Once again, I'd like the thank Sparky Young Upstart for helping me write this chapter.
Stark Estate, Hollywood, California, 1 September 1947
They're on a train. Peggy sits across from Michael while Matthew dozes beside her, his head resting on her shoulder. It's late in the afternoon, almost evening. Their compartment is filled with golden light. Michael stares out at the passing countryside. It could be England or France, anywhere really. She thinks of madeleines and tea, so they must be going to see Grandmère.
Michael moves, as if an idea has come to him. But just as he turns his head to speak, Peggy awakes to the grey light of morning and the heavy wood beams above her bed.
She's alone this morning.
Daniel's gone back to Los Feliz. It was strange the sort of mood he was in. The sudden chill that came from him. But given everything, maybe it wasn't that strange at all.
The pattern is repeating itself, Peggy thinks as she rises out of bed. Just when things were going right, or at least in a tolerable direction, something would derail her. Michael died, she broke her engagement, and that led to the SSR. Steve disappears, and her career stagnates. And just as things were going right, someone who looks like Michael shows up.
Everything is off. She doesn't really feel herself. She feels like she's treading water. There's a good chance whatever that place Manfredi bought Whitney is nothing but a red herring. A fool's errand. Peggy has no more idea where those files are now than she did two weeks ago.
Peggy puts her robe on before walking out onto the balcony. The rising sun bathes the garden in a golden glow. The mansion looks over Los Angeles, its skyscrapers cloaked in a dust haze. It looks like it'll be a hot day.
She needs coffee or tea - anything spiked with some whisky - to get her through the day.
The door to Peggy's right opens and Sue walks out on the balcony.
They stare at each other for a moment. Sue is a little more stunned and Peggy probably looks haggard.
"Sorry if I'm disturbing you," she sputters and turns to leave.
"No, of course not!"
Caught flat-footed, she contemplates the door before closing it and coming to stand next to Peggy.
"Is Chief Thompson, okay?" Susan asks, somewhat haltingly.
Peggy shakes her head. "Didn't make it." It's not the whole truth, but it's easier than giving the whole story. By the look on Sue's face, it seems like it's enough and she turns back to the dusty morning scene.
"What a view," she says.
"Well, Howard likes being king of the hill. It makes him feel tall."
Susan snorts out a laugh, "Gotta admit, I thought he'd be taller."
"To be fair, he's an inch taller than Napoleon."
They laugh like schoolgirls for a moment. The idea of Howard in a bicorne hat leading the charge of Stark Industry's conquest of military industry. It's almost fitting.
"It explains the ambition," Sue sighs, turning back to the view. "Man, I haven't had a good laugh in a while."
"It's been a tough while."
"Understatement of the year, Miss Carter." She leans on the railing, looking forlornly at the distant skyscrapers. "I'm definitely fired. Got the F-B-I coming after me. Who's gonna hire a girl like me - let alone a Black girl. Probably think that trouble just follows me everywhere."
Peggy looks at Sue with sympathy. This wasn't just getting a door slammed in your face, this was getting your life torched before it could truly start.
"I didn't even like the job! It was just to help out my aunt and pay for school," Sue continues. "Probably gonna lose that, too."
"What sort of school?"
Sue shrugs, "Secretarial school. Not that I mind - I like crunching numbers, so the accounting classes were fun. Was a straight A student and valedictorian. But it's not like UCLA's gonna let me into the math department. Just don't know what I'm gonna tell Aunt Mary. I don't even want to think about how this'll affect Johnny."
Peggy raises a brow, "Boyfriend?"
"Little brother."
A pang goes through her. It's an awful feeling. It's guilt. Peggy can tell the difference between that and the grief she still feels for Steve. The grief of a future she can't have.
"Crazy kid wants to be a pilot someday, and I don't know how he's supposed to do that if I'm in trouble with the feds."
All hope wasn't lost.
"Well, Howard's been in a hiring mood. And Rose could use some help." In fact, it seems Stark Industries, and Howard's personal situation, is still in a bit of a mess since last year. If anything he needs to completely restructure the company before taking on any new projects, but it's impossible to tell Howard that.
"Would he really take me on?" Sue asks, clearly incredulous.
Peggy shrugs, "Dr. Wilkes is Black."
"Really?"
"Yes. Howard's top priorities are talent and adventurousness. And many of us have had our own troubles with the law, so he's not adverse to exotic histories. In any case, what is your typing speed?"
"Hundred words."
"Better than me, that's for sure," Peggy replies, smiling at Sue. "And clever enough to evade the feds for now. I'm sure your aunt will be thrilled about the good news."
Sue beams and Peggy proposes breakfast.
Crenshaw, South Los Angeles
Johnny opens the front door to a massive bouquet of flowers.
"Uh, is Mrs. Dinkins home?" asks Wilbur Emmitt, the son of Mrs. Emmitt who owns the flower shop.
"Auntie! There's someone at the door for you!" Johnny calls down the hall.
From the kitchen he hears Aunt Mary, "Jonathan Lowell Spencer Storm! How many times do I have to tell you not to holler in this house! This isn't the farm and I'm not Uncle Henry."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Anyway, what's all this about Wilbur?" Aunt Mary asks.
"Special delivery for you Mrs. Dinkins," the delivery man answers sheepishly.
"Who's it from?"
