Chapter Sixteen

The Bourne Identity | John Powell

What was left of the crew gathered at the command deck.

It was a bloody path all the way there. I got to see up close what Dad had done to the mercenaries, and not a single one of them was pretty. But all of them were dead.

No mistakes. No prolonging.

About a dozen men remained, all crewmates, in the wreckage of the command deck. The floors were slick with blood, being washed away by buckets of water, turning pink as it swirled down drains. The windows were either shattered or riddled with bullet holes. Half of the consoles were completely smashed or broken. The crewmen all had haunted looks in their eyes, exchanging wary glances when we entered the room. I didn't know what Dad was doing, why we didn't just cut and run as soon as we could. But we still had to get our stuff from below deck.

The captain, a man in his mid-fifties with a graying beard and the look in his eyes of someone who has finally seen it all. In Spanish, he spoke to Dad. "I suspect its you we have to thank for all this, yes?"

Dad looked around, then back at the captain. A single nod.

The captain's eyes glanced between the two of us, as if trying to make sense of a complicated equation. "Stowaways?"

Again, a nod.

"And the girl, yours?"

Another nod.

"And these men, they come for you. They killed us." The captain continued, and upon receiving another nod, steps closer to Dad. I shrink further behind him, expecting the captain to maybe start shouting, or swinging a fist. "And you killed them."

This time, Dad made no movement. Just met the captain's gaze, waiting for the other shoe to drop. The whole room was quiet and still, the air tense as all eyes were on us.

Then, at last, the captain raised his hand —

And held it out.

Dad stared at it for a long moment. After a moment's hesitation, he accepted the handshake.

"You saved us." The captain said, and his grip was strong, shake emphatic. "I don't know how you did those things that you did. I don't know why those men wanted you. But I'd like to think I would've done the same in your position."

The both of us were taken aback. Dad looked positively bashful. "It was — it's nothing —"

"Killing is not nothing," the captain shook his head, gesturing to his men. "Our lives are not nothing. We are here and they are not. Whatever you need, we can help."

It was quite an offer, and it only seemed to put Bucky in a more uncomfortable position. "Please, we don't need anything. We'll be getting off at land, and you'll never see us again. We won't cause any more trouble."

"There will be police waiting on shore," The captain said, looking skeptical at his claims. "I already contacted them. This is a… well, a disaster. You'll get away if you leave before we reach landfall."

"Will you tell them about us?"

The captain paused to consider it, scratching his bearded chin. "I see no reason to go into great detail. One man singlehandedly stopped an attack aboard our ship and saved our lives."

"Never got a good look at him," One of the other men supplied, and made a point to look blankly about the room as if Dad had suddenly turned invisible.

"And who would believe us when we told them a single man could do all this?" Another asked, gesturing about the room. "They'd think we'd gone crazy!"

Dad looked around the room, then back at the captain. "A lot more than just the regular police will come talking to you."

So many more. I imagined Ross chief among them. But if this daunted the crew, none of them gave heed. The captain just shrugged. "After today, a little interrogation will be nothing. They will not find the truth from us. Really, how much do we know? We don't even have your names."

A pointed statement. Both an acknowledgement, and a request. Don't tell us any more than you already have.

Dad seemed to understand well enough, reaching an arm to wrap around my shoulders. Pulling me close. "Thank you."

"Consider it the price of a stowaway," The captain replied with a tiny smirk. "We'll see about getting you two down on a lifeboat…"

As they continued to talk, my gaze wandered about the room. The crewmen went back to work, cleaning up as best they could. Some were more injured than others; I didn't know how many of them had been killed. I was afraid to ask. I just knew that it was enough.

And then I saw Jorge, and my shoulders dropped in relief. "You listened!"

"I did," Jorge nodded, tired, as I approached. He looked pale and gaunt, but had enough in him to give me a wan smile. "They never found me. But you — you're hurt."

