Chapter Twenty-Four
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Peter's phone screen glowed brightly in the dark hotel room.

He had the brightness on the lowest setting, but he still feared it would wake up Aunt May in the bed next to him. Well past midnight, Peter knew he should be sleeping as well. But he couldn't. Wouldn't. Didn't know how, not when he was scanning every newsfeed he could find.

Interpol had so generously offered to house them personally at a hotel upon their arrival in Berlin; a blessing in that they definitely couldn't afford the short-notice nightly rates here. Nor a place so nice. Two beds, air conditioning, a spotless bathroom.

And no TV.

That had stood out to Peter almost immediately. He also couldn't find any Wi-Fi network to connect their laptop to. He didn't want to think about the level of data he was consuming right now just to access the internet on his phone, just glad that Howie did him a solid before they left for their flight. But right now, all Peter could feel was a dawning dread.

After nearly a solid day of travel, and then being stuck at the hotel, Peter had the feeling Interpol was stalling, preventing them from seeing Mia. He'd been so exhausted when they first got here that at first Peter hadn't really noticed. Just really wanted to sleep. But after a generous nap with no news and a frustrated Aunt May trying to navigate the phone tree of Berlin, Peter had begun to wonder. And only now, reading headline after headline, story after story, of how the Avengers were either arrested or fugitives of the law — Peter didn't think they'd be seeing Mia after all.

If Interpol even had her.

Not that they'd admit it, of course. Peter wasn't stupid. But he didn't fail to notice that Mia didn't show up in any of these headlines about Captain America, the Falcon, the Winter Soldier. How Tony "Iron Man" Stark attacked a US official and how the upstate Avengers compound was raided. Each new piece was like a punch to the gut. And if it wasn't about the Avengers, it was about Secretary Ross. Thunderbolt Ross, warmongering general-turned-politician, and operating with the same amount of grace (or lack thereof) as he had before.

How the Sokovia Accords had been ratified. The Associated Press and the ACLU decrying the blatant human (and Mutant, etc.) rights violations, the threats and promises for appeals. But until then, the Accords were in full effect, and no one was safe. Not even Spider-Man.

Not that Peter had gotten any blowback yet. Just some New York pundits hoping that the Menace of Manhattan will be the next on the superfreak chopping block. Interviews with people on the street, giving their various opinions. Some against, some for it. Some sane, some not.

"They're going after Spider-Man? Finally!"

"Can't they just leave us well enough alone?"

"Hey, my cousin is ambidextrous, you think they'll go after him next?"

"Wait, what do you mean they're going after Spider-Man? What's this world coming to? Are they gonna go after Gritty next, too?"

"Spider-Man? Who cares about Spider-Man? I want someone to take care of the freak-ass turtles in our sewers!"

"If they think they can take our Spider-Man, they got anotha thing coming!"

It was a little heartening, at least, but Peter knew this was the least of his problems. Whether or not New York rose with him, or against him, putting on that mask again would set a bright neon target on his back. Peter should be relieved that he left his costume at home (afraid that TSA would find it), but he couldn't help but worry that their place would get raided while they weren't there. And what then?

But there's nothing Peter could do about that right now. Knowing what Mia's been through and what she's afraid of, he brought his web-shooters with him; a safeguard, and undetectable when he takes it apart. Just looks like a kid's school project. No one at home seemed to have a clue of what was going on; for that matter, neither did Peter.

And he didn't know what to do.

A soft knock on the door.

It was so gentle that if Peter had been asleep, he definitely wouldn't have heard it. But he did, and nearly jumped out of his socks, forgetting where he was. Looking around, he saw a shadow flicker in the thin bar of light beneath the doorframe. Something scratching across the floor. Beside him, Aunt May remained fast asleep, so Peter deftly slid out of bed and crept towards the door.

Sharp ears told him that no one was standing on the other side of it. But there was something new — a folded note on the floor. Someone had slid it in.

Baffled, Peter picked it up. His only thought was maybe room service didn't want to be rude. But upon opening it, he found a scrawled note hastily written on the hotel's letterhead.

Meet us on the roof.