"Mrs. Emmitt said it was last minute and that the caller didn't leave his name. Did leave his phone number, though."
"Guess you've got a secret admirer, Auntie," pipes up Johnny.
Aunty Mary shoots him a withering glance. "Get my purse, Baby."
He does as he's told, scurrying back so Aunt Mary can pay the delivery man.
"This is the strangest thing in the world. What does Comfort think I can do with this many peonies? I still got to call that Reilly girl to see where your sister went."
Sue hadn't come home last night and Aunt Mary had almost gotten into a shouting match with the night manager. But she didn't trust the police further than she could toss them. And what cop in LA would be bothered to find a missing coloured woman? He and Aunt Mary had to find her on their own.
Aunt Mary takes the card from the bouquet and reads it. A shadow passes over her face. She passes the bouquet to Johnny and goes to the phone.
"Trim the stems for me, Baby, I need to make a call."
Vernon, Los Angeles
The Malabar Foundry Company is the sort of business that always seems closed, and if it does keep hours, they're few and at odd times. If it made money, no one knows how and everyone knows not to ask.
It's a good hideout and base of operations.
"So where are we on Volkova?" Ivan asks the assembled men.
It's a small team, but they're able to keep a low profile. It's one thing to play in America's backyard. It's another to be operating right on home turf.
"Got a tip off right away that she was hiding out in an abandoned sewing shop in the garment district," Pablo speaks first. He's a Spaniard, originally recruited by old Boris Bulsky in Huelva during the Civil War. Like Dan Kane, he managed to make his way west and kept the faith.
"From sweet, sweet Rosita," Raúl coos. He's young, and along with Javi, was personally recruited and trained by Ivan. They had started life as street toughs who drifted into leftist politics and were hungry to do more. They hang in back with Oscar, Sebastián and Nico; sicarios Ivan inherited from the previous guy who were worth keeping.
Javi, the youngest of the group, hides his face in his hands, "She's just a friend!"
"Sure, Javi," Raúl replies.
"Pinche pendejo. She's like a sister!"
"No need to be embarrassed, Javi," Ivan says, then turning back to Pablo, "What tipped off Rosita?"
Pablo shrugs, "Weird chica hiding out in an abandoned store. Rosita first thought she was some dope fiend who got kicked off Skid Row back in June. Showed up one day in a dirty fancy dress. Saw her sneaking food and all that shit."
"So where do these British people come in?'
Joacquín answers, "She disappeared for a couple days. Then she comes back to the shop with these two blondies. A man and a woman. Rosita got the license plate, too."
Pablo brings out some photos from a Manila folder and hands it to Ivan, "How we followed them to Venice."
The first photo is of a Spanish mission style beach house from the road. The next is from the beach, Volkova talking to the blonde woman. The blonde is significantly shorter than Volkova and it looks like they're in the midst of a conversation. Another photo is with the blonde woman and equally light-haired man sitting around a table on the back deck.
"Is it just the two?" Ivan asks.
"No, there's a third. Another man," Joacquín replies.
The next photo is of a dark-haired man, smoking by himself this time. He's looking directly at the camera. Challenging them. He probably knows what's going on. They got to act fast.
"You said they're English? How'd you find that out?"
Pablo answers, "Caught the milkman at a bar. Met the blonde girl right after they moved in. Had a pretty clear accent. Introduced herself as Mrs. Chapman said they were doing some traveling in the area and decided to rent the place for a few weeks."
"Right," Ivan says, handing the photos back to Joacquín. "If they're smart enough they've probably figured out they're being followed, so we'll have to move fast. But remember, Volkova is a Black Widow. One of the most highly trained assassins on the planet. She won't go down without a fight and she'll likely try to take a few of us with her. We got to be smart about this, and give none of these people, especially her, any opportunities to retaliate. That understood?"
There's nods and, satisfied with everyone's understanding, Ivan says to the team, "Well let's get to work, then."
Arena Club, Downtown Los Angeles
Cassandra Romulus sits in one of the club's private rooms, reading the newspapers and sipping coffee. It's a dreary place that needs redecoration. There's one thing about having a smoky club to get away from the wives and mistresses, it's another to make it so dreary.
But she'll take it over her aunt and uncle's house. There's something about that place at night that makes her skin crawl.
"Chief Flynn from the SSR is here, Madam," Matthews announces.
"Good, send him in," she replies while folding up her newspaper.
Flynn walks in like he has to be somewhere else and he dispenses with the pleasantries.
"Your suspicions were right, Romulus," he says with a heavy sigh.
"I'm always right. Apollo's revenge."
"I still don't understand how we missed that? Fires everyone and sells off the majority of his company to a shell company based in Delaware and banking out of Bermuda. It's rather obvious."
"We're only human, Chief Flynn," Cassandra reassures him. "Not gods...yet. Coffee?"
"Thank you," he replies, taking the offered cup, "This merger with the new intelligence apparatus is messier than we thought. We're honestly burning the candle at both ends."
"Mergers usually are. Do you know who hired Cornelius' new staff?" she asks.
"Miles Warton, but we're sure it's an alias."
Cassandra sips her coffee, silently cursing herself for not making sure van Lundt was dead. All of this would have been so easy, and she wouldn't have had to pay such an excessive price for that land in Peru. She has a pretty good theory on who van Lundt's new protectors are.