"It's nothing," I said quickly, brushing at my face as if I could somehow wipe away the blood and bruises that had accumulated. "I'll be okay. You?"

"Nothing to stop me from getting back home to my family," Jorge replied, brow furrowing as he looked me up and down again. Dad and the captain were still talking, but it seemed Jorge had something else to say. A long moment, then: "Why were those men after you? You're just a child."

A child who could easily lift a grown man twice her size. And I was already pretty big. I didn't know how to answer, so I didn't. The silence lingered, and Jorge nodded to himself. "Ah, yes. Well, I wish you well in your journey. Stay safe. And perhaps avoid ships for a while, yes?"

"Ha-ha. I'll keep that in mind." I laughed wryly. I definitely had no plans to be going back out to sea anytime soon.

~o~

Within the hour, Dad and I were being lowered to the waves below, on nothing more than a boat only twenty feet in length, easily tossed about on the great sea. But the waves weren't so bad this close to shore — it was only ten miles to land, the captain said. Just keep heading east. Hide the boat or burn it, it didn't matter. Just don't leave it adrift where it'll be a danger to other watercraft.

And then, with the salty wind whipping our faces, meager belongings tucked beneath the benches, we took off from the cargo ship.

The lifeboat's little engine sputtered and revved, and we practically skipped over the waves. Great lunges over crests before dropping down into the swells, like the worst rollercoaster ever. Each hit of the wave sent great splashes of saltwater into our faces.

It was the longest ten miles of my life. Every time we crested over a wave, I expected to see a blockade of more ships ahead, police ready to take us in. But there was nothing. A sailboat here. Another large ship in the distance. A fishing dinghy whose owner waved as we passed. But no one stopped us.

The sun was well into the sky by the time we reached shore, just a mile off the coast from a nearby village. In the distance, the mountains of Denmark rose up into the hazy clouds, green going on grey. I helped Dad drag the boat across the rocky beach and into the brush, nearly three hundred feet away. No time to burn, the smoke would bring attention at this time of day. Just cover it in branches and debris, and wipe away the trail it left in the sand.

I was still soaked from the ride, but at least the water helped wash away most of the blood. We stayed off the main roads, skirting around the nearby town. In the backyard of one of the houses was a clothesline, garments gently flapping in the wind and carrying with it the scent of lavender detergent. The house was quiet, so Dad plucked a few pieces as we passed, tossing me a new shirt and jacket. Changing at a nearby diner; while I was in the bathroom, fixing as much of myself as I could, I could hear Dad talking to a waitress.

I didn't understand Danish, but I found out what he was asking about soon enough. We stopped only briefly to get food, and as I sat down in the booth he chose, Dad slid over a brochure of a bus system. "There's a stop in the next town over. We can take it all the way down to Hamburg."

"And from there?" I asked, glancing up at him from the paper.

"Dunno." Dad could only shrug. He hadn't really touched his Æggekage, only taking sips of coffee. When I finished my meal, he let me have his. "Wherever's safe enough. Wherever they won't look."

That could be anywhere. Or nowhere.

I didn't argue, at any rate. I knew it would be a long way before we ever got settled anywhere. If we did. I tried to look at it positively, like a fun European road trip where we got shot at occasionally. Totally normal.

Once I finished eating, we left without alerting the waitress. Just a pile of euro bills and some coins, and vanish. Ghosts.

At the very least, I thought we'd have some time to catch our breath before the next big thing. Like, you know, a day or two. Not that evening, when we finally reached Hee, a little village just north of our starting point.

The place was so quaint, we stood out like sore thumbs. The sky had become overcast during the day, leading to a somewhat dreary evening. It was quiet, and we were one of a few people waiting at the bus stop, with generous personal space between us. If standing far apart from one another was a cultural norm, I didn't mind. I just huddled closer to Dad.

We were still waiting when Dad suddenly went still. I looked up, already on high alert. "What is it?"