Us? Who was us? The note wasn't signed, and Peter didn't recognize the handwriting. But it was in English and it didn't feel like a mistake. His spidey-sense tingled. This was too weird for him not to check it out.

Could it be a trap? Possibly. Hmm, probably. But Peter was banking on that an enemy would underestimate him, Peter Parker, and that he could trust his instincts on this. They've rarely led him astray.

He couldn't open the window wide enough to escape out of, so the stairs it was. Coming upon the roof, Peter was met with a gentle gust of wind, the warm night air of Berlin. The hotel was located in the heart of Berlin, providing an excellent view of the stern and regal Brandenburg Gate to the west, and the Fernsehturm tower to the east, a giant needle shooting into the sky. Old and new. East and West. Not too long ago, there had been a wall between the two, and Peter idly wondered where he would have stood between.

Both monuments were well lit in the darkness — the hotel roof was not, leaving the hairs on the back of his neck to tingle when he spotted the dark silhouettes of four figures standing not thirty feet away, facing him.

In the split second between the tingle of his spidey sense alarming him, Peter recognized the group.

"Howie?" Peter asked, a little too loud. The one with the big hair shushed him. Yep, definitely Wanda. The smallest figure stepped closer, and Peter could see a little better in the darkness now (staring at his phone screen for two hours had done Peter no favors).

"It's just us," Howie whispered hoarsely, and it didn't entirely sound like he was doing it to be stealthy. His cheeks were flushed, his nose red, and a thick blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

"What? How? I thought you flew back to America?" Honestly, Peter had thought Howie had gotten caught. He'd seen the news coverage, both professional and civilian cameras that had caught the iron suit flying away from Interpol headquarters. Interpol gave no official statement on the exact identity, and people were speculating who could fit in such a small suit. But Peter knew. He recognized the design. If Interpol had caught Howie, Peter had doubted they'd say anything about it, either.

But he'd flown back to the States. And then came back. The kid looked exhausted. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Howie mumbled.

"He has a temperature of a hundred-and-two degrees," Jonas reported with a not-insignificant amount of aggravation. Of the four of them, he was the spookiest, all pale in the darkness. If Peter had seen him alone, he would've sworn he saw a ghost. "His suit was not prepared for that flight."

"It worked fine," Howie insisted, nasally voice turning to a whine. "I'm fine! Stop trying to ground me."

Peter couldn't quite compute what was going on. "Why did you guys come here? You know half the world is trying to hunt us down now. The Accords and everything. Ross is, like, four blocks away!"

"We're here for the same reason you are," Pietro said, ruffling Howie's hair affectionately. Despite the comfortable night air, the boy was shivering. "For Mia. Howie says she's gone missing again. She's not with Rogers or her father. We're certain someone took her."

"What?"

"And with the Avengers gone," Wanda added without missing a beat, unsurprised by Peter's shock and horror. "We're all that's left. I know you said you're not an Avenger, Peter, but —"

"I'm in." Peter's voice was firm, not a moment's hesitation. Not when his heart was pounding with sudden panic, fear, wondering what happened to Mia. Was this why Interpol was holding them off? Because they didn't even have Mia anymore? It would've been one thing if Mia had managed to escape on her own, and Peter could relish in that pride.

But if what Pietro said was true, then Mia needed their help. Every last one of them. Peter saw himself as your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, just a street-level guy. Not a worldwide superstar. Maybe not even a good team player. But this? This he can definitely make an exception for. "No question. I just — I didn't bring my suit. And Aunt May is here. I can't just go missing on her in Europe."

"We'll think of something," Wanda said, and Peter wondered if that was her offering to weave a little helpful magic for him, to keep May from freaking out. He wasn't sure he liked that idea. "Right now, we're still trying to figure out what happened. Maybe find Rogers. They're probably still in the city somewhere."

"Sounds good to me," Peter's fingers twitched and tingled, turning cold despite the summer warmth. He itched to do something, anything, but he just felt stupid and helpless. "We're still waiting for Interpol to contact us about Mia. They're keeping us in the dark. Now I see why."