"If it's any comfort, I've sent my people to check in on Cornelius, if you catch my drift," she says with her most innocent smile. It's good to have allies but sometimes she needs to have things done herself.
"Very good," Flynn replies, finishing his coffee. "And by the way, we've almost got the Thompson situation sewn up. We have a good idea who the culprit is."
From his briefcase, Flynn takes out a rather thick file with a label reading 'Carter, M'."
"Oh thank you," she says sweetly, taking the file. "I do love seeing a plan come together."
La Gorce, Miami Beach, Florida
Gisele Brandt lights up a cigarette as she stands on the terrace overlooking the swimming pool and Indian Creek. On the other side are the hotels and apartment buildings that line the Atlantic side of Miami Beach. Beyond them are the dark clouds that harald an oncoming storm.
She had been out grocery shopping when a clap of thunder and sudden downpour had caught her off guard.
"Oh don't worry honey," a middle aged woman had said. "It doesn't get bad until October, but those escalate quickly."
She doubts they'll be in the city much longer. They received a communiqué from Emily yesterday and it looks like they won't be needing van Lundt much longer.
Thank God.
Even in his bed ridden current state, the man finds time spew the most vile things about Blacks, Jews, and communists. Even if it was HYDRA who tried to kill him. It makes Gisele sick. After everything, the man still holds onto the hatred in his heart. There is no sense of shame or remorse. She's convinced that van Lundt believes he's done nothing wrong. All he did was achieve the American Dream.
The wind starts picking up, prompting Gisele to take a few more puffs before flicking the cigarette away. The dishes weren't going to wash themselves anyway.
The moment she walks into the living room she realizes something's wrong. Mark is hurriedly moving the wireless set and a lockbox full of documents out of the library. John and Pat, meanwhile, speak in hushed tones.
"What is going on?" she asks.
"White car out front went around the block and was joined by another," John explains.
An ambush.
"I can deal with van Lundt," she says. With some effort, van Lundt is verbal and the last thing they need is for him to talk.
"You sure about that?" Pat asks.
She nods, "I will be quick."
Gisele goes to the bedroom she shares with John. From a bedside table she takes her pistol - a Walther PPK - and a bag full of medication. Everything from morphine to cocaine. There's even a roll of Stuka-tabletten.
She has no idea how much time they have, but it's good to have options. It hits her while going up the stairs just how casually she could contemplate taking a man's life. Then again, her life was now that of an outlaw and Gisele will do whatever it takes to survive. But the thought doesn't stop her progress. Van Lundt is an old, hateful fascist who made a fortune off the war, sold out his country for more, and got away with it, too.
Van Lundt's room is decently light and decorated in a tastefully "masculine" style. A rather uninspired mix of art deco and the Southern plantation style. Parquet floors, white walls, brown leather furniture, and a few well chosen paintings and pictures from hunting safaris. He lies in bed, asleep, shaded from the afternoon sun and tropical heat. The windows open to catch the cool breeze while curtains flutter and the room becomes more gloomy from the overcast sky.
He doesn't stir as Gisesle comes to his bedside and opens the bag. She takes out two ampoules of morphine and a syringe. Quickly, she ties off van Lundt's arm to find a vein, then fills the syringe and jabs his arm. With the heavy sedatives, he'll just float off. It's a better death than what he deserves.
Gisele readies the second shot of morphine when a loud crash disrupts the humid afternoon peace. There were shouts. Then gun fire. With no time to lose, she takes out the pistol and shoots van Lundt in the chest, then bolts down the hall and to the stairs.
There's the sound of fighting at the front of the mansion. She meets Mark at the bottom of the stairs.
"Pat's at the boat, go there!" he shouts, hanging her a bag and a heavy briefcase.
"What about you?" she asks, seeing he isn't armed.
"Gonna help your John. Don't you worry."
Mark winks and runs off, the scent of brimstone trailing after him.
Gisele turns and runs as fast as she can for the little private dock where van Lundt kept his very expensive motorboat. It's not a far run, but the lawn is a rather open space.
She picks up her pace as a bullet whizzes past her ear. There's movement from the corner of her eye and she tries her best not to turn and look. Yet Gisele turns her head enough to see a man coming towards her, pistol raised.
There's a bang.
He stops and stumbles back. A dark stain blooms across his chest. The man looks as surprised as Gisele feels. But she keeps on running and sees that Pat is stuffing his pistol into his belt.
"C'mon, lassie, get in!" Pat calls.
Gisele closes the distance with the boat, tossing the bags into back seats before jumping into the boat herself.
Pat tosses her a Tommy gun, yelling, "You don't have to hit anything, just make a lot of noise and cover for Mark and your man!"
She sighs and stands up, pointing the gun at the upper floor balcony where one of the attackers was taking position. Gisele has never gotten over her dislike of guns, but she wasn't afraid to use them. She fires towards the would-be attacker, making him at least duck and winging another. Pat fires off the rest of his pistol and ducks down, taking out a pair of fingerless gauntlets with blue, liquid-like gems in the center.
"Will they have enough time to get on the boat?" Gisele asks as Pat unties the boat.
"I don't doubt it."