Dad said nothing, just jerked his chin over. Across from us was the town square — some restaurants and shops, municipal buildings, a church, and an inn. And out of one door, out stepped a very tall, very blond, very familiar man, speaking to someone behind him.

Holy shit. It's Steve.

He was dressed low profile, dark jacket, baseball cap and sunglasses. But there was no mistaking all six foot two of him. And Sam was with him, of course, dressed similarly. Two guys in baseball caps and sunglasses kind of ruined the whole undercover look in my opinion, but I was not in a joking mood with my heart suddenly pounding. They were here. They could help.

"What do we do?" I asked, a whisper. The bus had just pulled in around the corner, coming to a whining stop in front of us. It partially blocked us from view from Steve and Sam. I could only imagine they were drawn here by the news of the ship attack. It was startling, how quickly they'd narrowed in on our location. But it's been a week since we first ran off. I still hadn't seen a lick of news.

"Get on before they see us." Dad said, pulling me along as people waited for passengers to disembark, before climbing aboard.

"What?" I asked, startled. "But they could help —"

"We don't want their help." Dad was getting pushy, putting me ahead of him so I'd have no choice but to get on the bus. I didn't want to. I kept looking back at him over my shoulder, stumbling up those steps.

No time to argue when there were tickets to negotiate. I could've gone AWOL and jumped off, made a run for it. But I knew better, knew not to make such a scene. And maybe I was just a little scared of Dad leaving me behind.

It wasn't until we had sat down, on seats opposite the windows that Sam and Steve would be facing, did I finally get a chance to speak again. "Why are we running away from them? I know you don't trust Sam, but Steve —"

"It's not about trust, it's about —" Dad spoke in an undertone, tense. He looked like he was going to say more, then stopped himself. Took a deep breath. "Look, Mia, after what happened, we can't go back. We gave up our old life when we left. If we go back, if we give in, try to contact anyone from then — we're done. People like Ross will find us. Whoever's doing this to you, they'll be right behind. We can't be found. We don't want to be. Understand?"

With a creak of the door and a grumble of the engine, the bus trundled forward, slowly picking up speed. I said nothing, looking out the window as we left Hee, and everything in it — Sam, Steve, and whoever else might've been with them — behind.

My heart ached. My eyes burned. I knew we had to run. I didn't realize it was going to be so… so…

Permanent.

The silence got to the point where Dad must have realized he fucked up. He ran a gloved hand across his face, groaning to himself. "Mia, I'm sorry. I didn't realize — I should've said something, we should've talked about it before — I didn't want it to be this way, but —"

"I got it." I said, still looking out the window, and cutting him off in a tone that was so curt, it surprised even me.

It certainly took Dad off guard. He went silent, almost seemed to wince. I felt bad about it, but it wasn't dishonest, either. I'd simply forgotten the pragmatism required of this kind of survival. No connections. No weaknesses.

"I'll try to make it better." Was all Dad could say, his voice small. Already admitting defeat. "I promise."

~o~

We reached Hamburg by midnight, and from there we took a train to Berlin. It was easier to blend into the cities, to simply melt into the throngs of people.

After spotting Steve and Sam that first time, Dad remained on edge for the rest of the night, and into the following day. As far as either of us could tell, the other men hadn't spotted us back in Denmark, and we spent several hours in both Hamburg and Berlin going through all the motions of losing a tail. If they had somehow followed us all the way here, they likely wouldn't have a clue where we were now.

I still wasn't happy about how it had to turn out. I could only imagine what was going through Steve's head right now. Did he have any idea of how close he came to finding us?

In Hamburg, I got a better idea of what he had been facing while me and Dad were hiding in the belly of a cargo ship. The whole incident on the street was all over the news — Crossbones had been positively identified, but I was still nowhere to be seen in the videos played over and over again. It left a chill down my back. The news made it seemed like Dad and Rumlow were working together, not trying to kill each other.

It just reminded me of what happened in DC. Steve all over the news. Me, nowhere in sight.

It had to be for a reason.