The twins nodded solemnly. Of the four of them, only Wanda and Pietro seemed to know Mia like Peter did; deeply, truly, another side that others rarely did. A side of her that even Peter didn't fully know. But they loved her and cared for her in the same way, that same protectiveness that Peter's known since he was a little kid. This was personal. This was family.

"There's one other thing," Vision said, as he pulled something from his pocket. A sheet of paper, folded several times and looking a little crumpled. Unfolding it, he handed the sheet to Peter. "Ever since I saw this image, I've thought it was off."

Frowning, Peter studied the grainy image printed on the paper. It was one he recognized; the security footage capture of the Winter Soldier, Bucky Barnes, exiting the UN building after planting the bomb. He knew it well by now. "How so?"

"I've only met Sergeant Barnes once, but I couldn't help but feel that… this isn't him," Vision said, shifting awkwardly on his feet, as if nervous about making such a bold claim. Like they might not believe or trust him. But the look on Peter's face said he already figured as much. That did not seem to be Vision's only concern, though. His brow furrowed as he added, "I've been analyzing that image for hours. The height is close to Barnes, but the frame isn't. The weight is off — I'm guessing that person in the image is at least a hundred pounds lighter and trying to hide it with bulky clothes. They're also wearing a wig. More to the point — not only do I not believe this is Barnes, I think it's… well, I think it's Mia."

Peter's entire body went cold. He opened his mouth but nothing came out. It felt like all the breath had been knocked out of him. No. No, it can't be.

"Her facial features are close enough that at a distance, in shadow and possibly with prosthetics, her countenance could be convincingly passed off as his without needing to alter live footage." Vision said, and shrugged helplessly. "And when everyone is waiting for the Winter Soldier to do something, well… maybe they don't question if this is confirmation bias."

"This image was taken months ago, before anything had happened," Wanda added, desperation in her tone. "That bomb had been waiting for ages. Someone made sure she was seen, so it could be found, and blame could be placed."

"When she went missing," Peter finally spoke, his voice barely a whisper.

He couldn't even be sure which time, when exactly this image had been captured. But he knew Vision's guess wasn't wrong, either. Short of complete computer wizardry, this was the only thing that made sense.

"Someone is behind this," Pietro said, his expression hard and angry. How he seemed to tremble with it, a kind of vibration that threatened to blur his face and enhance his movements, a soft buzz in the air like ozone. "Someone has been planning this for a long time. And we think they have Mia now. Just like last time, she's not in the news. She's not anywhere. They know what they're doing with her."

Peter felt like he was going to hurl, though his stomach was close to empty by now. The paper shook in his hands.

"I have to tell Aunt May," He finally said, right before he heard the car engines.

It had been distant at first, but getting closer. Then something twinged his spider sense and Peter was suddenly alert, wide awake, rushing over to the edge of the roof. Looking down and seeing a bunch of vans roaring in front of the hotel, a bunch of agents goose-stepping into the building. "Shit. Did they follow you guys?"

"No way," Howie said, before sneezing. "They can't have. We've been off grid this entire time."

"They're not," Wanda affirmed, silent for a moment as her eyes flashed red. "They're not here for us. They're here for you and May."

All the blood drained from his face, and after a beat, Peter rushed for the roof exit. The group called after them, but Peter ignored their voices, only thinking of Aunt May. He couldn't let them hurt her. Couldn't let them take her away, too.

But Peter was too late. The door to their floor had a small window he could look through, and coming upon the landing he could already see the flood of dark jackets crowding around their hotel room door. Aunt May in the midst of them, still half-asleep in her pajamas, hair a mess, blinking around in a daze. But still managing to argue with the head agent in charge. Peter could just make out their voices.

"You're not under arrest, Mrs. Parker." said the agent, and Peter vaguely recognized the woman Mia had once called Agent Carter. "We're just taking you in for your own safety. I promise, we will explain everything once we're in headquarters."

"But why?" Aunt May asked, wiping at her eyes. She happened to look towards the door just as Peter pushed in, and her eyes widened. Peter almost slammed through the door before he caught her motion. The slightest shake of her head. "Can we see Mia now?"

"I can't promise that right now," Agent Carter continued. "Is your nephew nearby? He has to come as well."

