
Rumlow was not a man one could sneak up on. If someone was twenty feet away and had bad intentions, he'd know before they took one step. So he'd take it to the grave how Skye's words made his heart miss a beat. Cold sweat formed on his brow, a result of his brain finally realizing he should be in pain. He shucked his jacket to get a better look at the wound. Fortunately, he'd worn a black shirt. Rolling up the sleeve he nearly retched. That was a fucking rank stench. The wound itself wasn't bad, though. Just a graze.
"Oh my god!" Skye took off deeper into in the building. He'd think she was looking for a back exit, but she kept muttering 'first aid kit' as she dug through the cabinet drawers and closets.
"I'm fine," Rumlow called out. "I've been hurt a lot worse than this."
"There's this little thing called infections, though." She returned with a pocket-sized white box and rifled through it on the desk, pulling out a bottle of antiseptic and a roll of bandages.
Rumlow whistled. "What do they need that at a bank for?"
"If you have to ask, you've never paid taxes." Skye grabbed his arm and forced his sleeve up higher. "Now shut up and let me do this."
She sprayed antiseptic on a piece of bandage and rubbed it lightly on the wound. Rumlow grit his teeth hard enough to crack. He'd heard cleaning a wound was often more painful than receiving one, he'd just never believed it until now.
"Oh fuck," he groaned as she sprayed it a second time.
"Don't be a baby. It can't be that bad," said Skye.
"Yeah? How about next time, you get shot and I'll clean your wound? We'll see how much it doesn't hurt then."
"Is that supposed to be a threat?" This was the weirdest question he'd ever heard, if only for how nonchalantly it was posed.
"Trust me, if I'm threatening you, you'll know."
He completely failed at intimidation, and in a better situation, Skye would be on the floor laughing. Not that it couldn't have worked. He was a scary guy for sure. He just failed to reach those dark, guttural depths of primal fear when his voice was an octave too high.
Skye bit her lip hard until the need to laugh died down. Most of the wound was clean already, but she dabbed it with antiseptic one more time to be sure. He hissed and fidgeted anew, a big baby under that battle-hardened exterior. It was nice to peel away another layer of the onion, but Skye wouldn't press her luck.
"Almost done," she said. "There's one part I can't reach. We might have to take the sleeve off."
He did her one better by pulling his shirt over his head. He winced as the fabric rubbed against the wound but didn't make a sound. He relaxed his muscles, offering his arm as Skye carefully examined everything except the wound. Her head spun. Of course, a man with his physicality would be well built, but imagining a chiseled torso and six-pack abs and actually seeing them were two very different things. As was getting a face full of said abs while checking for other injuries. Actually, on further inspection, that six-pack was more like an eight-pack...
"It's my arm."
Skye blinked. "What?"
"I got hit on my arm. Not my chest. You can stop staring now," he spoke with a hint of humor and a smirk. If she didn't know better she'd say he was flexing, too, just to tease her.
"I was looking at your arm," Skye insisted, hiding her red face in some loose sections of hair.
"Sure you were," he said. Skye sprayed anti-septic directly over the wound and enjoyed his scream like nothing else. "Fucking bitch!"
"You're welcome." She wrapped some gauze around the wound once she'd stopped the bleeding. To her eternal amusement, the only roll of tape was pink and Hello Kitty themed.
"Goddammit," he grumbled as she cut off three long strips.
"If you want to preserve your masculinity, try not getting shot next time." Skye secured the tape around the wound, tight but not too tight. Like Phil always said, there's a big difference between a proper tourniquet and a well-intentioned torture device. "There you go. All better?"
"Peachy."
She handed him his shirt, disappointed when he put it on while simultaneously annoyed with herself for being disappointed. Returning to the computer, she found the screen dark and tapped a few random keys to get it out of sleep mode. None of her progress had been lost thankfully. She entered a few commands and watched boredly as the bank's piss poor security crumbled. This was a 'private' firm without a second location, and she had a good idea why that was.
"Looks like none of our cameras have been shut down," Skye said, moving from one screen to the next in quick succession. "A couple are already compromised. Someone else had the same idea as us."
"It's them," Rumlow growled. He stared into the distance like a wandering lone gunman. "I should've known. Those assholes are smart."
"Not as smart as me," Skye said cockily.
"I hope you're right," said Rumlow, without any sarcasm or malice, which Skye appreciated.
"I haven't steered you wrong yet, have I?"
