Ch. 12
The second Alma left to get the rental car, Steve got ready to leave himself. He grabbed Sam's duffel bag that he had stored in his closet and then left to catch the metro to the hospital.
As Steve knocked on the partially open door to Sam's hospital room, the wave of guilt hit him once again. He nodded to the after-hours police officer that Alma had hired and then moved the curtain surrounding Sam's bed.
Sam was sitting up in bed, earbuds on, eyes closed, his head bobbing up and down with a slight smile on his face. After a moment, he realized Steve was there and pulled out the headphones.
"Hey, buddy," Steve said, clasping Sam's hand in a tight grip, glad to see him awake and alert. "I brought your stuff," Steve said, lifting up the duffel bag. "You're looking a lot better."
"Doc said that they can release me in a couple of days. A little rest and a little physical therapy's all I'll need. Could've been a lot worse."
Steve looked down, too ashamed to meet Sam's eyes. "I'm sorry. About not covering you . . . I should have . . ."
"Hey," Sam interrupted. "Don't worry about it. I knew the risks going in. How's the mission going?"
"Good. We're making contact with Pavlov tonight."
"So how are you and Miss Congeniality getting along?" Sam asked with a laugh.
"Good . . .," Steve thought about their most recent argument, "well, better."
"Well, don't forget. I saw her first," Sam said with a wink.
Steve colored. He had forgotten how they had flirted when Sam first met Alma.
"Of course," he mumbled woodenly, looking away.
"Wait . . . I was just kidding. Are you telling me that you like her?"
Steve shrugged. "It would be stupid to fall for someone who can barely stand to be in the same room with you."
"No one ever said love was smart," Sam smiled.
"Ain't that the truth," Steve said, shaking his head. "Ain't that the truth."
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On his way back from the hospital, Steve took out his phone. After a few minutes of searching, he found what he was looking for: Alma's S.H.I.E.L.D. records.
She had been right the night before, of course. Her entire personnel record was on-line. Every single detail that S.H.I.E.L.D. knew about her was now out there for anyone to see. Steve had reviewed her records during the week that he and Sam had searched all of Buenos Aires, trying to find a pattern, glean something useful that would help them locate her.
Steve was used to combing through personnel records for S.H.I.E.L.D. He did it before each mission. Knowing the strengths and weaknesses of each member of his team helped him use them more effectively, helped him plan the operation down to the smallest detail.
As he reviewed the last ten years of Alma's records, he was struck by how many missions and assignments she had been a part of. She worked mostly undercover, criss-crossing Central and South America. He grinned as he read about her mission with Natasha, seeing that Natasha had recommended her for a promotion after it had finished.
The only thing, it seemed, that had held Alma back from having an even more successful career with S.H.I.E.L.D. was her relationship with authority. The words "stubborn" and "argumentative" peppered her yearly evaluations and since Steve had been on the receiving end of her sharp tongue more than once, he could see why.
Before he even realized it, the metro shuddered to a stop at the station nearest their hotel. Pocketing his phone, Steve politely made his way off the car, careful to let others go ahead of him, and went up the stairs to the street.
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An hour after Steve returned from his errand, Alma knocked on their adjoining door. He opened it, his short hair still damp from a recent shower. He was wearing his suit and tie and Alma sucked in a quick breath. She hoped he didn't catch her reaction to what he was wearing.
"Here's the dossier and documents Pablo dummied up for you. Memorize as much of it as you can, although we'll do the best we can to avoid having you answer any questions."
Steve nodded, taking the thick envelope from her.
"I'm going to get ready. We should try to leave in half an hour," she said, closing the door behind her.
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Twenty-five minutes later, he heard yet another knock on their adjoining door. Steve opened it to see Alma there, dressed and ready to leave.
When Steve had first seen the red dress that Alma was planning to wear at the fundraising event that night it had been on a hanger in the store. It had seemed quite modest, almost demure, high-necked, long-sleeved, and so long that it nearly reached her ankles. However, now that she was wearing it in front of him, well, the way she filled out the dress made Steve think of the drawings of pin-up girls that he had seen in his Army barracks during the war. He blushed and looked away to stop himself from staring, earning a low chuckle from Alma.
"See, when you're working as bait, you have to look like . . . well, bait." Alma twirled around, the fabric of the dress swishing against her legs. "So, you think it'll work?"
"Uh . . . yeah," Steve said quickly, trying to hide the effect she was having on him, taking off his fake glasses and polishing them nervously. "We should get going."
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Alma drove to Pavlov's estate since she was more accustomed to driving in Buenos Aires. It also gave Steve extra time to review the dossier that Pablo had made for him. His stomach turned a bit as he read all of the supposed crimes he had committed as his alter ego. It was nearly a forty-five minute drive from their hotel to the country estate that Pavlov owned in the outskirts of Buenos Aires and it took Steve that long to fully memorize all of his supposed misdeeds.
As they pulled up to the large, Tudor style mansion, Steve was taken back a bit by the size of it.
"There are eleven bedrooms, twelve bathrooms and a swimming pool out back," Alma said as she parked the car.
"How did . . .," Steve began.
"Researched it before. All public records from the last sale. It's always good to know the layout of a house," Alma said.