Peter wanted so badly to rush in, to be angry, to just do something. But his hands rest on the door press, cold metal chilling his skin. He couldn't move.

"I-I don't know where he is." Aunt May looked around, behind her, back into the hotel room. "He was in bed when I fell asleep. He must… he must have gone out for some fresh air. He couldn't have gone far, he's a good boy. I'll just call him, okay?"

"Alright, Mrs. Parker, you do that. We'll look for him, too. Let's get you to the car."

As Aunt May pulled out her phone, Peter backed away from the door, his heart pounding. The agents were already dispersing, a few heading towards the stairwell he was in. He had to get out of here. Thankfully, his phone remained muted as Peter rushed up the flights of steps, just grabbing the railings and throwing himself upwards in lieu of appearing normal. Speed was all that mattered.

Aunt May gave him a way out. Why, Peter didn't know. But he couldn't waste his chance. She seemed to think she'd be okay, and Peter had to trust that. As much as he hated it. Hoped he wouldn't regret it.

The team was still waiting when Peter returned to the roof, out of breath. "It's time to go. They're coming after me."

~o~

The mountains had always felt like home.

Their white jagged peaks, everlasting even in the summer. The fields of green that climbed up as high as they could, forests and pastures and endless beauty. It was the kind of idyllic peacefulness many dreamed of, far away from the dense, progressive cities and endless suburbs of modern civilization.

The mountains, so far away now.

He could only see them at a distance, and his current surroundings were much less photogenic. The upper floor in an outbuilding attached to the World Trade Organization. The place was currently under construction, undergoing intense remodeling in the wake of more employees, more technology, better material than the beloved asbestos.

And currently empty today. Workers' day off, tools lying scattered around, industrial lamps stationed at angles and blanks of wood, rolls of fiber glass, beams of rebar, and stacks of sheetrock rendering the hollowed-out rooms a maze. But they would leave no evidence. Their footprints in the dust would be indistinguishable from those of the workmen who had been there before, and would be here after.

"Noon in twenty minutes," Rumlow reported, checking his watch. The man paced about the room like a caged lion; dressed in black tactical gear, the man was nothing short of prepared, but it was clear he was anxious, ready for some action. A soldier who hungered for war. "I don't see why she has to be the one to do it."

Rumlow jerked his chin in the direction of the girl, kneeling in front of some plywood covered in clean tarp. Her steady hands worked methodically, arranging the metal parts set out before her. Her clothes were similar to Rumlow's, but her skin was largely clean of scars. Not marred and melted by burns such as his.

Zemo turned his gaze between the two, trying not to smile at Rumlow's bitterness. Americans were never subtle. "Now is not the time for jealousy."

"I'm not jealous!" Rumlow huffed, a young man, a child. "I just don't think you should be trusting her with this. What if she makes a mistake?"

"I made the targets clear."

"And if it's too far for her?"

"It isn't."

Few of the windows had any glass. To their east, stretched out the great blue expanse of Lake Geneva. To the west, beyond a few parks and small buildings, half a kilometer away, stood the grand Palace of Nations. Its white marble gleamed in the daylight, the sun behind them, casting both the building and its grand promenade in stark contrast, hundreds of flags waving on poles.

"How do you know?" Rumlow demanded, but a look from Zemo had him backing off, remembering his place. "I'm just — sorry. Not trying to question authority here. I could've done it, that's all."

"Yes, you could have," Zemo agreed, his tone serene as he adjusted the gloves on his hands. It was too warm for them, perhaps, but he could not allow even a trace of evidence to be left behind. "But I've walked this earth for too long. This task isn't for you. It's much more than just striking our targets. Tell me, have you ever heard of a Stuka plane in a dive?"

The other man made a face. "Isn't that one of those screaming planes the Germans used?"

"Quite," Zemo smiled. He doubted Rumlow had ever truly heard one with his own ears, experienced that terror, that thrill, in real time, in the height of war. "The aircraft, Junkers 87-B, were specifically designed to bomb the populace of German enemies. The Jericho Trumpets were entirely unnecessary, you see. They did not improve flight performance. They did not enhance a bomber's aim. They were purely there to terrify their targets. To let them know their doom was upon them. That there is no escape."