He conceded with a hum. That was probably the best she'd ever get from him, which was fine. It was progress. She stretched her neck before going to work. If some other bloodthirsty purger showed up and they had to leave in a hurry, she'd do herself no favors being too tense to run. As she typed, the click-clacking of the keys soothed her. This was why she loved desktop keyboards. You just couldn't get the same experience with laptops. Rumlow played with a pocket knife while she worked, flicking the blade up and pushing it back down. Skye knocked out a few decoy locks and felt a surge of anticipation as a series of code long enough to circle the globe twice appeared.
"So," she said as she dragged a pen and notepad over to do some quick math, "what's your story?"
The knife flicking stopped. "What?"
Skye spun her chair to face him, keeping one hand on the mouse. "I'm curious. I don't know anything about you."
"I don't know you either," he said like they were on the playground.
"I asked first," Skye said because two can play that game.
"I don't know where to start," he said with feigned enthusiasm. "Let's see... I made my first kill when I was sixteen. Some drunk asshole with rotting teeth who thought he could control me just because he was my dad."
Skye's fingers slipped. Random keys were hit, ruining the code she'd been working on which meant she'd have to start over. "Oh uh… that's too bad. I'm sorry…"
He snorted. "Why are you apologizing? I did it on purpose."
"Was it self-defense?"
"Technically," he said, and then he paused as if wishing he hadn't opened his big mouth. "My dad was a 'put cigars out on your skin' kind of guy. I got fed up with that, so one Purge night, I slit his throat with a serrated knife."
Skye nodded, at a loss for how to respond. "What about your mom?"
"No idea. She ran out when I was twelve. Said she was sick of my dad and I guess she was sick of me, too. I don't blame her."
"Didn't you have siblings or grandparents? Or friends?"
He gave her a withering look. "Any other questions?"
Just one. "Why are you doing this?"
He frowned and pushed back his chair, propping his legs up on the desk. He rested his head in his hands, blase as could be. "Why does anyone purge? It's cleansing."
"That's not it."
"Yes, it is. We already had this conversation."
"No, you wouldn't be looking for someone specific if you just wanted to kill indiscriminately."
"Sure I would. You know how tough these guys are? They're big fish. Way better than the easy pickings you get with a shitty pendulum in an alley."
"So there's absolutely no reason why you want to kill these guys. Nothing personal about it at all?"
"That's right. It's the thrill of the hunt."
"I don't believe you."
He slammed a hand on the desk, his knife clenched tight in the other. Skye pushed her chair out, putting as much distance between them as she could. Deep down, she knew he wouldn't attack her. He wasn't that kind of person. If anything, he'd walk out of here and leave her to fend for herself, but something told her that wouldn't happen either. Regardless, he was a big, strong man armed to the teeth, and she was a skinny, five and a half foot unarmed woman with minimal self-defense training she barely remembered. She picked up a pen and held it point up. Better than nothing.
"Do you think I care what you think?" he snapped. "You don't know me."
"I know you lose your temper at the drop of a hat," Skye quipped. "And I know you care enough not to let me die."
"I care as long as you get me what I need."
"Which you said you could get on your own. These guys we're after are trained. They use equipment that shouldn't exist yet and they're organized. I'm not so scared that I don't notice these things. Now, who are they? Mercenaries? Bounty hunters? Are they rounding up victims for rich families to kill at home?"
"First one," Rumlow growled, his eyes dark. "They kill for money. Long time ago, I was their leader."
"Is that so?" Skye was not going to back down no matter what he said, even as the truth of his words rang out loud and clear.
"We worked for the NFFA taking out political rivals and resistance group leaders. Eventually, one of my guys decided he didn't like taking orders. He convinced the rest of the team to turn on me, and they left me for dead after a botched raid. That was eighteen months ago. Last year, I couldn't find them on Purge night, but this time, I know exactly where they're hiding. I'm going to smoke the bastards out and send every single one of them to an early grave."
He pushed the tip of the blade into the desk, shaving off chips and splinters. Someone was not going to be happy when they came into work tomorrow. Purger insurance only covered substantial property damage like that hole in the wall or the ripped up carpets. Employees stupid enough to leave family photos and personal belongings out in the open were shit out of luck.
"So it's revenge," Skye said. "That's what this is all about."
He narrowed his eyes and walked to the windows, looking out. "You get it now? I'm not some vigilante hero out to save people. I'm in it for myself. As long as I get what I want, everyone else can fend for themselves, including you."
