Ch. 14

Steve woke up the next day to sunlight streaming into his room. He had overslept, but that was hardly a surprise. He had tossed and turned for hours the night before after being woken by Alma. He had had similar nightmares during the war. The things he had seen in the Hydra facilities were grotesque and unsettling. Finding Bucky weak and tortured was still a recurring part of his troubled dreams.

And, if he were honest with himself, it wasn't just Alma's nightmare that kept him up. He had known her less than forty-eight hours and he felt like his world had been turned upside down. She had forced him to confront some disturbing ramifications of his efforts to dismantle S.H.I.E.L.D. He knew the organization was riddled with Hydra sleeper agents and the only way to get rid of them was to bring the whole agency down, but seeing how broken Alma had been when he had first met him and hearing about all the good S.H.I.E.L.D. agents who had been hurt by his information dump gave him pause.

And then there was Alma herself. There were moments when he felt so close to her and then others when he wondered why he'd ever hired her. Two days ago, she had threatened to kill him and last night he had held her in his arms while she had sobbed. Unwillingly, his mind flashed to her appreciative gaze while he wore the suit, her hand tucked into his, her nails raking across his chest. He tried to tell himself that she was an undercover operative, that it was all a lie, but it felt real. And, the worst of it was, a part of him wanted it to be real.

He squinted at the alarm clock next to the bed. It was half past nine in the morning. He idly wondered if she was going to buy him medialunas again. His mouth watered at the thought of it.

He got up and padded to the busted adjoining doors. They looked a lot worse in the morning and he wondered how much he was going to have to pay the hotel to have them fixed.

He knocked gently on the door, trying to respect Alma's privacy, but there was no answer. He peeked in and he could see that she wasn't there. She had made her bed and had taken her purse, so he guessed that she had gone to breakfast. He decided to take a shower and get ready himself.

After his shower, it was already ten and Steve began to worry somewhat. He turned on his phone and relaxed when he saw a text from Alma.

-Be back before lunch.

He tried calling her, but her phone went straight to voicemail, which concerned him. He decided to text her.

- Where are you?

After waiting a few minutes for a reply, Steve sighed. Alma must have shut off her phone. They hadn't talked about what they were going to do that day. They had to be flexible and wait to hear back from Pavlov.

Steve felt bile rise up in him when he thought of that man. His disgust for him intensified when he remembered Pavlov's eyes raking over Alma in lascivious interest.

Steve decided to distract himself. Recalling how much he enjoyed the art from the night before, he decided to check out the hours for the Buenos Aires Museum of Modern Art. In less than a minute, he was able to find their main web page on his phone. He smiled when he saw that it opened at eleven. There was enough time to grab a quick breakfast and take the metro there.

He realized suddenly that he didn't want to go without Alma. One of the things he enjoyed so much about last night was pointing things out to her about paintings and sculptures. They'd talk about the use of color in a portrait or the lines of a particular statue. Alma was by no means an art expert, but she was appreciative of Steve's efforts to explain the different influences evident in an artist's work or possible meanings for each piece. The idea of going to the art museum without he seemed unappealing.

00000

Instead, he settled on visiting Sam. He arrived at his hospital room at ten thirty, having stopped at a café for a quick breakfast of coffee and medialunas. He bought an entire bag full of them and handed them to Sam once he entered the room.

Sam smiled when he saw the bag full of goodies, shaking Steve's hand and introducing him to his current bodyguard, Ramiro. They had been playing a game of cards and from the small coins piled on Sam's side of the table, it looked like he was winning.

"How are you doing today?" Steve asked as he settled into a chair next to Sam.

"Good. Finally got a full night of sleep. They brought the physical therapist by to go over some simple exercises with me. I've been able to get up and walk around some. They told me that I'll be out in two, three days max."

"That's great."

"How did things go last night?" Sam asked.

"Um . . . Ramiro, would you mind waiting outside?" Steve asked.

Ramiro shrugged his shoulders. "You're the one paying."

Once he was outside, Steve looked over to Sam. "So, we made contact . . . "

"And . . .," Sam prompted.

"I nearly blew it. Pavlov is a pig. You should have seen him, the way he treated the women at the auction. The way he came on to Alma . . ." Steve said.

"Wasn't that the plan? Use her as bait?" Sam asked.

"Yes, but I couldn't go through with it. I . . . . made it seem like we were a couple."

Sam burst out laughing. "Man, you got it bad."

"I know it's stupid. I don't even know what I was thinking."