Rumlow stared at him.

Zemo continued, "Psychological warfare, my dear Crossbones. Propaganda. The Germans were groundbreaking in that regard, if nothing else. We knew our enemies' hearts, better than they themselves did."

"You say that like you were there."

"My line is an ancient one. My blood will always be in the Fatherland."

"Uh-huh," Rumlow didn't know what to make of that, apparently. But Zemo didn't need him to. He was only a soldier, he must only need to follow orders, and follow them well. And so far, he had performed excellently. The man had been exceedingly proud when Zemo dubbed him Crossbones; a name, a legend, to be feared. The sacrifices he made would not be forgotten. "Whatever you say, your highness."

"My lord," Zemo corrected him, glancing in the reflection of some stacked glass to straighten his hair. It was a relief to be rid of the beard, so uncivilized. He had been tempted to wear the coronet, but decided it was too ostentatious for a mission such as this. His suit was already a little too much, perhaps. At Rumlow's questioning look, Zemo added, "The use of 'your highness' is only appropriate for royalty. A Baron such as myself may simply be referred to as 'my lord.'"

The man threw him an annoyed look. For someone who so insisted on the power of order and stratification, Rumlow was exceedingly stubborn when it came to titles and proper etiquette. But Zemo could chalk that up to his western ideals, a life lived too long in democracy.

"It's time."

Zemo's voice cast a silence across the space. Only Zemo and the girl were in his near presence, but the rest of his entourage were stationed throughout, standing guard, waiting to move. Extraction would be quick and seamless.

Next to him, Rumlow folded his arms, still that petulant child, pouting as the Soldatka got to her feet, the rifle now complete in her hands. She listened only for his voice, his command. Zemo made sure of it. Adjustments to her protocol so no mistakes would be made. She was only a simple machine, not meant to deduce nuance or understand context. He had to account for every possibility.

"You sure it's not too far?" Rumlow asked, now speaking in an undertone. As if he were afraid to disturb the Soldatka's concentration as she set up at a window on the north side of the building, settling herself on her stomach and bracing her rifle to her shoulder. Zemo came to stand next to her, eyeing the target through binoculars.

"For her or for us?"

Rumlow paused. "Both."

"A typical sniper's range is between six hundred and twelve hundred meters, though they can hit a target from as far as two miles — on record, at least. We are slightly less than six hundred, which is more than enough for our little Soldatka here. Rest assured, Crossbones, your skills would not have been tested here."

It was meant to be a compliment, but Rumlow scowled. Still, he said nothing. At least for a minute or two, watching from behind Zemo as a rush of people started exiting the palace, on lunch break. Two whole hours, but they wouldn't be here for that long.

Zemo pulled up his binoculars and squinted. To the Soldatka, he said, "Northwest corner. Fire."

At his feet, she barely moved. The slightest turn of the rifle, her eye peering through the sight. The flick of her finger. A shot rang out. A loud boom, but much quieter than it could have been, thanks to the suppressor.

Between the sun, the distance, and the weapon, it would not be easy to locate the origin of the shot.

At a distance, a pinprick of red scattered across white pavement.

"Southeast, two degrees. Fire."

Boom.

As Zemo called off another target, then paused to watch as the chaos unfolded — people realizing the terror set upon them, tiny figures scattering every which way, like rats — Rumlow spoke again.

"Why here?"

"To strike fear, as I said before," Zemo replied easily, still peering through his binoculars and reveling in the carnage. Three bodies were all it took before the whole promenade realized what was happening. Police would be here within five minutes, likely less. "And to humble them. The United Nations, and their predecessor, the League of Nations, believed themselves to be the arbiters of world peace. Assigned themselves judge, jury, executioner, even to those nations who are not in their jurisdiction. To dare to call themselves neutral when they have always been allies of the West. There can be no peace without war."

With that, he assigned four more targets. The Soldatka fired four shots. Never missed, not one. Not a word, not a breath out of her.

The world would see the blood, the death. Their minds would run wild with fear and paranoia. But the minds of only a few were what mattered to Zemo. For them to know who pulled that trigger. To know who directed her.

That would be enough.