He hit the last word hard to get his point across. It hurt like a punch to the gut, but Skye didn't falter. She was used to this. She understood this. While packing her bags in the aftermath of last year's purge, a few neighbors sent sympathy cards and gift baskets, as if a year's worth of free moisturizing lotion was enough to replace her family. She left it all on the curb with the rest of the trash, then drove away from her tainted home and never looked back.
She left her post. The system could run on its own from here. She carefully approached Rumlow from behind, afraid he might catch her and bark at her to go away. The knife poked out between his fingers, but that she didn't fear. She kept her hands to herself, though the need to touch him was overwhelming. Physical contact was cleansing for some people, but she doubted Rumlow was one of them. Neither was she.
"My family was killed last year," she said. Her eyes were closed and she had no idea if he was listening. "On Purge night… someone I used to love murdered them. He thought if they were gone, we'd be together again. Like they were the reason I left him."
"Sounds like you had a few reasons," said Rumlow.
'You don't know the half of it,' Skye thought. "Ever since then, I've been in hiding. I know he's still looking for me, and every morning, I wake up wondering if today will be the day he finds me. He'll never stop until he's dead."
"If you need help with that, I charge an hourly rate."
Skye chuckled sadly. "Thanks, but I don't know where he is. I'd like to keep it that way."
He spared her a quick glance but looked away when they locked eyes. His fingers around the knife flexed as he slid it in his pocket. Suddenly his carefully maintained imposing aura vanished. "I'm sorry for your loss," he said. "It sounds rough."
"Yeah… I'd be sorry for yours, too, but..." His lips quirked. Skye watched the night grow darker as distant billows of smoke blocked out the moon. "What I'm trying to say is I know how you feel."
He turned to face her. "How's that?"
"Because I'm alone, too." She let their shared silence linger. Everything that needed to be said had been said and anything else would be superfluous.
An hour passed with gunshots and screaming interwoven with hysterical laughter and homemade, non-traditional weapons grinding and exploding. Only one person had come within a four-block radius of the bank. A woman skipping- yes skipping- dragging a burnt corpse and singing an off-key rendition of 'Come On Get Happy'. Rumlow might have napped through it. He was unnaturally still with his head on his shoulder. Skye checked him every five minutes to make sure he hadn't died on her. Though he never opened his eyes, his chest rose and fell as normal.
She didn't know how their little heart to heart would affect their relationship ('as if you have one,' she snorted to herself), but it had been a good talk. He was honest about his crappy life and far better than any therapist she'd ever gone to. How strange a contradiction the Purge could be. It tore friends and families apart without mercy, but sometimes in that deep darkness of humanity's base depravity, you found the people you needed, if only until sunrise.
Skye was ready to take a nap herself when her radar pinged with new activity. Three bogeys walking northeast on a direct path to their current location. "Hey, something's happening."
Rumlow was next to her in an instant as if teleporting from one spot to another. "Where are they?"
"Not in close range," said Skye. "I got a look at them through a store cam, but they were distant."
"Which one?" There were ten different feeds on screen.
"Top left corner. They're in the street." Skye pulled up a few more feeds, closer to the bank. One camera set up by the insurance company next door gave her a much better look as they skulked in the shadows. "Looks like it's just them. I'll get a still shot so you can see them better."
"Don't bother," he said, that deep, hate-fueled tone from earlier coming back with a vengeance. "I know them."
"They're on your list?"
Rumlow pointed at the man on the left. He was decent looking, tan with dark hair and a clean-shaven face. He carried a military grade assault rifle and his gait was that of a predator who thrived off fear. If he'd been the one to intercept Skye's kidnapping, she had a feeling he would've shot her dead when he was done with her captors, just for the hell of it.
"Bakshi," Rumlow growled. "He's on the list all right."
He grabbed his gun and reloaded. His injured arm had an odd bend to it, but any pain he was experiencing took a backseat to raw determination and an unquenchable thirst for blood.
"Hang on," Skye chased after him as he made for the door. "You're going out there alone?"
"You're not coming with me, so yes."
"You just got shot!"
"Barely."
"You need to rest!"
"I once pulled a slug out of my shoulder with a pair of forceps and no anesthetic. Any questions?"
"Okay, you know what? I get it. You're a big tough scary badass. You've proved it fifty times over, but don't you think you should have a plan before you go up against three guys by yourself? Or do you want to get shot again?"