There's a loud crash from the back of the house and John comes barrelling out of a window, holding a Bren gun in one hand and tumbling to the patio. He's pursued by their attackers. Gisele fires off the last of the gun's clip. Pat jumps out of the boat, gauntlet glowing and shouting something about the boat to her. There's already sirens blaring over the canals.
When John gets close to the dock, Pat pulls up his arm and strikes the ground. It sends a shock wave up the lawn and through the water. The shock wave blows out the windows of the mansion. Men go flying and Gisele has to hold tight to the boat, praying it doesn't capsize.
But it gives enough time for John to jump into the boat, followed by Pat. He starts the engine and pulls away from the dock as John starts firing at the men who try to stand up. She's about to ask about Mark when there's a burst of light and heat from above as he launches out of a window and aims for the boat. He misses the cockpit and nearly lands in the canal, but Gisele is quick enough to catch him by the shirt and help haul him in.
Another boat blocks their path into Biscayne Bay. Pat excels the engine, turning down another canal to go south. They have an emergency rendezvous location south of Coconut Grove, and hopefully they can get there before the storm happens.
"Ye ready with that Bren gun, John?" Pat shouts to the back.
"Well ahead of you!"
John fires at some police cars parked on a bridge before ducking down in the nick of time. Pat pushes the boat's throttle, trying to get them closer to the bay, then open water.
But their pursuers keep following them. A few bullets fly over their heads and one strikes the hull.
"Got more of them on our six!" Mark shouts.
John rises up and fires more rounds from the Bren until it jams.
"God darn limey junk! Gisa! You got anything left?"
"No, the clip is empty!" She shouts back.
"Better think fast! Got some way to go!" Pat calls from up front.
More bullets go over their heads and send splinters from the hull flying.
"I got a stupid idea!" Mark says.
"Better than nothin' laddie!" replies Pat.
The pursuing boat is gaining speed on them. Mark stands up, eyes glowing like embers. There's the scent of brimstone despite the wind, and the clouds get darker around them. A glowing, fiery chain manifests in Mark's hands. He starts spinning it, letting it grow longer and gain speed above his head.
They start shooting again. Gisele ducks down. Mark doesn't flinch. The heat increases. She looks up and the whirling chain has extended widely above their heads. There's a great whooping sound from the chain matching the beats of the boat as it goes over a wake.
With one smooth movement, Mark brings the chain down on the hull of the pursuing boat. Fire and steam erupt from the exploding engine.
John covers Gisele as the debris falls upon them. Her ears ring from the explosion. She feels her heart pound in her chest.
Pat revs the engine again, pushing the boat to her limits it seems. But they make it into Biscayne Bay as all of Miami's sky becomes overcast. Over the engine, thunder rolls. It won't be long before the downpour starts. Pat maintains the high speed as they cross the bay and enter more open waters.
Raindrops start falling intermittently and the waters get choppy, but there's no stopping until they get to the safehouse in Coconut Grove, which the Joyce-Franks had so dubbed "The Guest House".
Venice Beach, Los Angeles, California
"They got the message?" Michael asks Emily as she enters the courtyard. He has the household gathered there for something of a planning session.
"Yes. Mark says they'll be pulling out."
"Good," Michael answers, then turns to everyone else. "It looks like some people have been snooping on us. It is to be expected, but I do find it rather unsporting. So I figure we should find out what's going on. And find out once and for all where that crown is."
Roger asks, "And how do you propose we do that, darling?"
"Well, I believe Emily's more than capable of leading these peeping toms on a little goose chase. Take Dottie with you, too," Michael answers.
"Ah. Bait," Dottie snarks.
Micheal quirks a smile, "Oh, I wouldn't be so crass, Dottie. You and Emily will be perfectly fine for the task."
"In the old days, a friend of ours would tell us to 'go, find, kill, return.' That's all we need to do," Emily muses. "They'll want to know what we're doing and who we're talking to. They could be your people, ours, the Americans, HYDRA. We all play by the same rule book, anyway."
It's a subtle reminder, but Dottie was not raised to be an intelligence gathering operative. She was meant to go, find, kill, and return, but hers is not to reason why. These people, despite the similar operating method, were intelligence gathering operatives. Their thinking was far more proactive.
"Right you are, Em. And in the meantime," he puts his arm around Roger's waist. "We'll be out sightseeing."
Dottie lifts a brow in suspicion. She doesn't say anything, but she's still surprised how open the two could be. But it was a private setting. It still surprises her how Emily fits into this arrangement. She's part of it, but strangely separate.
"Yes, I've been dying to see Santa Clarita," Roger retorts.
"I think you'll have a lot of fun, old sport," he says, then turns to the women. "You have fun yourselves. We'll meet up at that petrol station on the corner of Pine and Arch."
"Of course," Emily says. She tosses the car keys to Michael. "And please don't scratch the paint."
"Cross my heart."
"This way," she adds with a tilt of the head towards the garage. Dottie already knows what's under the tarp - part of the freedom the Brits give her. She was just waiting for the right opportunity to experience it properly.
Emily takes off the tarp with a bit of a flourish, revealing a well kept, black motorcycle underneath.
"You know I never pictured you for a biker girl," Dottie says, letting her hand glide over the metal and leather.
"I was a dispatch rider before all this, quite like bike because of that. Though I prefer my old Ariel to that Harley," Emily shrugs. "Still, it's a good bike nonetheless."