Batroc hadn't been working for Ross. Whatever third party was behind this, I imagined whoever hired him had also hired Crossbones. Dad was of a similar opinion after I had told him what happened atop the shipping containers. It was unlikely this mystery man could control all the news feeds — not when Ross was right there, would've noticed. Would've loved to put me on blast. Or perhaps he's the one holding back. Maybe he doesn't want people to know about me.

Both sides only needed one super soldier. I didn't want to think of what would happen if both got what they wanted.

My injuries had mostly healed over by the time we reached Berlin, almost two days since we entered Denmark. We stayed there for a few nights, staying in a different place each time, just to be safe. Watching the news, biding our time. Dad had gotten a bunch of maps, trying to figure out where we should go next.

Everywhere we went, we carried what we had. I felt like a walking beacon, carrying the shield with me. Even in its canvas case, it felt so obvious what it was. But people hardly gave us a second glance.

On the third day in Berlin, something spooked Dad. He wouldn't say what it was — just came into our room at the little motel and said we had to go. Another train this time, a ticket to Czechia. I had only just begun grasping the basics of German before we were leaving the country behind once more.

There wasn't much else to occupy my time with. Reading wasn't fun, especially not while in a vehicle. But I could pick up a guide book and try to learn from that. If Dad wasn't too wound up, he'd teach me, too. He wasn't entirely sure how many languages he spoke himself, but German was an easy one, he said. Just gotta get around all the long words and pronunciations.

It also served as a transition into Czech. I didn't expect to learn any of these in a day or two, but it kept my mind occupied, as rolling hills and mountains whisked by the windows.

Try not to think about Steve desperately trying to find us before anyone else does. Try not to think about how close any of them might be to succeeding. Try not to wonder how Peter and May and Ned and MJ were doing in my absence, how the authorities were treating them. Try not to worry about how heavily the Sokovia Accords loomed in the news, how Wanda and Pietro were doing, or Vision and Howie. How this was affecting them all. If I hadn't just made things worse for them in the long run.

Prague turned out to be a mistake.

We had been there for only a day when I had spotted Americans sitting in an outdoor cafe that we passed. I knew they were American, because their accents weren't quite right, although they were determined to speak in Czech. They were both packing but trying to appear like civilians — yet their shoes. Patent leather, thick soles, meant to be worn with suits and not the jeans they were wearing. All wrong.

They could've been CIA. NSA. Maybe mercenaries or Ross' men. It didn't matter. They were here, and they were close. Too close. All it took was one tap on Dad's arm, and he knew. He saw everything I did, and probably more.

We left that same day.

After that, I thought I kept seeing more. A woman in the train station, trying to scrape something off her shoe. Was she hiding a gun? Was she speaking French because her Czech wasn't convincing? Or that man who sat on the other end of the train car as we were leaving; talking on his cell phone, both too discrete and too intense. His heavy-duty watch standing out from his otherwise plain outfit.

They were everywhere.

We had to stop and get off. Go on foot for a while. Didn't even bother with a cab or renting a car; that involved more interaction, more people seeing our faces. Mixing up transportation wherever we could, but walking was always best. Completely untraceable.

I couldn't sleep for days, even as Dad insisted I try. I couldn't. Just the thought of any random passerby being some kind of spy, from who knows how many agencies, either working with or against Ross, trying to catch us first. Day after day it was exhausting; we could never confirm if any of our suspicions were true. So far, none had panned out. If there were agents, none had succeeded in following or stopping us.

But that didn't mean we could just relax.

We spotted Steve again in Gdańsk. Scared the shit out of Dad — because Steve saw us, too. Just for a split second. He'd already started moving towards us, just as we were descending into a subway station. Dad grabbed my arm and we hauled ass as soon as we were out of sight.

Steve lost us before he could even reach the ticket gates. I watched him, from inside the subway car, running across the platform, looking around — but never seeing us.

So close.

I felt terrible, and that was before I knew about the messages he was trying to send.