That gave him pause and Skye breathed easier when he lowered the gun. Her relief was short-lived as a trio of shadowy figures came into view. In profile, their features were concealed in pitch black. They might even be wearing masks, through the shape of their heads appeared natural.
Rumlow grit his teeth. His finger on the trigger twitched. Masks or no, he knew who was coming. "Back up."
"No," Skye said, even as her rationale screamed 'yes'. "You'll die."
He raised the gun, aiming for her head. "Move."
"Or what?" she demanded. "You'll kill me?"
"They'll kill you. To get to me." He released the safety. That he'd had it on in the first place was nothing short of a miracle. "I already told you, I won't save you. Move or die. Those are your options."
Skye didn't move, and he didn't shoot her. He took out the glass instead, the bullet whizzing over her head as he shoved her to the ground. The three men had their guns out. Skye saw them through the gap in Rumlow's legs as she crawled behind him. A dying streetlamp cast a yellowish light on them. Two wore black ski masks (how creative). The last one's face was bare. He was a handsome man. At least he would've been without the cold deadness of his eyes which made him look almost inhumane. Worst of all, he was staring past Rumlow at her.
"Good evening," he said smoothly. "We've been looking for you. First, let's take care of business."
The man on his right fired a silenced shot at Rumlow. His aim was off. That was another bullet hole in the wall of this already battle-scarred bank. Rumlow fired back twice. The first shot knocked the gun out of his attacker's hand. The second took his eye out. He was dead before he hit the floor, but his partner wasn't so lucky. Three bullets to the chest meant he'd die slowly. He moaned in agony as his boss kicked him in the stomach on his way inside.
"That wasn't very nice," he said mockingly. "I liked those guys. What'd they ever do to you?"
Rumlow stepped forward, gun still raised. He was not in a talking mood and the only reason Skye could think of for why they weren't all dead was that Rumlow wanted to savor this particular kill. His opponent fingered the gun on his belt. He appraised Rumlow, his smile changing from gleeful to inquisitive.
"Have we met? I swear I've seen that face in a gutter somewhere."
"You mean the one you left me in, Bakshi?"
The man chuckled as they met in the center of the wrecked office, on one of the only clean patches of floor left. Perfect for a fight to the death between two hated enemies. "Brock Rumlow, what a surprise. I thought you were dead."
Rumlow punched him in the face. Skye didn't see it coming, and neither did Bakshi. He stumbled but didn't fall, using a desk for leverage. Blood gushed freely from a badly broken nose. He wiped it off with his sleeve and shot Rumlow a hateful stare.
"You want another just say the word," Rumlow growled.
Bakshi chuckled, reaching for his gun. "God, I missed you, Brock. Things haven't been as much fun without you."
"Should've thought of that before you left me for dead." They circled each other like jungle cats on the prowl.
"It wasn't personal, Brock, really. I didn't even want to do it. We were friends."
"But it's all about money, isn't it?"
Bakshi rolled his eyes. "Don't act so high and mighty. You'd have done the exact same thing to me."
"Maybe." Rumlow pulled the trigger. The bullet grazed Bakshi's arm in almost exactly the same spot at his own wound. Baskhi hissed in pain, blood already soaking into his formerly pristine jacket.
"You fucking-"
"Oh I'm sorry," Rumlow grinned viciously. "Did that hurt?"
"Not as bad as this."
He lunged at Rumlow, aiming for his throat. Rumlow caught his hand and countered with a kidney punch, that was at least one rib broken, but Bakshi wasn't out for the count. He tackled Rumlow, knocking the gun out of his hand. It skidded into the shadows far from Skye's hiding place. She watched it go, wishing she still had the piece Rumlow gave her. Like the genius every other teacher said she was, she'd left it on the desk with her laptop.
'Maybe if I'm quiet I can make a run for it,' she thought as the two combatants stumbled dangerously close to Skye's hiding place. 'Or maybe not.'
Rumlow threw Bakshi across the room into a filing cabinet. He pulled a knife out of his belt and swung at Bakshi's face. The momentum sent him spinning, but he barely nicked his opponent's shoulder. Keeping up with the fight was becoming impossible, and a waste of time Skye could've spent helping or running. That she'd choose the former was either a testament to her own reckless stupidity or just how much she'd come to rely on this angry, broken man over the course of six hours.