Men in black suits ushered them inside to an enormous glittering ballroom set up to display all of the art pieces up for auction. Steve noticed from the bulges in their jackets that every one of them were armed.
"They're private security, not servants," he informed Alma.
She nodded. "I caught that, too. Hopefully, this doesn't go pear-shaped. It'd be nice to work in a swanky place like this for a bit."
Steve gave her a sharp look and she smiled. "Don't worry. I'm not going over to the dark side quite yet. It's just . . . . ten years of blood, sweat, and tears down the drain. I'm back to zero again. All the money in my bank account frozen. My pension has disappeared. My face is out there, so there's no chance for any undercover work anymore. When you found me, I was barely making ends meet on a PI gig. It's just that . . . it'd be nice to not scrape by all the time."
A part of Steve understood. He'd spent his childhood with his mother in a one room apartment on the bad side of town. Although he knew a lot of kids in his neighborhood who had it a lot worse.
As he looked at their opulent surroundings, he could see how someone could get sucked into it. The grand ballroom. The housekeeper and private cook. The yacht in the harbor.
But it was all an illusion. It didn't bring you happiness. He knew men like Pavlov, constantly grasping for more, cutting corners, destroying people just for a bigger piece of the pie. Constantly starving, although a banquet was spread out before them. They'd never know contentment; they'd never be satisfied.
And no amount of money would ever bring them peace.
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They spent the next hour, mingling with the other guests, pretending to peruse the pieces up for auction. Steve actually enjoyed looking at the different sculptures and paintings on display. He was surprised to realize just how much he missed drawing and sketching. He spent so much time working for S.H.I.E.L.D. the past few years that he'd hardly had time for art. Surrounded by such beautiful pieces, though, awakened a longing in him and he made a mental note to try to visit the art museum if they had any down time.
Before long, they spotted Pavlov circling the guests like a shark. The predator simile was apt as Steve could see him coldly calculating as he evaluated the prey before him. Steve hated guys like that. He saw Pavlov time and time again approach one female guest after another, standing a bit too close, raking his eyes over them, his hands roaming their shoulders and the small of their backs.
Pavlov was in his early 40s, nearly as tall as Steve with shots of grey flecking the temples of his dark hair. He could have been described as handsome, but nearly every woman in the room shrank from him, instinctually knowing the rottenness hidden behind the attractive façade. Steve clenched his fists and tried to remain calm, to follow Alma's instructions to play the part of a passive henchman. Every bone in his body though, longed to drag Pavlov outside and teach him some manners.
Before long, Pavlov spotted Alma and his eyes widened and his grin grew big as he came towards them.
"Hola," Pavlov said as he approached Alma.
"Hello," Alma said, deliberately answering back in English, wanting Steve to be able to follow their conversation.
"Well, aren't you a pretty little thing?" Pavlov remarked. "Dmitry Pavlov, at your service."
There may be something that Alma detested more than being called a "thing", but it didn't come to mind. She expertly hid any reaction, though. "Alma Iglesias. It's a pleasure to meet you again."
"Your . . . .," Pavlov took a moment to boldly sweep his eyes over Alma, lingering where he shouldn't, "face is familiar, but your name is not," he said as he bent down to give Alma an overly familiar kiss on the cheek.
Steve tensed next to Alma, already disgusted with the man.
"That's because when we last met, I used an alias," Alma said.
Pavlov leaned back a bit and looked at her through narrowed eyes. "FBI? CIA?" he asked tightly.
"S.H.I.E.L.D. or I suppose ex-S.H.I.E.L.D. would be more accurate. You needn't worry; you were never my objective."
"More's the pity," he said as he once again shamelessly assessed her.
"Since the dissolution of my organization, it seems as though I am out of a job and quite desperate," Alma confessed.
"Oh, really?" he asked, his eyes lighting up.
"I was told you might have a . . . position for me," she breathed, her tone suggestive.
"Oh, I'm sure that for a woman of your obvious talents, I could fit you in somewhere," he said, licking his lips in anticipation.
"There is a slight catch," she purred.
"Isn't there always?" he remarked dryly.
"My associate," she pointed to Steve, "comes with me. He's helped me out of a scrape or two and I owe him."
Pavlov regarded Steve with a bored expression. "I've got plenty of hired muscle."
"Oh, but he's good," she said. "Very good. Well worth your while and like I said . . . package deal."
Pavlov spent several seconds looking over the both of them, before making a decision, nodding slightly.
He turned slightly to speak to Alma, his eyes once again travelling her form as though he were memorizing every detail, filing it away.
"So, associates only?" Pavlov asked.
Steve reacted on instinct. He had been struggling to remain calm during the entire meeting, the desire to wipe the lecherous grin off of Pavlov's face so intense that he almost began to shake. Without thinking, Steve stepped forward a bit, draping his arm across Alma's shoulders, and giving Pavlov a condescending smile.
"Oh, I'd say something more than associates." Steve looked down at Alma, giving her a slight squeeze. "Isn't that right, honey?"
Author's Note - Wow, over 30 followers! Thank you so much! I really appreciate the encouragement. The more you let me know that you are enjoying the story, the more time and effort I spend writing it!