In a small town outside Dresden (we had double-backed into Germany), I had quite literally almost run into Sam.

I'd been on my own, coming back from getting some food at a deli I had spotted on the way in. I had just stepped out the store, goods in hand, just as Sam walked past on the street.

I had pulled back in time, but maybe I was too slow. Maybe he saw me out of the corner of his eye; heard the tinkle of the doorbell, heard my smothered gasp, and turned. But I had already spun on my heel and walked back into the store. Kept walking, into the back hallway, where the bathrooms were. Heard the bell tinkle again as the door opened.

Oh shit.

I ducked into the women's bathroom. It was single use, so I could lock the door and buy myself some time. There was a window, but it was small and high up on the wall. I was halfway to working it open when I heard a knock on the door. I was almost tempted to call "occupied" but bit my tongue. I was glad I did.

"Mia?" Sam's voice called, partly muffled. "Mia, I know you're in there. I'm not here to hurt you, I promise."

I knew that. Of course I knew that. I wasn't afraid of Sam.

But that wasn't the point.

"Steve saw you guys back in Poland. He's worried about you, just wants to help. We both do. We won't let Ross win."

I wanted to believe that. I really did. But the more I watched the news, the more it became evident that Dad was right — we couldn't go back. The Sokovia Accords was going through the UN whether the Avengers signed it or not. If Ross couldn't have Avengers oversight, then he would have the power to dismantle it. All the wonderful human rights violations were making for a fireworks display in the political field, but there was a growing fear that Ross might just brute force his way through it.

"I know your dad doesn't want to," Sam continued, "But just give us a chance, okay? We can figure this out together. Steve and I know you guys weren't responsible for what happened in New York. We know Rumlow was trying to frame you."

Well, good to know they were on the same page. I hesitated, pulling back from the window for a moment. If anyone could figure this out, it would be Steve.

But I couldn't keep Dad waiting forever. It wouldn't take long for him to figure out something went wrong.

"Mia, can we talk?" Sam asked again, trying the knob. "Just for a minute? Mia?"

It took a few good shoulder slams, but by the time Sam got the door open, the bathroom was empty. Just a light draft from the open window above.

I came back as fast as I could, reporting to Dad what happened. The statements made, offers given. He thought about it for less than a second. We were moving again.

We bounced between Austria, Slovakia, and Hungary, making sure we were truly alone again. Then continuing further east, into Romania.

I wasn't sure what finally convinced Dad that this was the place to stop. I just knew that when we stepped out into Bucharest, he had this look in his eyes. Like he was tired. He was done. Maybe he saw it in my eyes, too. After a week of solid travel, we had to stop.

Just for a little while.

We got another cheap motel that night. And another and another, until soon enough we were there for a week. A week and a half. Two.

I should've known it was too good to be true when Dad came in and started packing his bag. "Where are we going now?"

But he just smiled and said, "You'll see. Come on."

He led us not to a train station or a bus stop. But an apartment building. Small and out of the way, not in a particularly affluent part of Bucharest. Perfectly nestled between a small park and a market. I still hadn't understood until Dad was walking us up the stairs, and withdrew a key, opening a door at the top of one landing.

Inside was terribly small, barely three rooms stitched together. The main living room was part kitchen, with just an old couch serving as the main seating area. But it was much better than the multitude of different motel or hotel rooms we've been bunking in night after night.

"It rents by the week," Dad explained, as I walked over to a window and took in the view from behind the dusty curtain. "But the bedroom's yours. We can stay here, as long as you'd like."

I paused to frown at him, caught on the way he phrased the question. The way Dad stood there, slightly awkward, holding himself as if ready to bolt, bracing for a rejection. Hands playing with the keys, twisting and turning. Watching me carefully, so carefully, for every tiny reaction.

Doing this for me. Wanting to fix things.

It wasn't perfect. It wasn't home. But for now, I decided I would be okay.

So, I smiled. "I love it."