Yet as he subdued Bakshi with a whirlwind of punches to the face and chest, Skye ran not for the door but for her gun and aimed at the back of Bakshi's head. Her finger was off the trigger. This was proper gun safety and it no way to do with some stupid trauma reaction that almost got her head blown off by a psychotic purger. If she had to, she'd shoot. She'd have no choice. Rumlow's life depended on it. Bakshi was clearly made of something other than flesh and bone. He'd taken every blow with stride and even now, with his ankle twisted and one eye swollen shut, he got up every time and gave as good as he got.
"Get out of here!" Rumlow shouted at her as he was thrown to the ground. "Go!"
"I can't leave you!"
"I'll catch up, just get out!"
Headlights shined on them as a black town car screeched to a halt outside. Four more men jumped out. Skye backed away, her fight or flight response making a coward of her as she ran for the back door. It was a safe assumption that one existed. Around a corner, she found it. Solid metal with a knob, a blinking EXIT sign overhead. Her ticket to freedom. Or relative freedom until those hellish sirens went off. With just a few more steps, she'd be out of this building and away from those men who, for whatever reason, wanted to purge her so much they'd spent the whole night chasing her.
She could save herself at the cost of Rumlow's life.
She took one step forward. She took one step back. She fumbled with the gun, it was heavy with five bullets left. Five bullets for five men. Behind her, Rumlow grunted as he hit and was hit. The gunshot wound was clearly hindering his movements. Against one opponent, he could make up the difference with his speed and stamina. Against five he'd be lucky to keep that arm, let alone stay alive. Bullets flew in all directions. Skye hit the floor and covered her head. A body fell with a dull thump, and for a second, she thought it was Rumlow. She peered over her shoulder, twisting her neck to get a glimpse of combat boots and gray camo gear. On his belt was an empty holster. Rumlow had ducked behind a desk, now wielding two guns. Blood seeped freely from his arm. They were boxing him in.
Skye made her decision, the only one she ever could've made. There was little to nothing she could do as an out of practice amateur against four trained professionals, so leaving and saving herself was a perfectly reasonable and logical choice. It was also perfectly wrong, and so she fired at the nearest man's leg and brought him down with a high kick to the face. She slammed her entire weight into the man trading gunfire with Rumlow. Her sudden appearance caught him off guard and his bulky gear slowed his reaction time. He dropped his gun and punched at her face, knocking her off him. This was a poor move on his part as Rumlow sprung out of hiding and put a bullet in his head.
Two men left. They fought back to back. Skye took the smaller one who might have been a new recruit for how poorly he moved. Though she ached for him, she didn't hold back. This was life or death and he'd chosen the wrong side. She kicked him in the groin, sending him to his knees. Then she bashed his skull in with the butt of her gun. He was out like a light and maybe if he survived, he'd clean up his act. Skye took his gun and turned to find Rumlow and Bakshi back at it. That man was like an energizer bunny. He never stopped.
Fortunately, neither did Rumlow.
"This is why I missed you," he groaned, air hissing through brand new gaps in his teeth. "No one else fights like you. New guys are all fucking pansies."
"They're scared of you," Rumlow said, spitting out a mouthful of blood. "'Cause they never met me."
He kicked Bakshi in the stomach. Bakshi fell hard on his back and wheezed as the wind was knocked out of him. Rumlow stomped on his chest. So much for that sternum. Skye had one bullet left after exchanging several with his fallen comrades and she steeled herself to pull the trigger one more time. No hesitation. When Rumlow gave the word, she'd do it.
Like she should've so long ago.
"Fuck," Bakshi said weakly, struggling in vain to breathe as Rumlow slowly crushed his lungs. "You're fucking good. I was afraid I'd… end up an old man… die in my sleep… like a nothing."
"Yeah, better to die in a blown up bank like a nothing," said Rumlow. "Or in a ditch."
Bakshi shook his head. "Gotta let it go, friend. It's not healthy to hold a grudge."
"Tell me about it." Rumlow bent over. He'd be the last thing Bakshi ever saw. "Don't worry. I have a feeling I'll be in a much better place after tonight."
"Maybe," Bakshi chuckled. He stared evilly into Rumlow's eyes, "but I don't think Hell is so nice."
With a final burst of strength, Bakshi grabbed Rumlow's leg, knocking him off balance. He used the momentum to sit up and claw at Skye's face. She screamed and took hold of his broken nose, twisting it hard. His bones crunched as he howled in agony. She let go and Rumlow shot him in the mouth. He fell once more, never to rise again.