Emily goes about the garage gathering supplies. The tool cabinet has mostly been converted to a weapon's locker. From it, she takes a Browning Hi-Power and loads it.
"Take your pick," she says to Dottie.
"Do you really think they'll take the bait?"
Emily looks up, a bit stony faced. "If they're any good, they'll at least be curious and follow us around for a bit. It's the stupid ones I worry about. And from my experience, the Yanks tend to be bold, but not bright. And that can be dangerous in its own way."
Dottie smirks, "I think I'll take the Colt."
"Good choice," Emily says as she opens another cabinet to take out a shotgun and bullets. Dottie can't help but let out a wolf whistle.
Emily holds up the gun a little sheepishly, "I know. It's a little overkill."
"Please, there's no such thing as overkill," she replies with a dramatic drawl. With a softer voice, Dottie adds, "I just like the way you think."
Emily is very pretty when she smiles.
Santa Clarita, California
There are places on this planet humanity was not meant to see. Buried deep under the most ancient of mountains and thrust high by the tallest peaks into the sky. Guarded by spirits, wards, and warnings to keep the foolish from toying with such great powers. For millions of years, the barriers held, and this small, rocky world, floated unnoticed, and undisturbed in the vast void of space.
But now. Now this little earth shines like a beacon. It shines with the promise of power, treasure, and glory. It will not be long before they from the stars will come to stake their claim. Let's see if they can keep it. And for how long.
So let them come. Whitney Frost will serve her master faithfully, as well as her servitors. One empire will fall to another and so on, and so on, and so on. And the last one left will fall to the Black King, the Destroyer of Stars.
Burbank, California
Peggy drives with Daniel up to Santa Clarita. She's curious about that Santa Clarita address and Jarvis was helping Ana with a doctor's visit.
"Did you sleep well?" Peggy asks.
"Fine enough," he answers. He's still in a strange mood. Still taciturn and his mind seems to be elsewhere.
They're silent for a long time, with only the wireless playing "It's Been a Long, Long, Time" and passing cars to fill the silence.
"Is there something about Thompson I should know?" She had asked last night about his visit with Dr. Blake and Daniel gave a non answer. I'll tell you in the morning.
Well it's almost noon and she wants to know.
"Doc gave me another bullet he got from the medical examiner," Daniel says.
"I know about that. Howard says you had fun at the range yesterday."
"As much fun as you can have," he shrugs.
"Did you find anything interesting?"
"Seems like the chest wound came from a .32 ACP and the killing shot was from a .45 ACP. Probably from a Webley."
Peggy keeps her eyes on the road. Despite the radio, it's very quiet. Despite the midday heat, there's a sudden chill in the air. She's smart enough to know what he's getting at.
Michael's dead and I had a concussion. He couldn't have killed Jack.
"That's interesting," she replies instead and changes the station. Peggy doesn't care for Kitty Kallen.
Stark Estate, Hollywood, California
"Miss Storm, there's a telephone call for you," Mr. Jarvis announces.
"From who?" Sue asks, a little nervous.
Jarvis barely answers, "Your aunt, Mrs. Dinkins." Sue jumps out of her seat at the lunch table and rushes to the phone.
"Hello?"
"Susie?
"Auntie! It's me!" She replies, clutching the phone tightly.
"Where are you baby girl?" Aunt Mary asks. "Had us scared all night."
"Sorry Auntie."
"That's alright Susie, but where are you? Are you okay?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"Try me."
"I can barely believe it myself," Sue whispers into the phone, "I'm at Howard Stark's house!"
The phone goes very quiet.
"Aunty?" she asks tentatively.
"Susan Patience Storm have you been to those parties I told you to stay away from?" her aunt sharply asks.
There's so many ways for a girl to get into trouble in this city and it's always worse for a Black girl. Her auntie kept her on a pretty tight leash in high school for that reason. Similar to how she tries to keep Johnny so close to home. And everyone knows that Howard Stark is a genius, millionaire, and playboy who was dragged before a Senate committee last year. There's rumors that he's secretly a communist, among others.
But Sue persists, "Auntie, I haven't been going to any parties. You know I don't have the time for that." She doesn't really like church dances to begin with, and she has no desire to go to anything fancier than that. "Anyway, I got help from people who work for Mr. Stark, I think."
"You think?"
"I mean it's been such a whirlwind. Like the FBI showed up at work wanting to question me, and…"
"Is that why you didn't come home?"
She nods and then remembers to answer, "Yeah… Yes. I didn't want you and Johnny to get into trouble because of me. Especially after Johnny saw that car."
Sue feels her throat tighten and the tears swell. It's easy to forget how scared she is when that's all she's been feeling for the past few weeks. As much as Miss Carter and Mr. Stark has been so nice to her, she longs for her brother, her aunt, her home. She just wants to crawl into her bed and just forget about everything.
But it's not going to be like that. She's gotta break the news to her aunt. "I don't think I have a job anymore, Auntie. I'm sorry."
"Oh that Mr. Yorkes made that fact loud and clear when I called him last night, Susie. Not your fault. And it's not the end of the world."
Aunt Mary's trying her best to comfort her, but Sue still feels a little miserable. She lets out a sigh. Her future's down the drain anyway.
"Thanks Auntie. I know there's plenty of jobs out there for me anyway. Ones I'm more qualified for."