Sam sobered for a moment. "Alright, man. I'm going to ask you a tough question."

"Okay," Steve asked hesitantly.

"Are you interested in Alma because you really like her or just because she's . . . there?"

Steve winced. Sam knew about his limited experience with women. "To be honest, I'm not sure. I mean, I didn't feel this way about Natasha. She's beautiful and we worked together for months."

"But, you always knew she was in a relationship, right?"

Steve nodded. "Yeah. I knew she was with Clint. I guess . . . . I guess I just don't know."

"Well, before you do anything about it, you should make sure. You owe it to her and you definitely owe it to yourself."

Steve gave a brief smile. "We're waiting on a text from Pavlov. Despite everything, there's still a chance that he might hire us," he said, purposefully changing the subject.

"Wish I could be out there with you, buddy," Sam said.

"You just focus on getting better. How much have you won from Ramiro?"

Sam grinned. "I'm up fifteen bucks. He's lousy at poker. Send him back in. Let's see if I can win enough to pay for this hospital stay."

Steve chuckled. "Will do."

00000

After visiting Sam, Steve returned to the hotel for lack of anything better to do. He kept endlessly checking his phone for a text or call from Alma, but there was none.

It was past noon when Steve finally heard Alma coming in her room.

"Where were you?" Steve asked as he walked through their adjoining doors, although it came out a bit more demanding than he'd intended.

"It's Sunday morning. I was at church, ya heathen," she gently teased. She was dressed in oversized long red sweater and an ankle-length red and black skirt.

"Oh. . . . I didn't think . . . I would have gone with you," he offered.

"You seemed pretty tired when I peeked my head in. I didn't want to bother you." She flashed him a quick smile. "Anyhow, introducing you to my pastor is sort of a third date kind of thing for me. And, if I brought a handsome guy like you to church, the little old ladies would stop trying to set me up with their rich nephews," she grinned.

"You don't strike me as the . . . . ," Steve swallowed the rest of his sentence, not wanting to seem rude.

"Church-going type? Well, you know what they say, it's the sick that need a doctor, not the well. I mess up more than I get things right, but that doesn't mean I stop trying."

Steve nodded.

"So, what did you do?" she asked.

"I got up late, had breakfast, visited Sam."

"How's he doing?" she asked.

"Good. Actually really good. He should be released on Tuesday or Wednesday."

"That's great." She gave him a genuine smile.

"Did you hear from Pavlov?"

Alma grimaced. "Yes. He texted me. He wants a meet. Tomorrow night, ten o'clock. On his yacht."

"Good." At least some things were looking up.

"Not so good. My spidey senses are tingling on this one. I don't like meeting on his yacht. The ocean is a great place to dump a body."

"How do you know that?"

"I'll plead the fifth on that one," Alma said with a grim smile.

"So what do we do?" Steve asked.

"It's up to you. We only have a few options. We can refuse to meet with him. Or we can try to relocate the meet . . . . ."

"But . . . ," Steve prompted.

"In both cases, my instincts tell me that Pavlov will just bail on us. If you want to stay with the undercover op, our only really chance is to have the meet where and when he wants it."

Steve thought for a moment, going back and forth on it before making his decision. "Let's go ahead with it. We've put too much time and effort into it to abort the mission now."

"Alright. I'll contact him and tell him we'll be there. We should prepare for the worst, though."

"I always do," Steve asserted.

"So . . . . have you had lunch yet?" Alma asked.

"No . . . ."

"I was thinking of checking out the street market in San Telmo, maybe getting something to eat there."

"The modern art museum is open today. I was planning visiting it," Steve said.

"We could do both. The market and then the museum. It's only a short walk between them." Suddenly, she turned shy. "Or not . . . . I mean, if you just want to free day to relax . . . . I know that tomorrow night will be hectic. We can just meet tomorrow and go over our game plan then," she offered.

"No, San Telmo sounds good. Who knows when I'll be in Buenos Aires again, especially with my own over-priced tour guide?" Steve teased.

"Over-priced? At thirty thousand dollars, I'm a steal," she shot back, but there was a smile on her face.

"Thirty thousand dollars a steal? You know, in 1945, I could have bought three houses for thirty thousand dollars," he retorted, trying to suppress a chuckle.

"Inflation must have hit you hard when you got defrosted. What happened when you first went to Starbucks and saw the price of a latte?" she asked.

"I kept thinking it was a joke. And the size of the coffee? Who really needs thirty ounces of coffee?"

Alma laughed. "I know. I know."