Skye scrambled off him. Rumlow's arms came around her as she drew herself up. He left bloodstains all over her midsection, but he was so warm, she didn't want him to let go. She filled her lungs with more air than they could take until it hurt to inhale. Dearth surrounded them, but all she saw was Rumlow, beaten and bruised, but alive. She touched his swollen cheek. He winced. She felt her chest. Her heart pumped. Alive.
"You okay?" he gasped.
"Oh, yeah," she said. "I feel great."
He smiled. "You were great."
"Thanks. So were you." She bit hard on her lip. His eyes were like pure gold. "Is it bad that I kind of want to have sex with you right now?"
He started to laugh, but his bruised chest wouldn't let him. She helped him sit on a desk just as a tiny metal ball rolled to a stop at their feet. For a split second, she saw his face change, from relief to horror. Then the room filled with smoke.
A dozen black shadows poured inside, wrenching her and Rumlow apart. He called her name, but the smoke was too thick. It filled her mouth if she tried to open it and stung her eyes like a hundred bee stings. Skye threw out her hands, flailing wildly to no avail. She was lifted and carried out screaming. Outside, a black van waited for them. The man holding Skye's arms stuck a needle in her neck. Then the world spun and faded to nothing.
She awoke in an elevator, propped up by two men dressed for war. There were at least two more behind her, possibly three. Hard to tell when the ground had yet to decide if it should be up or down. Skye blinked her watery eyes, her vision slowly clearing. She could make out the silver walls, the rectangular space, the blinking red lights counting twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six-
They were going up.
Her stomach churned, either from the sedative or the rapid ascension. God if Phil could see her now, how disappointed he would be. Never let your guard down just because you think the danger has passed. In the Purge, there's no such thing as safety. Of course, a mercenary like Bakshi would have more backup just in case things went south. Goddamn, she was stupid. So stupid, she was about to get herself killed. All that running and fighting for nothing. At least she'd finally know why they wanted her so bad, but it was a shitty consolation prize.
"Is it worth asking you guys to make it quick?" she asked. No one answered.
At the fortieth floor, they got off. A dimly lit antechamber led into a broken down office, not unlike the one she just helped demolish. Rotting upturned boxes and rusted monitors indicated the years since this building was in use. The only light came from a ceiling lamp hanging by a wire. It flickered tauntingly. One pop of a bulb and Skye would spend her final moments in near darkness.
A man was silhouetted against a desk. He watched out the window as a housing complex burnt to the ground. It was so far away and yet Skye's ears rang. She was dragged across the room, her steps clumsy from the aftereffects of the drug. Her cognitive functions had mostly returned, but it wasn't enough for her to fight back.
"Sir, we have her," said her escort.
The man at the desk rolled his shoulders and stood tall. Very tall. At least half a head taller than Rumlow. "Thank you, Filkins. You can go."
Her escort, Filkins, seemed taken aback. He opened his mouth but thought better of complaining. He murmured a 'yes sir' and backed away, leaving Skye to her fate, whatever it may be. He and his partners stepped into the elevator. Part of her hoped the cables were as ancient the rest of the building; maybe one of them would snap.
She stared the man down. His face was shadowed, but she knew he was watching her. Like any purger with a sadistic streak, he'd want her to cry. To get down on her knees and beg for her life would be the greatest pleasure she could give him. That was assuming he just wanted to kill her and not 'have some fun' first.
"Well," she said, straightening her spine. "You got me. I don't know why I'm so special, but here I am. I'm in your clutches. But if you think I won't go out swinging, you've got another thing-"
"I know you would." He brought his hands behind his back. The light shined on his clean black shoes and pressed slacks. He had an attractive visage. Probably worked out regularly. That wasn't what held Skye's attention though. It was his voice. The very same one she heard in her nightmares. "But I could never hurt you. I'd rather die myself."
He stepped into the light. First his suit jacket and button-up shirt, then his stubbled cheeks, then his black eyes filled with what he thought was love. Like a dying candle, every bit of resolve she'd painstakingly built over the last twelve months was snuffed out. She was no longer the woman who went toe to toe with trained killers and lived. She was a frightened child covered in her best friend's blood, standing between her family and the monster who murdered them. "No… God no…"
And Ward just smiled. "I've been looking everywhere for you, Skye."