It sounds so fake coming out of her mouth.
"That's the attitude baby girl."
"Sure thing, Auntie."
"Do you know when you're getting home?" Aunt Mary asks.
"I don't know. Hopefully this evening, though."
"That's alright baby girl. Let Mr. Stark know that I got the peonies and they are very lovely."
She grins at that. Aunt Mary likes peonies, but Mr. Stark almost certainly went overboard with that bouquet.
"Will do, Auntie."
"Very good."
They ring off and Sue lets out the breath she's been keeping high in her chest.
Sherman Oaks, California
"What's the chances of us running into Peg?" Roger asks.
They're halfway to Santa Clarita. The wireless plays and Michael stays quiet. He still hasn't decided his best course of action. And there was the chance that they will have Los Angeles before there could be any true interaction with his sister.
What would he say? What would he do? How would she respond? He hates not knowing what to do.
You're running away again. He's heard that rebuke from many voices and in many fashions. He knows it's true and runs and hides from it. Because he doesn't know what to do.
"Suppose we miss each other?" Michael asks.
"Suppose you got over your need to fight dragons to avoid what's important."
Michael glances over at Roger. He doesn't sit in the passenger seat so much as lounges. He poses himself languidly and unhurriedly smoking a cigarette. He's dressed more like he's going to a tennis club than to snoop around an abandoned workshop to find the third crown.
The California sun makes his hair look like spun gold and his eyes are the brilliant blue of the desert sky. And piercing, too. It's a quality Roger shares with Emily; they can both see right through him.
"Are you afraid she'll be angry?" he asks.
"Shocked," Michael replies. "Surprised. Astonished. Aghast. Roger, she thinks I've been dead for five, almost six years. She'll think she's gone mad."
"Maybe she'll be happy," Roger says after a puff of smoke. "'Her long-lost brother, though dead, returned to her.' Rather romantic."
"You read too many novels."
"You don't read enough!"
They fall into silence again. The traffic is awful, but it's a holiday today. Michael can empathize with Emily's frustration at other drivers. Too many are slow and seem to have left their brains elsewhere.
"Just tell her the truth, Michael. Peg's not a child," Roger says while passing his cigarette to Michael. "She can handle it. I mean she worked with that Captain America fellow and dealt with HYDRA. It's not as if you're announcing you're the new Father Christmas."
"What about you?" Michael asks before taking a pull, looking at Roger from the corner of his eye.
He responds with a nonchalant shrug, "As I've said, she's not a child anymore and neither are you. She can handle this."
"If we meet her," Michael injects. Nothing's set in stone after all.
"'If' indeed."
Mar Vista, Los Angeles
They're just passing Venice High School when Dottie taps Emily on the shoulder and shouts in her ear, "Black Hudson! On our six!"
Emily glances back, seeing the aforementioned Hudson Coupé following them. It's so obviously a police car it's practically screaming. Big and intimidating, that's always what the cops like. Never change, it makes you obvious. She nods in acknowledgement but keeps a steady speed down Venice Boulevard. She still wants to get on the main road north to the San Fernando Valley, after all.
"Let's see if they follow!" Emily shouts back.
She takes a sharp right down Wade Street, speeding past rows of two and three story showbox flats. At the intersection with Washington Boulevard, they stop next to the old Chevy. Emily's able to get a good look at the driver and passenger. They're too men in dark suits and hats. They look like near twins with the clean-shaven faces and matching grey. Then they both turned to look at Emily and Dottie; their movements completely synchronized.
Emily hopes that their black eyes - no whites or iris to be seen - was a trick of the light. Like their pupils had dilated to encompass their entire eyes. But she knows better.
As soon as the light turns, Emily peels out with Dottie desperately clinging to her.
…
Joaquín takes Ivan out to where Volkova is hiding with the Brits. It's a long drive, going east to west across Los Angeles. It doesn't take him long to realize that the metropolis is more a collection of smaller cities and towns than one grand hole. They're in Mar Vista now, a more working-class area filled with low two and three story apartments and small bungalows.
They get to the intersection at the far end of the high school when both spot an odd sight. Of all the people they could run into accidentally, and in such a massive city, Aleksandra Volkova is the last on the list.
"That's her," he says.
Volkova sits on the back of a motorcycle driven by the blonde girl. Ivan's surprised that such a small thing could control that beast of a machine, but the blonde girl seems natural on it. Volkova looks over her shoulder at something then speaks into the blonde's ear.
"You want to follow?" Joaquín asks.
"Of course."
The light turns green and Joaquín U-turns the truck, falling in behind a black Hudson. They manage to get glimpses of the women as they go past the high school, again. Then the blonde makes a sharp right turn onto Wade Street, but with no escalation of speed, even though they keep a close tail. Eventually, they get to where the street meets a boulevard. Volkova and the blonde occupy the turning lane and the Hudson pulls up beside them.
"You think that Hudson's anything?" Ivan asks.
Joaquín shrugs, "Could be something. Could be…"
They're close enough to see the blonde look over at the black Hudson. And to see the change in her face.
Something is wrong.
The light turns green and the motorcycle peels out onto the boulevard with a loud screech of the tires.
"Don't lose them."
Santa Clarita, California
Peggy and Daniel stop at a diner to escape the afternoon heat. They're not alone, the diners rather crowded with patrons who had a similar idea, given the general wilted appearance of many. It's shaping up to be one of the hottest Labour Days on record, one of the waitresses had said.
"I know something's troubling you," she says to Daniel, trying to catch his eye.
"What makes you think that?"
"You're quiet, but you're only this quiet when something's on your mind."
Daniel looks out the window, taking a long moment before answering, "The first shot that put Thompson in the hospital was from a Welrod and the second that killed him was from a Webley."
"The killer could have gotten those guns from anywhere," she argues. "This is Los Angeles, there's a good chance that they came from some prop departments."
"And I know they're British guns. The Webley's an officer's sidearm."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Peggy doesn't want to admit it, but it's hitting close to home. "Do you know how many people were issued that pistol? My father had one, for God's sake."
He shrugs, "Jack had a contact in London who gave him your file. Whoever did that might have been cleaning up loose ends like Stark's contact said."
You've always had a terrible poker face, Daniel. Can never hide that Catholic guilt.
Peggy leans over their table, staring him down. She speaks softly so the other patrons don't eavesdrop, but clearly to make sure Daniel fully understands her. "I was concussed when I saw that man in the stairwell. I likely confused him with my brother, Lord knows why. But my brother is dead." Her breaths are short. She feels the tears swell. "He died in Tobruk, and the dead do not come back."
No matter how much I wish some would.
He sighs and to his credit, Daniel looks genuinely ashamed. "I'm sorry. You're right, I'm just chasing a shadow."
She nods, "Besides, we should probably at least figure out what this Pine Street business is."
Hollywood, California
Mr. Stark's house was much bigger than any home Sue's ever been in. It's ridiculous to call a mansion a house, it could fit her family and Aunt Mary's borders and still have room left over. It is pretty, though. A nicely decorated Spanish mission style house. There are murals on the ceiling between dark wood beams that look like a Tiffany lamp. The stairs and walls have colorful tiles and there's stained glass windows overlooking the garden.
Sue's been left to her own devices. Miss Carter's gone to check something out with Agent Sousa and Mr. Jarvis has taken Mr. Stark to the Paramount studio for business. Mrs. Jarvis is still recovering from a bad injury and who knows if the FBI are still looking for Sue. She's given free range of the mansion and told to make herself at home. There's a study and library, plenty of food in the kitchen, and don't be afraid to use the swimming pool.
She won't lie, it's still overwhelming.
This is a world she's not supposed to be part of. She feels an intruder. Still, she fixed herself a sandwich for lunch before resuming her wandering to find the library. There's got to be something interesting to read.
She gets turned around once again. For all she likes of the mansion, it's a bit of a labyrinth. Eventually she finds the library. Or study. It could be both. Honestly, no one needs this many rooms.
"What in the Hell?" she whispers as she looks around the study.
What surprises Sue is how it looks like a bomb went off in the study. There's piles of papers, books, and maps. There's a corkboard covered in pictures, documents, and notes with red yarn connecting them in a web that looks like something made by a deranged spider.
She wanders around, admiring the chaos. The photos are of crime scenes, headshots, mugshots, and what she thinks is evidence. She intuits that the material was connected to Chief Thompson. Probably older cases or whatever the SSR did. There's a part of her that says she shouldn't be here. Surely this is highly confidential stuff, the sort of thing that would - well, the sort of thing that would get the FBI sent after a person if they pried too much. But she's already up to her ankles into whatever conspiracy Carter and her associates are trying to untangle, and she doesn't see any harm in wading a little deeper. Sifting through the photos, Sue comes across a picture of a chalkboard covered with an equation. It's a clear enough picture that she knows something's wrong with it.
It starts out as a metric for measuring spacetime, but it keeps going in a weird direction. The formula doesn't work. The solution shouldn't work with that six… Sue needs a blackboard. And thankfully there is one. It's covered in writing, a list of people and businesses (suspects, maybe), but after a quick check, she finds the other side hasn't been used. She quickly starts copying down the equation from the photo. It's somewhere in the middle that things go wrong. She erases the bottom half of the formula and starts reviewing what's left to see where the equation goes wrong. That six gives a completely different answer. Unless…
On closer inspection of the photo, the six looks smudged and lighter. Like something had been erased before the photo was taken. Sue's gut tells her that something like a theta should come after the sin squared. In fact, the equation starts making a lot more sense with that change. She puts down the chalk and photo and starts looking around the bookshelves. If Mr. Stark is a scientist worth his salt, he'll have up-to-date physics books and the latest mathematical journals.
H & C Steel, Santa Clarita, California
There was already tension in the air between Peggy and Daniel. Now she feels a growing unease. There's something deathly still about the area around Pine Street. It feels as if a heavy blanket has been thrown over the place. Though it may just be the heat of the day. Even a reptile would avoid sunning itself.
H & C Steel is behind a rusted fence of corrugated steel. A chain wrapped around handles keeps the building locked away from prying eyes. Not that there seemed to be many people coming to snoop anyway. Everything is overgrown, cars are abandoned in the lot, and wherever Peggy looks she sees piles of metal gathering rust.
It's deathly quiet. No matter how hard she strains, she can't hear the wind in the trees or the sounds of birds and insects. The air itself feels stagnant and her clothes start feeling heavy from the heat.
"Quiet, huh," Daniel says.
"Yes. Very strange, indeed."
"You brought the bolt cutters, right?"
"Of course!" she replies. "I never go anywhere without them."
Peggy takes them out from the boot of the car. The chain's strong, but she's stronger. It comes down with a rattle and the gates swing open. The yard is as messy as she expects - nothing but scrap metal and weeds.
"You sure Frost's hiding out in a place like this?" Daniel asks.
"Only one way to find out."
As they walk into the yard, the uneasiness slowly turns into a knot in Peggy's stomach. She'll never admit it, but she's regretting coming here. It's too quiet and still. It's so out of the way. She only came here because of a hunch. She feels like she's walking into a trap.
The door requires a solid shove to open, revealing a dim, dusty, cavernous space. It looks like no one had been there for years, let alone weeks. Peggy brings out the torches from a bag, passing one to Daniel. They turn them on and sweep them over the room, revealing abandoned equipment covered in cobwebs.
"Yeah, I don't know if Frost is doing any science here, Peg."
She shrugs, "Just a quick look around. We can always go and interrogate that Cassandra Romulus woman."
"Sure thing."
Maybe it's the heat outside, maybe it's her own unease, but the oppressive weight Peggy's feeling gets worse. Like she's swimming deeper down than she should have gone.
Something scuttles in the dark. Their torches whirl in its direction. There's nothing. Just dirty machinery.
"Probably a rat," Peggy says.
"Yeah."
The beam falls on a set of stairs, leading up to where the offices would likely be.
"If Whitney and Manfredi are hiding anywhere, up there might be a good place."
"Stairs look a little dodgy," Daniel replies, shining his light on the decrepit steps.
"I'll go first, then," she says, gingerly placing her foot on the bottom step. There's a creak of metal, but the step holds firm, and she proceeds cautiously. Daniel's torch lights up the steps ahead of her, and Peggy trains hers towards the second floor. The least Peggy can do is make sure she's not caught unawares.
When they reach the upper level, a sound catches Peggy's ear and she whirls in its direction. "Another rat?" Sousa asks.
"No, sounded like a crate scraping against the ground. Too big for a rodent."
"Different kind of rat, then." Sousa pockets the torch and pulls out his gun. Peggy does the same, holding her arms steady, firearm and torch aimed straight ahead. In the dread silence that's fallen over the building, it's easier for her to pick up someone cursing under their breath in the distance. Despite the darkness, Sousa can see her nod in a direction and silently follows her lead.
Then a massive thud sounds, and the building practically shudders as all its lights begin to slam on. It's sudden enough that Peggy ends up squeezing the trigger, a shot tearing through a crate stacked against the wall and sending a shower up splinters across the ground. Sousa spins so he and Peggy are back to back, covering her six as best as he can.
"We know you're in here," Peggy calls out. Sousa nudges her. "What? It's not like we still have the element of surprise," she mutters, then louder again. "Manfredi? If that's you we can help."
"Pretty sure Manfredi's dead," a voice calls from behind the crates. He almost sounds American, but something's off.
"So you're with Miss Romulus, then." She's approaching the crates as silently as possible, making sure that whoever's there can't make a break for it without giving himself away.
"Please, I wouldn't be caught dead working for the HJ Dilettante."
Something in his annunciation gives him away. "Well whoever you work for," Peggy says as reaches the crates and sees a sliver of black hair crouched behind them, "you should know…" She slides her gun between the crates and rests it at the back of the man's head. "Your accent is terrible."
"Shite."
"Stand, slowly, with your hands where I can see them."
A pair of pale hands slowly emerge from the crates before the rest of the man. He's tall, as tall as Steve was, and facing away from her. "You don't want to do this, Miss Carter."
"Agent Carter," Peggy corrects. Well, lies, but in a situation like this it helps to have an air of authority. "And who might you be?"
"You wouldn't believe me." He's slipped into a British accent now, and it seems much more familiar for him. And for Peggy. Almost…no. It couldn't be. There's no way.
"You heard the lady," Sousa calls, keeping an eye out for any other conspirators. "Tell us who you are and we might go easy on you."
"It's not -" the man starts, and he grows quiet. "It's not that easy."
Peggy's gun wavers. It's all too familiar. The voice, the build, the way he stands. Everything is adding up too easily, pointing at a solution that she doesn't want to look at. But she's run headlong into this impasse and there's no going back now. For either of them.
"You were at the Arena Club, weren't you?"
"Yes."
"And at the hospital. Did you kill Thompson?"
"...yes." Somehow the admission carries more guilt than just a murder.
"And southwest France."
"What?"
"The Dordogne region, near Bordeaux. That's where you were shot down, wasn't it?"
The man doesn't reply. Doesn't move a muscle.
"Wasn't it Michael?"
He breathes in sharply and turns around.
There he is. Michael Carter, alive as ever, back from the dead and staring Peggy straight in the eye. "Yes, Peg."
She doesn't know what to say. If she should laugh or cry or scream. Her brother, alive. Her brother shot down and MIA. Her brother, whose death may not have torn her family apart but certainly hit the cracks in the foundation the hardest.
"Peg…Margaret, please say something."
There's no proper way to respond to seeing him like this, to explain to him how him truly being alive throws a wrench in just about everything she's built for herself since his "death".
So, she slaps him.